CHAPTER TEN
ZADE
To say I want to break De Luca's nose is an understatement. I want to dismantle him.
I'm sprawled across the back row, my eyes closed, breathing shallow and steady.
Everyone in this room thinks I'm dead to the world, drifting off because I'm too rich to care about liquidity ratios. They're wrong. I'm awake. I'm always awake. I hear every word of that skin-crawling offer he's whispering to the Witch.
I know the rumors about De Luca. I know about the girls who stop showing up for exams, the ones who suddenly transfer with hollow eyes and silent mouths. I've been digging, looking for the paper trail, but the man is a ghost. I don't have enough evidence to bury him yet, and it burns me.
Then I hear her. The Witch.
She rejects him. Not with a 'no', but with a calculated, professional wall of ice. My chest tightens with something I don't want to label as respect. She's smart. She sees the wolf under the expensive suit.
She isn't his to break. She's my toy to mess with. She's the one who dared to glare at me, and only I get to decide when her time is up.
I wait until the room clears before I move. I track them through the hallways, keeping my distance. I'm heading for the cafeteria, but I stop short as a muffled, broken sound echoes off the stone pillars of the west wing.
Sobbing.
I step into the shadow of a pillar, my eyes narrowing. The Asian girl is shaking, her face a mess of tears. And there she is—the Witch. She's using the sleeve of that hideous, scratchy hoodie to wipe the girl's cheeks.
"They treat me like a clown," the girl hiccups. "Like I'm just a side-chic because I don't look like them."
I lean against the cold stone, my expression unreadable. The girl is wrong. I don't treat people like that. If they look different, they just look different. I don't care about the shape of someone's eyes or the color of their skin; I care about whether they're in my way or not. But then again, I haven't exactly been a saint to anyone who doesn't fit the Oakhaven mold.
I watch the Witch pull the girl into a hug. There's a softness in her movements that I didn't see coming. It's irritating. It's human. I'm about to step out, to break the silence with a biting comment, when a heavy hand clamps onto my shoulder.
"Got you, mate."
The voice is like a bucket of cold water. I spin around, my fist clenching, ready to swing.
But then I see the grin.
Nathaniel.
He's been gone for months, back home taking care of his mother. Seeing him here, standing in his oxblood blazer with that same stupid, lopsided smile, means she must be better.
"I was about to punch you in the face, Nate," I growl, pulling my hand back to my side.
"Ouch. You wound me, Zade. Truly," he says, clutching his heart with a pained expression. The audacity of the fucker hasn't changed a bit.
"Don't be dramatic. We have a practice session today. Now that you're finally back, I expect you to actually hit the ball this time," I say. I glance back toward the pillar, but the hallway is empty. The Witch and the girl are gone.
"Are you looking for someone?" Nate asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
"No. Let's go."
Nate practically drags me toward the locker rooms. We change out of our school blazers and into the formal Oakhaven golf uniforms—crisp white polos and tailored trousers.
The Oakhaven golf course is a masterpiece of landscape engineering. The grass is an impossible shade of emerald, the sand traps are filled with white quartz, and the air smells like cedar and money.
Nate and I head to the driving range. Golf is a game of precision and ego. You don't just hit the ball; you dominate it. I take my driver, feeling the weight of the carbon-fiber shaft. I tee up, take a breath, and swing. The thwack of the club hitting the ball is the most satisfying sound in the world. The ball disappears into the blue sky, a white speck hurtling toward the horizon.
"Not bad, Hamilton. Still have the touch," a voice sneers from behind us.
Marcus Hunter. Of course.
He's dressed in his golf whites, carrying a bag that probably costs more than a mid-sized sedan. He walks up to the tee next to mine, his eyes shimmering with that annoying, competitive glint.
"You want a challenge?" I ask, finally turning to look at him.
"Five holes. Lowest score wins," Marcus says. "Loser pays for the end-of-term party. Everything. The lights, the liquor, the whole damn show."
"Deal," I say.
We move to the first hole. Golf at this level isn't about strength; it's about mental warfare. Nate watches from the sidelines, leaning on his putter.
Marcus goes first. His swing is flashy, a bit too much follow-through, but the ball lands squarely on the fairway. He looks back at me and winks.
I don't wink. I just execute. My swing is short, efficient, and lethal. My ball outdistances his by twenty yards, rolling to a stop exactly where I wanted it.
By the fourth hole, we're tied. Marcus is sweating, his movements getting twitchy. He's thinking about the money, about the embarrassment of losing to me on Nate's first day back.
We reach the fifth hole—a par-four with a nasty water hazard on the left. Marcus takes his shot. It's a good one, but it catches the edge of the rough. He let out a curse.
I step up to the tee. The wind is picking up, blowing the scent of cut grass toward the lake. I check the distance, adjust my grip, and swing. The ball soars. It's a perfect arc, landing soft as a feather on the green, rolling toward the cup.
It stops two inches from the hole.
Marcus tries to recover, but his chip shot is weak. He ends the hole with a bogey. I tap my ball in for a birdie.
"Looks like you're paying for the party, Hunter," Nate says, clapping me on the back.
Marcus looks like he wants to throw his club into the lake. "Lucky shot, Hamilton."
"It's never luck, Marcus," I say, wiping my club with a towel. "It's just knowing when to strike."
Marcus might have lost the game, but I have a feeling the real battle hasn't even begun.
"Let's get out of here," I tell Nate. "I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be even more of a shitshow than today."