Sienna Maxton moved through the hallways of Ashford Elite Academy like a ghost with a pulse—present enough to cast a shadow, absent enough that no one ever felt the need to talk to it.
The whispers had started before first period. By lunch, they'd become a roar. And now, in the aftermath of whatever the hell had happened in the parking lot, the whole school had transformed into one massive gossip machine with her cousin's name on everyone's lips.
"Did you see what Phei did to Sierra?"
"Bro, he SLAPPED Brett. Like, actually slapped him. Open palm. Full commitment."
"The charity case? OUR charity case?"
Sienna heard it all. Processed none of it.
She walked with her phone in hand, scrolling through nothing, her face arranged in that expression she'd perfected over years of practice—the one that said I'm not here, don't talk to me, and I literally could not care less all at once. It was her default setting. Her armor. Her "fuck off" in polite society language.
