Isabelle chewed her food slowly, methodically, her gaze fixed on her notebook as if the formulas scribbled on the page could anchor her thoughts. But no matter how much she tried to focus, her mind kept drifting sideways—back to the presence beside her.

Damien Elford sat with the kind of casual disregard that would've made her bristle any other day. He leaned slightly into the desk, his elbow propped up, fork in hand, slowly working through his lunch as if nothing in the world could truly bother him. There was no stiffness in his posture, no flicker of awkwardness or shame. Just a quiet, nonchalant rhythm to his movements that felt almost... settled.

And that was what bothered her the most.

She had heard everything. Every word that passed through the classroom door before she'd stepped in. Kaine's voice still echoed in her head—sharp, cruel, blisteringly honest in the way betrayal always was. Ezra's lazy chuckles. Moren's seething silence.

And through it all, Damien hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't defended himself with anger or desperation. He had simply spoken, firm and cold, cutting through their noise without ever needing to escalate.

That kind of poise—that calm rejection of people who had once stood by your side—it wasn't something you could fake.

She had seen it once before. In herself.

The memory crept in uninvited: a rainy afternoon during her first year, standing alone near the dormitory courtyard, watching the girls who had smiled with her and called her "friend" turn away the moment she wasn't useful anymore.

They had ridiculed her accent, pitied her for being a scholarship student, laughed about her behind her back while asking her to help with their assignments. And when she had finally confronted them—when she had expected anger or confrontation—all she'd received was a condescending smile and a simple, "You really thought you belonged with us?"

That pain had taught her to distance herself. To cut attachments before they could root. To rely on herself, and only herself.

So when she looked at Damien now, it wasn't curiosity she felt. It was a gnawing sense of recognition. He'd been betrayed by people he'd known for years. Not with shouts, but with indifference.

With blunt, casual cruelty. And instead of letting it swallow him, he had severed the connection cleanly—publicly, irrevocably. That took something most people didn't have. That took more than pride. It took resolve.

And yet... here he was. Sitting beside her. Smirking, yes. Still foul-mouthed. Still slouched like a delinquent. Still the boy who napped through classes and brushed off expectations with a flick of his wrist.

But beneath that, Isabelle sensed something else. There was no hostility in him. No simmering bitterness. No edge to the way he looked at her or anyone else. For all his sharp words, he didn't hurt the way others did. And that... that was strange.

She had grown used to being wary. Her body reacted instinctively to gazes she didn't like, to the lecherous stares of classmates who assumed her looks were an invitation. She hated those moments. Hated how often she had to act like she didn't notice just to keep the peace.

But Damien... hadn't looked at her that way. Not once. Even when he made that bold, ridiculous bet, even when he'd leaned in close with that signature smirk—her instincts hadn't screamed. Instead, they'd been... quiet. Watching. Measuring.

That quiet unsettled her.

Not because she felt threatened.

But because—for the first time in a long while—she didn't.

Just then, Damien's voice cut through her thoughts—low, casual, and laced with a thread of amusement.

"Class Rep," he said, chewing the last bit of his food before glancing sideways at her, "what are you thinking about for your eyes to be doing that?"

Isabelle blinked, slightly startled, and turned to face him with a controlled expression. "Doing what?"

He pointed vaguely at her face with his fork, lips tugging upward. "They're narrowed. Not in that usual 'I'm judging you for existing' way—more like... I don't know. Thoughtful murder, maybe?"

She frowned. "That's not a thing."

"Sure it is," he said, waving his fork dismissively before setting it down. "You're not glaring at me, not really. But there's definitely something going on in that head of yours. The kind of look you get when you're replaying some tragic flashback in your brain and trying to solve algebra at the same time."

"I'm not—"

"And," Damien cut in, tilting his head, his grin deepening, "you've got that little stiffness. You know, the skin around your eyes and jaw? Subtle tension. Happens when someone's thinking too hard and pretending they're not. You're overclocking your own face."

Isabelle stared at him for a beat, utterly unamused. "Are you diagnosing me now?"

"Just an observation," he said innocently. "You get that kind of rigid stillness. Like a swan gliding over water, but there's a whole paddling frenzy underneath." He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "Which, you know, makes me wonder. What exactly were you thinking about? Me?"

The way he said it—half joking, half testing—was insufferably smug. But he wasn't wrong. Not entirely.

Isabelle exhaled slowly and turned her gaze back to her notes, masking the flutter of something unidentifiable that had stirred in her chest.

"You're overestimating yourself," she muttered.

"And yet," he said, grinning as he leaned forward slightly, "you didn't say no."

She didn't respond. Not because he was right, but because denying it would've felt like a confirmation all the same.

Isabelle didn't speak for a moment, letting the smug silence settle between them like dust. Damien, ever the picture of misplaced confidence, continued eating with the air of someone who'd already won something no one else realized they were competing for. She watched the way he moved—fluid, unbothered, so irritatingly at ease. But beneath the lazy facade, there was something strange about his posture, something calculating in the pauses between his words. That bothered her more than the arrogance.

"You said you're aiming for the top twenty-five," she said finally, voice clipped. "How did you do on today's quizzes?"

Damien paused mid-bite, glanced sideways, and shrugged. "Terribly."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't know anything," he admitted without shame. "I stared at the biology paper like it was written in a dead language. Which, honestly, it might as well have been."

She stared at him. "And yet you're still confident about placing in the top twenty-five?"

He leaned back, stretched his arms, and let out a soft, exaggerated sigh. "You'll see, Class Rep."

"That's not an answer," she said flatly.

Damien turned toward her, eyes half-lidded but gleaming with quiet mischief. "Heh… sounds like bravery to you, doesn't it?"

She frowned. "Sounds like delusion."

He chuckled. "One needs to be brave enough to take risks to reap the benefits that no one else can." He recited it like a slogan, his voice carrying the cadence of a rehearsed pitch.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. "That's the kind of nonsense they sell to desperate middle-class families to justify gambling their lives away on unstable dreams."

To her surprise, Damien grinned wider.

"Didn't think the Class Rep was a believer in The Matrix," he drawled, amusement curling around each word.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not."

"Sure sounds like it," he teased, nudging his empty container aside and tapping the table lightly with his fingers. "But, one way or another, you are always bound by some rules"

Isabelle crossed her arms, her tone sharpening. "Those rules you talk so lightly about? They're what keep society functioning. Structure. Accountability. Without them, everything collapses."

Damien leaned back slightly, one arm slung over the back of his chair, his grin as lazy as it was cutting. "Whether it's keeping society running or guiding the sheep like rats through a maze, it's all perspective, isn't it?"

She clicked her tongue. "That's easy for you to say. You were born with everything. The rules were never meant to bind you."

His smile didn't waver. In fact, it softened a little, shaded with something resembling honesty. "Yeah," he said, not bothering to deny it. "You're right on that. I was born lucky. Connections, wealth, legacy—all prepackaged before I even opened my eyes."

He paused, glancing down briefly at the table before meeting her gaze again with a shrug.

"But what can I do if I was born rich? Can't really swap it out for something else, can I?"

She wanted to hit that smug face…