The digital grapevine of Upperhill Academy didn't just buzz; it detonated. By the time the sun rose the next morning, the high-definition video of the "Silver Shackle" ceremony had been shared, analyzed, and memed by every student from the freshmen to the graduating seniors.
The image of the billionaire's son fastening a pendant around the neck of the school's most pathetic wallflower was the top story on every social feed. The judgments were split like a fractured mirror: half the school thought it was the ultimate long-con prank, while the other half—mostly the girls—were simmering in a vat of pure, concentrated envy.
Dressel Gennie walked through the corridors toward her locker, her head bowed so low her chin tucked into her chest. The silver heart pendant felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Every time the metal touched her skin, it sent a jolt of electricity through her, reminding her of his voice.
"You're mine now."
The whispers followed her like a physical tail.
"There she is. Look at the necklace. Is it real silver?"
"I bet he's going to make her do his laundry for the rest of the year."
"He's probably just using her to get back at his father. There's no way a guy like Collman actually wants her."
Suddenly, the crowd ahead of her froze. The sea of students parted with a synchronized gasp.
Standing by her locker, leaning against the metal door with a soccer ball tucked under one arm, was Collman Henry. He looked devastatingly handsome in the morning light, his school tie loosened and his eyes sharp as a hawk's.
Dressel stopped five feet away. Her knees felt like jelly. For three years, this boy had been the monster under her bed, the one who shouted at her for "breathing his air" or dumped her bag out in the rain.
"C-Collman," she stuttered, her voice barely audible.
He looked up, his gaze raking over her. The "sneaky" smile from last night was gone, replaced by an unreadable, intense focus. He stepped toward her, and instinctively, Dressel flinched, her hands flying up to cover her head.
Collman stopped dead. A flicker of something—was it guilt? or annoyance?—passed through his eyes
"Why are you shaking?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.
Dressel took a shivering breath. "You... you didn't have to do it. The necklace. The confession. I know you hate me, Collman. You've hated me since the first day I stepped foot in this school. You could have just laughed and let me go."
She looked up at him, her eyes misty. "Is this a new game? Is the bullying going to get worse now that you've trapped me?"
Collman's expression hardened. He took another step, invading her personal space until the scent of his expensive cologne clouded her mind. He reached out, not to strike her, but to catch a stray strand of her chestnut hair, tucking it behind her ear with a touch that was surprisingly firm.
"Don't worry about the past right now, Gennie," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety register. "You called my name in front of the whole school. You claimed me. And in my world, when you claim something, you keep it."
He leaned in closer, his shadow engulfing her. "As of this morning, I'm your boyfriend. And I intend to do everything a boyfriend is supposed to do. Starting with this: I'm driving you home after classes. Be at the parking lot by 4:00 PM sharp."
Dressel's eyes widened. "No! I mean... I can take the bus. I'm okay, really. I don't want to bother you—"
"I wasn't asking, Dressel," Collman interrupted, his voice regained that familiar, chilling edge. He leaned down until their noses were almost touching. "Comply. Or I'll make you regret ever standing on that stage last night. You wanted my attention? Well, you have it. All of it."
He tapped the silver heart on her chest with one finger, turned on his heel, and walked away without a backward glance, leaving Dressel trembling in the wake of his storm.
When Dressel finally made it to her classroom, the atmosphere was even more toxic. The teacher hadn't arrived yet, and the room was a shark tank.
As she walked toward her desk at the very back, a leg shot out, nearly tripping her.
"Careful, 'Cinderella,'" a sharp, melodic voice sneered.
Clarissa Montgomery, the school beauty and the daughter of a high-profile diplomat, sat on her desk, her long legs crossed elegantly. She was the queen of the social scene, and she looked at Dressel as if she were a smudge of dirt on a diamond.
"Don't think you've won the lottery just because Collman was bored last night," Clarissa said, her voice dripping with venom. The rest of the class turned to watch, some snickering behind their hands.
"Look at yourself, Gennie," Clarissa continued, hopping off the desk and walking around Dressel like a predator circling weak prey. "You're a low-life. A charity case. Someone like Collman Henry—a boy who breathes rarified air—cannot be with a girl who smells like the public library."
She reached out and flicked the silver pendant with her manicured fingernail. Ting.
"He's a soccer player, Dressel. He knows how to play a ball, and right now, you are the ball. He's going to kick you around until he's bored, and then he's going to leave you in the dirt where you belong. He's only 'accepting' you so he can bully you from a closer distance. Don't you see it?"
Dressel gripped her bag straps until her hands turned red. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to tell Clarissa she was right—that she was terrified, too. But the weight of the necklace felt different now.
"He... he said he's my boyfriend," Dressel whispered, her voice small but surprisingly steady.
The classroom went dead silent. Clarissa's face contorted into a mask of pure rage. "We'll see how long that lasts. By next week, you'll be crying in the showers, and he'll be back where he belongs. With someone of his own status."
As the bell rang, Dressel sat at her desk, the words "low-life" and "bully" echoing in her head. She looked out the window at the soccer field, where she could see the distant figure of Collman practicing his kicks.
Was he her protector, or was he simply the man holding the leash?