I never knew silence could sound so violent.
Not until thirty pairs of eyes turned toward me in perfect sync, their mouths half-open, their thumbs frozen mid-scroll, their gazes slicing right through my designer blazer like I wasn't real.
Like I was a meme.
It was Monday morning assembly at Aurelia High.
Elite students. Elite scandals.
And me? The punchline.
Whispers were the new thunder. Phones lit up like fireworks. Someone gasped.
A few girls laughed — not the kind of laugh that joins you, the kind that swallows you whole.
And there he was.
Jackson Vega.
Billionaire's heir, digital prince, influencer golden boy. My ex.
My first everything. My last mistake.
He stood at the podium like he owned the universe — perfect white teeth, even more perfect malice in his eyes.
The same eyes that had once told me I was the only girl in the world. Now? They told me I was entertainment.
I didn't want to look.
But I did.
The auditorium projector flared to life behind him. The grainy image bled into focus.
It was me.
On my bedroom floor. Crying. Wearing nothing but one of his shirts — the one with the ripped sleeve.
I had sent it to him months ago. A stupid, reckless moment. One I thought was ours.
Now, it belonged to everyone.
Laughter rippled like shockwaves. I heard someone whisper, "Is that the president's daughter?"
Someone else: "No way. What a desperate little—"
The rest was lost in the roar.
Even the faculty didn't stop it. Because who would dare cross Jackson Vega?
My legs didn't move. Not at first. My face was burning.
I remember my knees shaking. My fingers curling so tight into fists my nails bit into my palms.
And then something cracked — inside me, not outside.
I ran.
I don't remember if I screamed. I don't remember the halls.
Only that my heels echoed louder than my breath, and by the time I hit the marble steps of the south wing, the tears had already smudged every inch of the makeup Alyssa had helped me paint on this morning.
Black streaks dripped down my cheeks like warpaint.
Not soft. Not sad. Violent. Angry.
I didn't cry like a girl.
I cried like a daughter of the man who ran a country — and had no idea how to protect his own blood.
I reached the car. Threw the door open. Collapsed inside.
My security detail was silent — too silent.
Then the driver cleared his throat and said, "Miss Thorne… your father has updated your protection detail."
I turned.
That's when I saw him.
Black suit.
Cold eyes.
A scar trailing his jaw like a secret.
"Code name: Grim," the driver muttered. "He's your new shadow."
And the last thing I thought before passing out wasn't what now?
It was: Why is the man who looks like he's here to kill me… the first one who's ever made me feel safe?