The Elite Academy

Olivia's POV

 

The driver opened my door with a flourish, and I stepped out onto the cobblestone driveway of Westside Preparatory Academy, taking a moment to soak in the grandeur. Gothic spires reached toward the clouds, and ivy crawled up ancient brick walls like it had been there for centuries. Students in pressed uniforms dotted the manicured lawns, all of them turning to stare as I made my entrance.

 

Good. Let them look.

 

"Your bags will be delivered to your dormitory, Miss Reynolds," said the driver, his voice properly respectful. As it should be.

 

I smoothed down my custom-tailored uniform skirt, hemmed two inches shorter than regulation, and flashed him a practiced smile. "Thank you, Edward."

 

The administration building loomed before me, all dark wood and tradition. Mom had practically begged the board to accept me mid-semester, throwing around the Reynolds name and a sizable "donation" to the school's endowment fund. Money talks, especially in places that pretend to be above it.

 

"You must be Olivia Reynolds," a tall girl with pin-straight blonde hair approached, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "I'm Madison Clarke. Student council president. Headmistress Blackwood asked me to show you around."

 

I assessed her quickly, designer watch peeking out from beneath her sleeve, perfect posture, the confidence of old money. A worthy opponent, perhaps.

 

"How nice," I replied, matching her plastic smile with one of my own. "Lead the way."

 

Madison launched into a rehearsed speech about Westside's two-hundred-year history as we walked through the grand hallways. I half-listened, cataloging important details instead, which groups gathered where, who commanded attention when they spoke, whose clothing broke subtle rules without consequences.

 

"And this is the dining hall," Madison gestured to a room that looked more like a castle banquet hall than a school cafeteria. "We have assigned seating for the first week, but after that,"

 

"Let me guess," I interrupted, "there's an unspoken seating chart everyone just magically knows."

 

Madison's smile tightened. "We tend to sit with our friend groups."

 

"Of course you do." I spotted a table in the center of the room, perfectly positioned for both seeing and being seen. "I'll be sitting there."

 

I pointed to a table currently occupied by a group of girls who radiated that particular kind of cultivated elegance that took generations to perfect. Madison's expression flickered.

 

"That's... that's where my friends and I sit."

 

"Perfect," I said, already walking away. "I look forward to meeting them at lunch."

 

The remainder of the morning passed in a blur of placement tests and administrative paperwork. I answered questions with calculated precision, smart enough to be taken seriously, but not so brilliant that I'd be labeled a try-hard. By noon, I had my class schedule and a growing mental map of Westside's social hierarchy.

 

The dining hall buzzed with activity when I entered, conversations momentarily pausing as heads turned my way. I felt the weight of their stares, curious, judgmental, envious, and fed on it. This was the stage I'd been bred for.

 

I made my way directly to Madison's table, where five girls sat in animated conversation. They fell silent as I approached.

 

"Ladies," I said, pulling out an empty chair. "Mind if I join you?"

 

A petite brunette with delicate features looked at Madison uncertainly. "Um, we usually,"

 

"This is Olivia Reynolds," Madison cut in, her voice tight. "She's new."

 

I sat down without waiting for permission. "I love your earrings," I said to a redhead across the table, my voice dripping with sincerity while my eyes conveyed something else entirely. "Tiffany's last season, right? My mom almost bought me those, but we decided they were a bit... common."

 

The girl's hand flew to her ear, her cheeks flushing.

 

"I'm Naomi," said the brunette, clearly trying to smooth over the awkwardness. "That's Alexis, Katherine, Victoria, and you've met Madison."

 

I smiled, all teeth. "Charmed."

 

"So, Olivia," Madison said, "where did you transfer from?"

 

"Briarwood Academy," I lied smoothly. Dad had wanted me to attend the public school near our home, something about keeping me grounded, but Mom had insisted on Westside after the "incident" at my old school. No need for these girls to know I'd been quietly asked to leave after making a teacher cry.

 

"I've heard it's not as academically rigorous as Westside," Madison remarked, a challenge in her voice.

 

"Perhaps," I conceded. "But they did throw the most divine parties. Speaking of which, who here knows how to have actual fun? This place seems positively medieval."

 

The table's dynamic shifted immediately. Victoria leaned forward, intrigued. "Define 'fun.'"

 

I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "My parents are in Europe next weekend. Our house has a pool, a home theater, and my father's liquor cabinet is extensive."

 

"You're having a party?" Katherine asked, eyes wide.

 

"I'm considering it. Very exclusive, of course." I glanced around the table. "I'll need to compile the guest list carefully."

 

By the time lunch ended, I had secured my position. Madison glared daggers as her friends exchanged phone numbers with me, already angling for invitations to a party that might never happen. The promise of exclusivity was a powerful tool, one I wielded like a scalpel.

 

The afternoon brought my first actual class, Advanced Literature with Dr. Wilson. I arrived precisely two minutes late, ensuring all eyes were on me as I entered.

 

"Ah, you must be Miss Reynolds," Dr. Wilson said, pausing his lecture. "Please take a seat."

 

The only available chair was next to a girl with glossy black hair and startling blue eyes, who was bent over her notebook, seemingly indifferent to my arrival. Her uniform was perfectly regulation, without the subtle personalization's most girls employed.

 

"We're discussing Gatsby's fatal flaw," Dr. Wilson continued. "Miss Chen, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts?"

 

The girl beside me straightened. "Gatsby believed he could repeat the past," she answered, her voice clear and confident. "He thought wealth could erase the years and differences between himself and Daisy. His fatal flaw was his refusal to accept reality."

 

"Excellent analysis," Dr. Wilson nodded approvingly.

 

I rolled my eyes, just loud enough for nearby students to notice. The try-hard beside me stiffened but didn't turn.

 

"Miss Reynolds," Dr. Wilson called, "since you seem to have strong opinions, perhaps you'd like to share your interpretation?"

 

I smiled sweetly. "I think Gatsby's real flaw was caring too much what people like Tom and Daisy thought. They were careless people who smashed things up and retreated back to their money. If he'd had real confidence, he wouldn't have needed their approval."

 

Dr. Wilson's eyebrows rose. "An interesting perspective."

 

The girl beside me, Charlotte, apparently, made a small noise that might have been disagreement.

 

"Something to add?" I challenged quietly as Dr. Wilson turned to write on the blackboard.

 

"Nothing worth sharing," she replied, not looking up from her notes.

 

"That's what I thought," I whispered, leaning closer. "Word of advice? That uniform makes you look like you're trying way too hard to fit in. But then, I guess some people have to try harder than others."

 

Her pen stilled, and for a moment, I thought I'd hit my mark. Then she turned, those brown eyes meeting mine directly.

 

"And some people think cruelty makes them interesting when it just makes them transparent," she replied, her voice so low only I could hear it.

 

My cheeks burned. Before I could respond, the bell rang, and she gathered her books with efficient movements and left without a backward glance.

 

Two hours later, I sat in Headmistress Blackwood's office, examining my manicure with feigned boredom as she dialed my parents' number.

 

"Mrs. Reynolds? This is Headmistress Blackwood from Westside. I'm afraid we need to discuss Olivia's behavior today. It seems she's decided to establish herself by bullying one of our top students..."

 

I smiled to myself. Day one, and already I was making an impression. By the time my parents sorted this out, and they would, probably with another donation, everyone at Westsidewould know exactly who Olivia Reynolds was.

 

And that girl, Charlotte? She'd just made herself my newest project.