Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2 Boarding school resumes next week, which means it's time to collect our uniforms. Jason is getting a new one since he was elected head prefect, which basically makes him god at our school. As if he needs more power. I, on the other hand, was elected secretary of finance, which suits me perfectly—especially since I plan on studying business in university. Hopefully Harvard. Gold Leaf Academy is an international school, and it adopts a lot of customs to accommodate students from different cultures. The cafeteria has a wide range of dietary options, there are tons of festivals and clubs, and compared to other boarding schools, we have very few restrictions. The one area where they are strict? Academics. At least a third of each class doesn't make it back the following year because they fail to meet the ever-changing, ridiculously high cut-off mark. School is brutal, exhausting, and completely merciless. The only upside? It's fair. No matter how rich or powerful your family is, you can't bribe your way into staying if you don't make the cut. That, at least, is comforting. Jason picks me up in his Bugatti Divo—yes, Bugatti Divo, a ridiculously expensive car for someone who isn't even legally allowed to drive yet. His birthday is in November, though, and it's September now, so he'll be getting his license soon enough. The boutique is minimalistic but stylish—lots of creams and browns, sleek decor, and an expensive atmosphere. Madame Francine, the seamstress, is a petite woman who somehow looks both young and ageless at the same time. Her chic red bob and designer glasses scream wealthy fashion icon. Right now, she's busy with another customer, so her assistant helps us instead. She hands over our uniforms and asks us to try them on. Our school colors are gold and green, and our uniforms follow the same theme. The girls wear dark green pleated skirts with gold trimmings, and the boys wear slacks. Our white long-sleeved shirts have the school's emblem—a gold ouroboros wrapped around a tree—on the breast pocket. We also have sweaters, vests, and blazers, though they aren't mandatory. I step out of the dressing room in my uniform, only to be immediately met with Jason's scrutiny. "Is that skirt length even sanctioned?" he asks, eyes narrowing. "Mind your own business," I snap, flipping him off. At 5'9, my skirt always looks shorter than it actually is, falling mid-thigh. People love to call it obscene when I wear it, but if I were a couple inches shorter, no one would care. "How are you planning to move around without flashing the whole school in that?" Jason crosses his arms, looking way too pleased with himself. "One, it's not that short. Two, mind your own business," I say sharply. He just laughs, but then he steps closer—way closer. "I'm not sure I like the idea of all the other guys staring at your legs all day," he murmurs. My breath catches. He's so close now that I can see the different shades of blue in his eyes, can feel the heat radiating off his body. If I leaned in just an inch closer, our lips would touch. The thought makes me lightheaded—both weightless and unbearably heavy at the same time. Then— "Are you guys done?" The voice snaps me out of it. I jerk back, my head spinning, my heart racing. I take another step away from Jason—then another—desperately trying to inhale the air he seemed to suck from the room. "Yeah, we're done," I call out, though my voice comes out different, higher than usual. Shit. Jason just watches me. His midnight blue eyes make me feel exposed, like he can see everything I try so hard to keep hidden. I take another step back. I know myself—I do not make good decisions when he looks at me like that. I practically flee the dressing room. "Are you okay, dear? You look a bit startled," Madame Francine asks. She must be done with her other customers now. I flash her a bright smile, pushing everything else down. "No, nothing's wrong! I'm just so completely in love with my uniform," I say, twirling for effect. Jason steps into view, and our eyes meet again. His uniform is different from the rest of ours. Instead of green, his blazer is black, with the school's golden emblem stitched onto the breast pocket. Even his tie is different—plain black instead of the standard green-and-gold stripes. The thought strikes me suddenly: he is different. His uniform fits him perfectly, just like everything else. And even though I know all his flaws, even though I know he's far from perfect, I can't help but think—just for a second—that he is. That he's so utterly, impossibly perfect that he shouldn't be real. We pay for our uniforms and leave since neither of us needs adjustments. On the drive home, Jason glances at me. "What's alternate you doing?" I smirk. "Selling pornos in my school uniform." His laugh is instant, loud, booming. "My name could be Naughty Schoolgirl—cliché but effective," I continue. "How about Teacher's Slut?" "Detention Baddie?" "Classroom's Bad Girl?" "Principal's Favorite," I add, throwing him a wink. Jason laughs so hard I swear he's going to crash the car. "What about you?" I ask once he's caught his breath. For a moment, he's silent. Then— "Buying every single copy so no one else would ever see you like that." My stomach flips. I gulp. He has to know what he's doing to me. He has to know how helpless I feel sometimes, how tangled up I get in this stupid, confusing mess we call our relationship. And yet, he still says things like that. We fall into silence for the rest of the drive. And I pretend—just like I always do—that I'm not affected.