Page 2 of With This Mask

A snicker slices through the chatter, sharp and mean. "If it isn't the charity case brigade." The voice drips privilege like a designer cologne that reeks of disdain.

My grip on my textbooks tightens, knuckles whitening. He stands there, sneer in place, surrounded by his clones—a king among jesters. Chaz Markersfield. None of them are nice, but he’s the worst idiot of them all. He’s cruel and loud, and everything I hate. And he’s flanked by those who are just like him—Charles Whitmore. Alec Vanderholt. Ava Bradley. Angel Mahome. My heart pounds a war drum rhythm against my ribs. I lock eyes with Chaz, ready to tear into his arrogance.

"Excuse me?" I shoot back, voice steady, though my blood's boiling hot. "Care to say that louder?"

Josh is beside me in an instant, his presence a solid wall. His green eyes flash fire. "Why don't you crawl back to your country club, huh? Or is mummy's teat running dry and you actually have to show your face at school?"

The rich kid's face flushes red, his posse chuckling awkwardly. Victory flares in my chest. Josh's words are a slap across their smug faces.

“Fuck off, trailer trash," the spoiled brat scoffs, and he peels off, the rest of his posse following after him.

"Assholes," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Let them talk, Josh says, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder.

A chuckle bubbles from Isabella, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I swear, those guys strut like they've got golden sticks up their asses."

I can't help it—I laugh, the sound cutting through my lingering irritation. There's something about Izzy's frankness that makes it impossible to stay mad around her.

"Made of money, and still can't buy a clue," I quip, shaking my head.

"Or class," Josh adds, and we snicker.

"Come on, losers," Isabella grins, hooking an arm through mine and then Josh's. "We've got minds to sharpen and classes to conquer."

The hallways are a sea of bodies, everyone rushing in different directions like colored currents in a river. We're salmon swimming upstream—scholarship kids fighting the current. My heart's racing but I'm here, we're here, and damn if we won't make it to the finish line.

"Remember when this place seemed like another planet?" Josh murmurs as we maneuver through the crowd.

"Feels like home now," I say, more to myself than to them.

It's crazy to think about how out of place I felt when I first arrived at this school. I’d attended low income public schools my whole life. My mentors were burned out teachers who had dealt with and seen too much shit, all while being severely underpaid. I’d only succeeded in school because I cared so damn much. So, walking into Westcroft, an elite university, I was overwhelmed to say the least.

But somehow, amidst the sea of privilege, I managed to find my feet. I fought tooth and nail to prove myself, and I fucking won. I’ve got two years at the top of my class under my belt. It would be three, but fucking Alec Vanderholt is always, always right at my heels. But I'm passionate about my classes, eager to learn and grow. The idea of getting my degree in online marketing fills me with a sense of determination and purpose.

I remember the first day, standing there at the entrance, the overwhelming scent of wealth and entitlement wafting through the air. I felt like a fish out of water, gasping for breath in this alien environment. My heart was pounding, my hands shaking as I clutched my textbooks, half-afraid that they'd be snatched away and used as kindling in a bonfire of the underprivileged.

But Josh and Isabella, my fellow scholarship students, were there to ground me, to remind me that we were here on our own merit.

The classroom door looms ahead, and I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of polished wood and old books—a perfume of potential. The nerves hit, sharp and sudden, but there's excitement too, electric under my skin.

"Here we go," I whisper, more a promise than a statement.

"Kick ass, Salem," Josh says, giving me a fist bump.

"Take notes, boys and girls," I shoot back, a smirk tugging at my lips.

The lecture hall looms—grand, imposing, a coliseum where minds clash and egos bruise. My hand wraps around the cool metal handle, and I pull. The hum of pre-class chatter wraps around me like a second skin, but it's one I shed easily. The room is packed, so, hustling in, I take the first available seat I come across.

“That was saved, but by all means, help yourself.”

My blood goes cold at the voice I hear from beside me.

Slowly, I turn, and meet eye to eye with Alec fucking Vanderholt.

Our gazes lock, brief as a bullet. His blue eyes are an ocean I've got no business swimming in—deep, dangerous, dragging you under if you're not careful. Every inch of him screams wealth and privilege. All the way from his polished shoes, to his perfectly fitted clothes, to his sharp as ice jawline, to his old-money blond hair. His family practically owns this town, and everyone knows it. He might not be the loudest or the cruelest of the rich kids, but it is well known he is by far the wealthiest.

"Ready to take notes, or just here to stare?" he asks as he looks back forward, just as the professor walks in and begins settling himself at the front of the room.

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