(Trish's POV)
Friday morning was a cold, clinical execution. I hadn't eaten; the very idea of swallowing felt impossible. Joseph hadn't looked at me once since we woke up. He had retreated so far behind his "Hard Man" mask that he looked like a statue carved from ice. We left the house separately, a tactical move that felt like a funeral procession.
Room 3-B was a pressure cooker. The air conditioning hummed, but it couldn't mask the thick, cloying scent of Anaya's perfume or the restless energy of the other "problem" seniors.
"Final presentations," Miss Forger announced, snapping her ruler against her palm. "First up: Joseph Roland and Anaya Sterling."
Anaya didn't walk to the front; she sauntered. She adjusted the podium, her eyes flicking to me with a sharp, jagged triumph. Joseph followed suit, stopping a foot behind her, his hands buried in his pockets.
"Our project is on 'Macbeth'." Anaya began, her voice sugary and loud.
Anaya did most of the talking. She stood at the front with her note cards, voice bright and practiced, clicking through slides while Joseph stayed beside her, hands clasped behind his back. He barely spoke, just nodded at the right moments, eyes fixed somewhere above the class, like he was counting down the seconds instead of listening.
She talked about Macbeth's home as a false sanctuary, about secrets festering behind closed doors, about how what's hidden always finds a way to surface. None of it was overt. It didn't have to be. Every so often, her gaze flicked toward me, quick and sharp, and I felt the weight of it settle in my chest.
The presentation felt longer than it was. Ten minutes, maybe. Long enough for whispers to ripple through the front row. Long enough for Joseph's jaw to tighten, his silence louder than anything she said.
"Thank you," Miss Forger said at last, her tone clipped. "Next. Trish Carpenter and Christian Vane."
My legs felt like lead. As I walked up, Joseph passed me. For a split second, his shoulder brushed mine, a hard and intentional contact that felt like a silent command: 'Hold the line.'
I took my place. Christian was already there, leaning against the chalkboard with a confidence that made my stomach turn.
I cleared my throat and stepped forward before Christian could speak.
"We chose The Unreliable Narrator," I said, keeping my voice steady. "It explores how perspective shapes truth, how audiences are often misled by what they're shown rather than what actually is."
I reached for the clicker, ready to move on.
Christian smiled and smoothly took it from my hand.
"Exactly," he cut in, his British accent polished, almost amused. "Because in Mthland, everyone is playing a character." A few heads lifted.
"We have the grieving orphan. The golden athlete." His eyes flicked to the class, then back to me. "But what happens when the athlete uses the orphan's grief for his own… PRIVATE ENTERTAINMENT?"
The room went deathly silent. My breath caught in my throat.
Joseph's eyes were already tightening; he knew what was coming. He knew the lengths Christian would go to tarnish his reputation, hell, even his career.
"Christian, stop," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"I'm just getting to the thesis, love," he murmured back.
He looked at the class, his eyes landing on Joseph. "Our research proves that when a girl loses everything, her mother, her home, her pride, she becomes vulnerable. And a boy like Joseph Roland? He doesn't do 'charity.' If he lets someone stay in that fancy mansion on the hill, we all know there's a price to be paid. A very... 'physical' price."
The classroom exploded into murmurs:
"Yh I heard she now lives at his home. I bet she spends every night in his room sucking his handsome c*ck," a girl whispered loudly.
"Is that why he's so protective? He's guarding his 'property'?" another sneered.
"That's enough!" Miss Forger shouted, but she was ignored. Even, our homeroom teacher looked stunned at the sight of Christian's audacity, so caught off guard she couldn't speak.
She wasn't much older than us. What could an inexperienced twenty-one-year-old high school teacher even do in a moment like that?
Christian leaned forward, projecting his voice, his eyes locked on Joseph.
"Let's be honest. He's not a hero. He's a predator. Using a girl who has no one left just because he has a big house and a brand-new fancy car I heard was very fast. How's the 'payment' going, Trish? Is it worth the roof over your head?"
"And why Joseph?" Christian continued smoothly. "Why would the king of Mthland High need to charm half the girls in this school just to stay popular enough to play on the football team, when he's not even that good?"
Joseph didn't shout. He didn't argue. He moved.
It happened so fast Miss Forger didn't have time to scream. Joseph was at the front of the room in a blink, one hand catching Christian by the throat and slamming him back against the chalkboard. His other fist came down in a rapid series of hard blows, sharp and uncontrolled, the room erupting into chaos around them.
"Say it again," Joseph hissed, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "Say one more word about her and I will end you right here."
"Joseph, stop!" I cried out, grabbing his arm.
Joseph didn't look at me. He looked around the room, at the students, his so-called classmates, already filming on their phones, at Anaya who was smiling like she'd won the lottery, and at Miss Forger who was reaching for the desk phone.
He let go of Christian, who slumped to the floor, gasping for air. Then, Joseph grabbed my wrist. Not a gentle hold, but a bruising, desperate grip.
"We're done," Joseph said. He didn't address the class. He didn't defend himself. He simply dragged me through the stunned silence of Class 3-B, out into the hallway where the rumors were already spreading like wildfire through the vents.
As we reached the parking lot, the Friday sun felt like a spotlight on our shame.
"Joseph, they think—"
"I know what they think!" he roared, slamming his hand against the roof of his car. "They think I'm using you. They think you're a victim. And if I stay and try to explain, it just makes the lie look like the truth."
He shoved the door open for me. "Get in. Now."
As he peeled out of the lot, I looked in the side mirror. Christian was standing at the entrance, wiping blood from his lip and smiling. And Anaya was already surrounded by a crowd, her mouth moving a mile a minute.
By the time we reached the highway, the Mthland High's gossip app was already pinging:
"KING ROLAND'S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET: Is the grieving houseguest his new charity case… or his private plaything?"
"TRAGEDY MEETS TOXIC: Inside Joseph Roland's Mansion, where Mthland's favorite badboy is 'comforting' a girl with nowhere else to go. #MthlandHighScandal #HouseGuestOrPlaything"
"FROM ORPHAN TO TOY: Mthland's golden boy finds a dark use for his mother's grieving houseguest. Is it shelter, or is it a trade? "
"SCANDAL AT THE MANSION: Rumors swirl around Joseph Roland, the king of Mthland's most prestigious high school, as questions arise - guardian or predator, taking advantage of a girl in mourning?"