Page 7 of First Echo

“You actually live here?” she asked in disbelief, her eyes scanning the gold accents on the picture frames and the pristine white marble floors.

“Never seen a real house before, have you?” I shot back, arching an eyebrow.

Then Brooke said something I definitely didn’t expect. Her whole demeanor shifted, and she straightened, looking me right in the eye. Her posture turned more confident, and the annoyance in her gaze became something else entirely—almost challenging.

“Do you always have to be such an insufferable bitch?” She sounded amused, but there was an undercurrent of real frustration.

I blinked, surprised and… oddly impressed. Sothiswas the real Brooke? The one who wasn’t too scared to talk back to me? Or was it an act, some last-ditch attempt to convince me that she didn’t care what I thought?

Either way, she was right. I usuallyaman insufferable bitch. That’s just how I’ve learned to handle people, especially people who think they can stand on the same level as me.

“Sorry, just can’t seem to help it,” I said with a dramatic shrug, raising my hands in a mock surrender. My voice dripped with sarcasm, and I turned back around, doing my best not to let Brooke see the small grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. In a weird way, it was almost… refreshing to have someone stand up to me. “Must be a genetic trait,” I added under my breath, thinking of Julian’s own sharp tongue.

She let out a short laugh, rolling her eyes, but she looked genuinely irritated. Her eyebrows drew together, and for a second, I thought she might just drop her bags and leave. But she exhaled, letting that tension pass, and followed me in silence toward my bedroom. The hallway seemed longer than usual. Maybe it was the awkwardness stretching it out, or maybe the strange vibe between us made every step feel loaded with some new tension.

Finally, we reached my door. I pushed it open and stepped inside, my sanctuary—except it didn’t feel so private anymore. The walls were decorated with minimalistic art my parents had picked out, but in one corner, I had my secret stash of my own sketches piled next to the desk. I quickly glanced that way, hoping none of the pages were out in plain sight.

Isat down on my bedbefore she could say anything, crossing my legs so I could watch her with a slight smirk. She lingeredby the doorway, still taking it all in, and I found myself curious about the thoughts racing behind those inquisitive eyes. Did she see something here that intrigued her? Did it match whatever expectations she had about my life?

Icouldn’t read her entirely,but I could see she was annoyed. Her jaw tightened a little, and she set her bag down with more force than necessary, as if she were trying to keep her temper in check. An uncomfortable silence settled between us, almost tangible.

Even so, part of me couldn’t ignore how alive I suddenly felt with her standing here, in my space, confronting me.That restlessnessI’d been wrestling with all day was gone, replaced by a different kind of tension, one that I didn’t know whether to fight or welcome. I tried to bury the thought that maybe I liked the spark of challenge in her eyes. I reminded myself that I was Madeline Hayes—I got what I wanted, I was in control. No matter what this tutoring session brought, I refused to let Brooke Winters see me as anything less than the confident, untouchable person I was supposed to be.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BROOKE

Art? Madeline Hayes likes art? I never would have guessed in a million years that the queen of our cheer squad had a serious artistic side, let alone such a bold and surprising talent. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pieces hanging on her bedroom walls. The drawings, the paintings, each one signed withM.G. Hayesin a neat little flourish at the corner. Every image drew me in—wild colors blending in a hazy skyline, a portrait of a woman’s face highlighted in smoky charcoal, surreal plants twisting around each other in breathtaking detail. They were actuallygood,not some mediocre attempt. It looked professional, like maybe she could hang them in a gallery someday if she wanted to.

For a moment, I felt like I was standing in a different world, somewhere far from the typical school dramas or my own relentless studying. Maybe I didn’t know the real Madeline Hayes after all. The thought unsettled me. She was already so confusing—arrogant, popular, guarded, and yet somehow more complicated than I ever imagined.Did I even want to figure her out?I honestly wasn’t sure.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, excitement clear in her voice. Her eyes were bright, almost like she was a little kid waiting to hear my reaction, which felt oddly vulnerable for her.

“It’s not at all what I expected,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though I was still in awe of the colorful chaos surrounding me. “I didn’t exactly peg you for the artist type.”

“Most people don’t,” she replied with a small shrug. “I’m not just all looks, you know. I have other interests besides cheerleading.”

There was something about the way she said it. Her tone was open and genuine rather than defensive or sarcastic. It struck me that maybe she was used to people assuming she had no depth. Maybe shehatedthat people only saw the pretty, popular side of her—and then she turned around and presented herself in a way that only reinforced that stereotype. The contradiction left me strangely breathless, like I was seeing a side of her I’d never expected to witness.

I didn’t know how to react to such honesty. My brain spun, searching for some appropriate response, but everything felt clumsy. I’d never been great at dealing with people, anyway. I was more comfortable buried in my books, or lost in my own solitary routines.Which is probably why I don’t have any friends,I thought wryly.

“Ahem… let’s, uhm… start with chemistry,” I mumbled awkwardly, struggling to shift the conversation.

She nodded, but her eyes lingered on me, like she was curious about whether I was genuinely impressed or just pretending. The intensity in her gaze made my stomach do a funny little flip.

I cleared my throat again and sat down beside her on the bed, opening the thick chemistry textbook already splayed out on the rumpled blankets. The mattress dipped a little under my weight, and the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and sweet—wrapped around me, making it hard to focus on the words in front of me. I took a slow, calming breath.

About five minutes into my explanation,I noticed Madeline wasn’t even looking at the book. She was staring at me, not justcasually, but with her eyebrows slightly furrowed, as if trying to decode something mysterious.

“What?” I asked, confused, letting the sentence I’d been reading trail off.

“Is studying all you ever do?” she said, half-incredulous.

“Wha—why? What do you mean?”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Her lips curled into a teasing smirk, and she leaned back, crossing her arms lightly. “Are you locked in your room all day?”

“No, I am not,” I said, trying to keep a firm tone. “I’m just good at studying. Unlike you, apparently, which is why we should continue.”

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