Kingston lay stretched across the couch, legs thrown out, head resting against the back cushion. His phone sat loose in his hand as he scrolled through the pictures Grace had sent. Dresses, jewelry, shoes, all expensive and carefully chosen.
He barely registered any of it.
A basket sat near his elbow, filled with snacks left behind as a confession by some girl whose name he had already forgotten. Everything inside looked delicate and rare, but he ate without tasting, his thoughts stuck elsewhere. All he could think about was Jujube.
He pictured the moment she would finally realize who he was, the exact second recognition would dawn on her face. He imagined the way her expression would falter when the truth settled in, the heat of humiliation crawling up her skin as everyone around her watched. The idea of it made his mouth curve slightly, satisfied. That is what she gets for humiliating him. Then his phone rang a notification popping on the top of his screen.
The color drained from his face at once.
His hand twitched before he set the phone down, wiped his fingers carefully on a napkin, and sat up straight, his posture suddenly too obedient as if he was being watched. He cleared his throat, something he had never bothered to do for anyone else.
He answered. "Hello, Mom," he said, his voice smooth and measured.
Her voice came through soft and familiar. "Kingston, my son. It has been a long time since I heard from you. I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
"No," he replied quickly. "That is not true. I have just been busy."
"I see," she said gently. "You should take some time for yourself. You work too much."
He already knew the real reason for the call.
The phone was on speaker.
His father never called him directly. He made his mother do it instead.
"Busy with what," his father cut in, his voice carrying irritation and disappointment. "Dragging my name through the dirt by getting yourself hauled into a police station."
Kingston's fingers curled slowly, his jaw tightening as he held his tongue.
"Dear," his mother said carefully, trying to soften the moment, "please do not speak like that. You know he is only concerned about you."
Kingston caught it immediately. The way she redirected the anger. The way she absorbed what was meant for him.
"It was a false report," King said evenly. "I will handle it."
"You will handle it," his father repeated, disbelief thick in his tone as the phone shifted hands. "And how exactly do you plan to do that. Do you truly believe you are capable of fixing anything."
Kingston went still, the familiar weight pressing down on him.
"A son like you is humiliation enough on its own," his father continued. "I have reviewed your semester results. You are dead last in your batch." Each word landed hard.
"Do you think someone like you can be trusted with responsibility," he went on. "Grace will send you a new schedule starting tomorrow. If you want to keep enjoying that lavish life of yours, you will fix your grades." There was a pause, then the final blow.
"Learn something from Asfand." Kingston's teeth clenched, no amount of humiliation hurt him as much as when he got compared to Asfand. "You are a disgrace," his father said flatly. "I feel humiliated knowing I have a son who cannot manage a single thing in his life." The call ended.
Kingston remained seated, staring ahead, his hands still clenched as the pressure settled back into place, heavy. This was the world he had grown up in, where nothing he did was enough and every mistake became another reminder of how easily he could be replaced.
When he finally stood, his expression was already back under control, smooth and unreadable, as if nothing had touched him at all.
--
The next day, Jujube arrived in class looking a little better than she had the previous two days. The bruising was still there, but less obvious, her posture steadier. Staying at Abby's place had helped. It meant she had avoided crossing paths with most of the students outside class, which mattered. At this academy, public scenes were unacceptable. Even the most privileged families did not tolerate humiliation attached to their names, so cruelty was handled quietly, through whispers, sabotage, and closed doors. For now, she was left alone, even though she knew many of them were still plotting.
This was only her second history class since joining the academy.
Right at the start of the lecture, the professor made her impression clear. She was young, sharp eyed, dressed neatly, and not remotely soft. Within minutes, she assigned a report of five thousand words, to be submitted and presented in front of the class the following week.
Jujube did not waste time complaining. History was not her strongest subject, so she already had books open, reading ahead, determined to finish early and avoid humiliating herself during the presentation. Her head stayed down, fully focused.
Around her, a few students exchanged looks. Quiet ones. Knowing ones.
Then the classroom door was kicked open.
A collective gasp went through the room.
"What is Kingston doing here," someone whispered.
Jujube's ears caught it immediately. She looked up for the first time since the lecture began, and a cold rush ran straight up her spine. The hair at the back of her neck prickled.
King stood there, completely unfazed, his expression lazy and unreadable. His gaze swept the room once before settling on her.
He walked toward her.
Jujube sucked in a breath, already bracing herself.
He reached her desk, plucked the book straight from her hands, and held it up at eye level between two fingers, like it was something unpleasant.
"Give it back," she snapped, standing up instantly. He was barely a step away now. She held out her hand. "What do you think this is, kindergarten. What's next, you pull my hair."
King raised a brow, mildly amused.
"No," he said calmly. "I was just checking what you're reading that gives you the confidence to go against me."
He leaned down slightly to meet her eye level, the height difference making the closeness uncomfortable whether he intended it or not.
At the same time, more students rushed into the classroom. Half of them had come because they saw King enter, and the other half because the professor had been spotted in the hallway and she was not known for forgiving late arrivals.
She entered from the opposite side of the room, dressed in a violet suit, hair neatly framing her face, maroon lipstick sharp against her strict expression.
"Mr. Reid," she said coolly, "I presume you are here to attend the lecture. I suggest you take your seat."
King straightened, nodded once, then shoved Jujube back into her chair without apology, pushing her things aside as he dropped into the seat beside her. Jujube frowned at how casually he settled in, like her space did not exist at all. Her pens slid off the desk and scattered near her feet, and he did not even glance down.
She had to bend to pick them up, moving carefully, only to knock her head against the underside of the table on the way back up.
"Pfft," Kingston let out a low chuckle, clearly amused.
Jujube shifted away from him as much as the narrow desk allowed and pulled out her diary to take notes, refusing to look in his direction.
"Open your books to page seventy four," the professor said, continuing without pause.
Jujube flipped through the pages quickly. The book was old and worn, the spine barely holding together, but she leaned into it anyway, her finger moving along the lines as the professor lectured. She nodded now and then, focused, writing steadily.
Kingston stared ahead, barely listening. This was the second time he was taking this class since joining the academy, a consequence of his grades, but his attention was elsewhere. His father's words from the night before echoed in his head, each one digging deeper than the last. His fist tightened under the desk as he drew in a slow breath, trying to steady himself.
It was because of her. That was the thought that kept circling back, sharp and bitter. If only she had not put her tiny nose in his matter he wouldn't have heard such a disappointed lecture form his father.
From the corner of his eye, he glanced at her. She was scribbling aggressively in her notebook, completely absorbed, curls of red hair falling forward as she wrote. Freckles dotted her cheeks, standing out against her pale skin.
His jaw clenched, his throat moving as he swallowed hard. She would pay for this.