Chapter Sixteen: First day of school

Myra hated school.

Back home, she had been homeschooled—so why couldn't she be homeschooled here too? The idea of sitting in a classroom, surrounded by strangers, made her skin itch. She scowled at the uniform hanging in her closet, yanking it off the hanger as if it had personally offended her. The stiff grey shirt felt scratchy against her fingertips, and the pleated red checkered skirt looked far too prim for her liking.

She sighed, slipping it on anyway. The material clung uncomfortably to her skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Next were the itchy stockings, then the stiff black loafers that clicked against the wooden floor as she walked. The leather creaked slightly as she shifted her weight. Grabbing her bag, she trudged downstairs, her footsteps deliberately slow, heavy with reluctance.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, tinged with the scent of damp earth from last night's rain. The faint chirping of birds was drowned out by the low hum of the waiting car's engine. Madeline stood beside the vehicle, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes practically drilling holes into Myra.

Myra barely suppressed a groan. Oh, she was pissed.

She climbed into the car, sliding into the leather seat, and buckled up. The others piled in, their chatter filling the space with an irritating buzz of excitement. Myra, however, tuned them out, resting her head against the window. Cold glass met her forehead, and she exhaled, watching the scenery blur past in streaks of green and grey.

"The school is amazing," Madeline gushed, her voice animated.

Myra rolled her eyes. If it's so amazing, why don't you marry it?

"They have a chess club, brilliant teachers, and so many great people to be friends with," Madeline continued.

Myra bit back a snort. Yeah, right.

The drive stretched on, the towering school walls coming into view. Thick ivy curled around the stone like grasping fingers, and the wrought-iron gates loomed tall and unwelcoming. Was this a school or a prison?

Inside, the air smelled of polished wood, expensive books, and something faintly citrusy. The principal's office was spacious, bathed in the golden light filtering through the high windows. The woman standing behind the desk was striking—shoulder-length black hair streaked with fiery orange highlights, her piercing Caribbean-blue eyes sharp as daggers.

Then she spoke, and Myra's stomach dropped.

"Lady Forster." lady Forster?! As I'm James' little sister Monica Foster?!

Oh, shit.

Would she tell James about her whereabouts, that she was playing human in a school. Myra instinctively lowered her head a bit, biting her inner cheek as hoping the woman wouldn't notice her.

Then she heard a chuckle, she slightly raised her head to meet Monica's blue ones.

"If you're worried about my brother, know I haven't spoken to him in two hundred years" was she that easy to read?

Either way she felt relieved, at least she knew Monica wouldn't breathe a word of her location to her father or James.

---

Myra's first class was at seven.

She arrived at eight.

The moment she stepped in, the room fell silent. The air grew thick with unspoken questions, dozens of eyes locking onto her, some curious, others judgmental. Heat crawled up her neck as she forced herself to move forward.

"You three must be the new students," the teacher said, adjusting her glasses. Her gaze swept over them before she gestured to the empty seats. "Take a seat."

Myra scanned the room.

Her stomach sank.

The only available seat was next to him.

King.

She groaned internally but forced herself to move, dropping into the chair with an audible sigh.

"Hey, Myra—"

She turned away, pretending he didn't exist.

For the entire class, she ignored him, even when he leaned in close enough that she could feel his warmth, his presence pressing into her space like an unwelcome shadow.

When the lecture ended, he smirked. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you," she muttered, shoving her tablet into her bag.

King chuckled. "Oh, and by the way—I own sixty percent of the school."

Myra rolled her eyes. At this point, he might as well own the country.

---

The cafeteria buzzed with energy, the scent of fresh bread, roasted meat, and something faintly sweet filling the air. Myra barely touched her food, absently nibbling on her sandwich as Lisa and Arielle chattered beside her. And for some reason King was at their table, a lovestruck look on his face as he watched her eat.

Weirdo!

Then she heard it.

"I guess that Myra girl is his new girlfriend."

Her fingers twitched.

Turning her head slightly, she spotted two girls across the room, glaring at her with barely disguised contempt. She sighed almost hating her impeccable hearing.

The blonde, with her beady brown eyes and overdone makeup, sneered. "She's so ugly."

Myra blinked. What.

A scoff slipped past her lips. I'm prettier than the two of you combined, but okay.

She dismissed them with a flick of her wrist—until she ran into them again.

--__

The scent of lavender soap filled the restroom, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above. Myra was drying her hands when she sensed it—movement behind her.

Shadows loomed in the mirror.

She turned.

The same two girls.

The blonde—Amara—smirked, the gleam of scissors catching the light. The brunette at her side giggled, a nasty little sound that made Myra's jaw tick.

Myra sighed. Seriously?

"What should we do to her, Amara?" the brunette cooed.

Amara twirled the scissors between her fingers. "Let's give her a haircut," she sneered. "And maybe fix that ugly uniform too."

Myra resisted the urge to laugh. Oh, you poor, dumb creatures.

As they stepped closer, she moved.

Fast.

A sharp twist—Amara's wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

She screamed.

The brunette stumbled back in horror as Myra ripped the scissors from Amara's hand.

Snip.

A huge chunk of blonde hair floated to the floor.

Amara's breath hitched, her hands flying to her now uneven hair. She stared at the mirror, eyes wide with horror.

Myra smirked.

"I don't know who you are, Amara," she said smoothly, stepping past them, "but don't mess with me again. Okay?"

She patted Amara's cheek for good measure, then walked out, stretching her arms.

Crack.

She rolled her shoulders.

So much for my first day.