The door didn't even click. It just kind of settled into the frame, but the quiet in the room suddenly felt heavy, like the air had been sucked out. Isabella was still leaning over the sink, her knuckles white against the marble, trying to shake the sound of that voice out of her head. Then she saw him in the glass.
Aoren Voss was just leaning there against the wall by the stalls. He didn't look like he'd snuck in; he looked like he belonged there more than she did.
Isabella spun around, her breath catching in a way that felt like a physical hitch in her chest. She wanted to scream at him, to pull rank and bury him, but the words got stuck under a wave of pure, cold panic.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice was a jagged whisper. She looked at the door, terrified someone—anyone—would walk in and see her, the Moreau heiress, cornered in a bathroom by the school's biggest charity case. "You can't be in here. If someone sees you... if Seraphina finds out..."
Aoren didn't move. He didn't look scared at all. He just watched her with those eyes that seemed to see right through the expensive blazer and the family name. "I saw you looking at me in class," he said. His voice was low, dragging over the words. "I thought maybe you wanted to talk. Those glances can give off the wrong vibes, you know?"
A heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature crawled up her neck. Her eyes narrowed, her mind racing to find a way to flip the script. "W-what glances? I wasn't looking at you. I don't even know what you're talking about."
The lie came out too fast. It was messy. She was a Moreau; she was supposed to be a master of the "silver tongue," but here she was, fumbling like a kid caught stealing.
She took a step toward him, trying to push her way out, but her legs felt like lead. "Why am I even talking to you?" she hissed, more to herself than him. "What the hell is wrong with me? Look at me... talking to the dumb bastard everyone hates. Seraphina would lose it. She'd kill me if she saw this. I should be calling security right now."
She didn't move toward the door, though. She just stood there, anchored by his gaze.
Aoren straightened up, stepping out of the shadows. As he moved into the light, he seemed to take up more space, the air between them suddenly buzzing. He took one step closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make her skin prickle.
"You sure you don't like me, Isabella?"
As he said it, his voice changed. It wasn't just a question anymore; it was an itch in her brain. It felt thick and sweet, like honey poured over her nerves. The sharp edges of her panic started to dull, replaced by this weird, nagging urge to just... stay. To hear him say her name again. The insults she'd been rehearsing—trash, peasant, idiot—all felt like they were written in a language she'd forgotten.
Her heart, which had been slamming against her ribs in terror, shifted into a heavy, rhythmic thud. She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell him he was disgusting. But her throat felt tight, her tongue heavy with a dazed kind of curiosity.
She looked at him, really looked at him, searching for the "dumb bastard" everyone talked about. She couldn't find him. All she found was this quiet, terrifying weight that made her feel like she was the one who didn't belong.
Aoren saw it. He saw the way her jaw went slack, the way she didn't look away from his mouth. He didn't push it. He knew the "Mark" was doing its job once he'd dropped that tone into the air.
"Okay," he said, his voice going back to normal, though the echo of that honey-thick drawl stayed stuck in her head. He turned for the door, moving easy, like he didn't have a care in the world. "If you feel like talking for real, Bella... you know where to find me."
He slipped out, the door closing with a soft thud that sounded like a final judgment.
Isabella stood there, frozen. The silence that rushed back in was deafening. she turned back to the mirror, looking at a girl she didn't recognize. Her face was flushed, her breathing was a mess, and her head felt like a construction site.
She turned the cold water on, splashing her face until her skin stung, but she couldn't wash out the sound of him. You sure you don't like me?
"I hate him," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice was shaking. "I hate him. I hate him."
But as she stared at her own eyes in the glass, she knew she was lying. The seed was in there now, and Isabella Moreau realized she wasn't the one in control of her own mind anymore.
She stayed in the restroom for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of students in the hallway. Every laugh, every click of a heel made her jump. She felt exposed, like he'd stripped away the Moreau name and left her standing there as just... Isabella.
She thought about the "glances." Had she been looking? She remembered the way he'd sat in the back of the room, so still it was unnerving. She remembered the way he'd looked at her when their hands touched, that split second where the world had gone quiet. It wasn't a mistake. He'd done it on purpose.
And the worst part was, she didn't want to tell anyone. She couldn't tell Seraphina. She couldn't tell her father. If she told them, it would make it real. It would mean that a scholarship kid had somehow cracked the foundation of her life.
She grabbed her bag, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. She had to get to her next class. She had to act normal. But as she walked out into the hall, every person she passed felt like a stranger. She felt his presence everywhere—in the shadows of the arches, in the way the light hit the floor.
He had said "talk for real." What did that even mean?
Isabella walked down the corridor, her head down, her mind spinning in circles. She was the one who held the power. She was a Moreau. But as she rounded the corner, she caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered figure disappearing into the library, and her heart skipped a beat.
She wasn't chasing him. She told herself that over and over. She was just going to the library because she needed a reference book. That was it.
But as she pushed open the heavy library doors, the scent of old paper and dust filled her lungs, and she knew she was lying to herself again. She wasn't looking for a book. She was looking for him.
The library was huge, a labyrinth of shelves that stretched up toward the ceiling. It was quiet here, a different kind of quiet than the restroom. Here, the silence was expectant.
She walked past the rows of history and law, her eyes scanning the study carrels. She saw Caelum Dragonheart sitting with a group of seniors, their laughter hushed but arrogant. She saw the "elites" in their natural habitat, and for the first time, they looked small to her. They looked like children playing dress-up.
And then she saw him.
Aoren was sitting at a small table in the very back, hidden by a stack of oversized maps. He wasn't studying. He was just sitting there, staring at a blank page, his expression calm.
Isabella felt a surge of that same heat from the restroom. It was a mix of anger and something she refused to name. She walked toward him, her heels clicking on the wood floor, a sound that felt like a challenge.
He didn't look up until she was standing right over him.
"What did you do?" she demanded, her voice low but sharp.
Aoren looked up, his eyes meeting hers with that same unbothered stillness. "I'm sitting in a library, Isabella. I think that's allowed."
"You know what I mean," she snapped, leaning over the table, her hair falling over her shoulder. "The voice. The way you... you touched me. What are you?"
Aoren leaned back, his eyes tracing the line of her face. He didn't answer right away. He let the silence stretch out, let her feel the weight of her own desperation.
"I'm just a scholarship boy, remember?" he said finally. "The dumb bastard Seraphina hates."
Isabella flinched. Hearing her own words thrown back at her felt like a slap. "Don't play games with me. I know you did something. I feel... I feel like I can't think straight."
Aoren smiled then. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who had already won.
"Maybe that's just what it feels like to finally be honest with yourself, Bella."
He stood up, his height forcing her to take a step back. He didn't say anything else. He just picked up his bag and walked away, leaving her standing in the dust-mote light of the library, more lost than she'd ever been in her life.
She watched him go, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But mostly, she just wanted him to come back and say her name one more time.