Jasper sat frozen at his desk, staring at nothing.
His mind was a loop of curses, each one sharper than the last. Ronald. That fucking bastard. Bragging. Laughing. Telling everyone.
Every insult he had ever swallowed, every humiliation he had endured in silence, it all poured into a single burning thought: I will make him pay. I will make them all pay.
But the words were hollow. Empty threats from a powerless kid who could not even defend himself in a classroom.
The door at the front of the room opened.
The noise died instantly.
Dr. Elizabeth Carter stepped inside.
She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties, sharp-featured, with red blonde hair spread out, high cheekbones. Intelligent brown eyes that missed nothing. She wore a fitted blazer over a crisp white blouse, tailored slacks, low heels that clicked with authority against the floor.
Everything about her radiated control. Confidence. The kind of presence that made students sit up straighter without being told.
She was not conventionally soft or warm. But there was something magnetic about her, a quiet power that demanded respect. She carried herself like someone who had fought for every inch of ground she stood on and refused to apologize for it.
Dr. Elizabeth set her bag down on the desk, pulled out her tablet, and scanned the room with those sharp eyes.
Then they stopped.
On Jasper.
Her expression shifted, subtle, but he caught it. Recognition. Maybe even relief.
"Jasper Brooks," she said, voice cutting through the silence. "You are back."
The class stirred. Whispers started immediately.
Jasper's stomach sank.
No. Not now. Please not now.
Dr. Elizabeth stepped around the desk, arms crossed, studying him. "How did the funeral go?"
The room exploded into murmurs.
Jasper's throat closed. His hands curled into fists under the desk. Blood from his palms smeared against his jeans.
What do I say? What the hell do I say?
He forced his voice to work. "It was fine."
The words came out flat. Dead.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Dickson's laugh shattered it.
Loud. Obnoxious. Echoing off the walls.
The rest of the class followed, laughter rippling through the rows like wildfire. Phones came out again. A few students leaned over to whisper, not even bothering to hide their grins.
Jasper lowered his head, staring at his desk.
Just let it end. Please just let it end.
Dr. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. She looked from Jasper to Dickson, then back to Jasper. Her jaw tightened.
Something was wrong. She could sense it.
But instead of pressing, she shifted gears.
"Brooks," she said, voice firm but not unkind. "You have missed over a week of classes. Three quizzes. Your CA score has dropped significantly." She paused, letting that sink in. "I suggest you speak with the other lecturers. Explain your situation. Ask for makeup quizzes. Some of them might be willing to work with you."
Jasper nodded once, still not looking up. "Yes, ma'am."
Dr. Elizabeth held his gaze for another beat, like she wanted to say more. Then she turned away, walking back to the front of the class.
"Alright," she said briskly, pulling up her lecture slides. "Political Science. Chapter Seven. Today we are covering the dynamics of power and social hierarchies. Open your textbooks."
The class settled. Notebooks opened. Pens clicked.
Jasper exhaled slowly, relief flooding through him.
She did not push. Thank God she did not push.
He opened his own notebook, staring at the blank page. Dr. Elizabeth's voice became background noise, steady, measured, and professional. Normally, he would be taking notes. Normally, he would be engaged.
But today, the words slid off him like water.
All he could think about was Ronald. Dickson. The laughter. The phones.
The lecture dragged on.
By the time Dr. Elizabeth dismissed the class, Jasper felt like he had aged a decade.
Students filed out in clusters, chatting, laughing, already moving on to lunch plans. Jasper stayed seated for a moment, waiting for the crowd to thin.
Finally, he stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He pulled out the small brown paper bag Mrs. Grace had given him that morning. Lunch. Simple. Quiet. Alone.
That was the plan.
He walked toward the door, head down, keeping to the edge of the hallway.
"Jasper."
He froze.
The voice was soft. Feminine. Unfamiliar in its directness.
He turned slowly.
Genevieve Monroe.
She stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, head tilted slightly as she looked at him. The second-best student in the class. The girl everyone called the class beauty, and they were not wrong.
Genevieve was stunning in a way that did not need effort. Long, dark hair that fell in soft waves past her shoulders. Warm hazel eyes framed by long lashes. Smooth olive skin. High cheekbones and full lips that curved naturally into a slight smile even when she was not trying, with a lean, graceful build. Today she wore a simple white blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, a delicate gold necklace catching the light at her collarbone.
But it was not just her looks. It was the way she carried herself: confident without arrogance, intelligent without condescension. She came from money, everyone knew that, but she did not flaunt it the way others did. She was polite. Reserved. The kind of girl who could have been popular if she wanted, but chose to keep to herself, although she was still popular due to her beauty.
She and Jasper had never spoken. Not once since the start of school, not until now.
They passed each other in hallways. Sat in the same lectures. Competed silently for the top spot in each class.
But never a word. Not even a greeting.
Jasper knew his place. He did not bother trying to make friends, especially not with people like her.
So why was she standing here now, looking at him like she had something to say?
"Hey," Genevieve said, stepping closer. Her voice was gentle, almost cautious. "How are you doing?"
She looked directly into his eyes.
Jasper's chest tightened. He could not hold her gaze, it felt too intense, too intimate. He looked down at the floor. "I am doing great."
The lie tasted bitter.
Genevieve's expression softened. "I heard what happened. About your grandparents." She paused. "I am sorry. That is not easy."
Jasper's jaw clenched. His hands tightened around the brown paper bag.
Not this. Not pity. Not now.
"No problem," he said quickly, voice flat. "I am fine."
He turned and started walking, faster this time, heading toward the cafeteria.
"Jasper, wait."
But he did not stop. He could not. Every word of sympathy, every kind gesture, it just reminded him of what he had lost. Of how weak he was. Of how everyone was watching him crumble.
He pushed through the cafeteria doors, scanning for an empty table in the back corner. Found one. Dropped into the seat.
The cafeteria was loud, students laughing, trays clattering, music playing from someone's phone. Jasper tuned it all out, opening the brown paper bag.
Inside: a sandwich, an apple, a granola bar, a small bottle of water.
Mrs. Grace had packed it carefully. Probably woke up early to make it.
His throat tightened. He stared at the sandwich, suddenly not hungry.
Movement in his peripheral vision.
He looked up.
Dickson.
Walking straight toward his table, flanked by two of his crew. The same cold smile on his face. The same predatory gleam in his eyes.
Jasper's stomach dropped.
Something is not right.
Dickson stopped at the edge of the table, looming over him. His friends spread out on either side, blocking the easiest exits.