Chapter 5

Linnet's POV

The cafeteria lunch line was a daily humiliation I'd learned to endure with practiced indifference. I kept my eyes fixed on the scratched metal counter as I slid my free lunch voucher across to Mrs. Henderson, the cafeteria lady whose tired smile never quite reached her eyes. She'd been handing me these vouchers since freshman year, and by now we'd perfected a silent routine—no unnecessary words, no pitying looks, just a quick exchange that let me grab my tray and disappear before too many people noticed.

But today, apparently, the universe had other plans.

"Oh my God, Charity Case!" Sofia's voice sliced through the cafeteria din like a knife, deliberately loud and dripping with false sweetness. "What's on today's poverty menu? Let me guess—another one of those sandwiches that smell like cardboard?"

I didn't turn around. Didn't need to. I could picture the scene perfectly: Sofia Brooks in her designer clothes and flawless makeup, flanked by two of her cheerleader minions, all three of them looking at me like I was some kind of zoo exhibit. The nickname "Charity Case" had stuck to me since sophomore year, when someone had spotted me using food stamps at the grocery store. In a school where most kids drove BMWs their parents bought them for their sixteenth birthdays, being poor wasn't just unfortunate—it was a social death sentence.

My fingers tightened around the edges of the tray until my knuckles went white. The sandwich—turkey and cheese on wheat bread, the same thing they served every Tuesday—sat there looking exactly as unappetizing as Sofia had described. I forced myself to breathe slowly through my nose, maintaining the blank expression I'd perfected over years of enduring this particular brand of cruelty.

Around us, I could feel other students turning to watch. Some looked uncomfortable, others amused. A few were already pulling out their phones, no doubt ready to capture whatever drama was about to unfold for the anonymous gossip forum "The Pellan Voice" that seemed to feed on moments like these.

"I mean, seriously," Sofia continued, her voice climbing higher with theatrical concern, "how do you even survive on that stuff? Don't they know growing teenagers need actual nutrition?" Her friends giggled on cue, the sound grating against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

I kept my gaze locked straight ahead, focusing on the exit at the far end of the cafeteria. Just grab the tray. Walk away. Don't engage. Don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I'd learned that lesson the hard way—any response, any sign that her words had landed, would only encourage her to dig deeper. Sofia Brooks thrived on attention the way plants thrived on sunlight, and I refused to be her fertilizer.

But then a different voice cut through the air, deeper and edged with irritation. "Sofia, that's enough."

I didn't mean to look up, but my eyes betrayed me, flicking toward the source of the interruption. Bryson Doyle stood a few feet behind Sofia, his jaw tight and his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and exhaustion. He had changed into a clean grey St. Pellan football t-shirt... hair slightly damp from a post-practice shower. Even from here, I could see the way his teammates lingered behind him, watching the scene with varying degrees of interest.

Sofia's entire demeanor transformed in an instant, her sharp edges melting into something softer, more calculated. She turned toward Bryson with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, her voice dropping into a tone that probably worked on most guys. "Bryson! I was just checking on our classmate here. Making sure she's getting enough to eat." She reached out to touch his arm, her fingers trailing along his bicep in a gesture that was clearly meant to look casual but came across as desperate.

Bryson pulled his arm away, the movement subtle but definitive. "I'm sure she's fine. Leave her alone."

"But Bryson—" Sofia stepped closer to him, practically pressing herself against his side. "We should sit together at lunch. Like we used to. Remember how much fun we had?" Her hand found his arm again, and this time she held on, her body language screaming possession despite the fact that everyone in school knew they'd broken up three weeks ago.

"Sofia." His voice was firmer now, with an edge of warning that made her blink. "We're done. I've told you that. Multiple times."

"You don't mean that." She was practically pouting now, her perfectly glossed lower lip pushing out in what I assumed was supposed to be an attractive expression of hurt. "We were so good together. Everyone said so."

I watched this pathetic display with a mixture of disgust and fascination. This was the world Sofia inhabited—one where relationships were performances, where "everyone said so" carried more weight than actual feelings, where a breakup wasn't real until it looked right on Instagram. It was exhausting just to witness, and I wanted absolutely no part of it.

While Bryson tried to extricate himself from Sofia's grip, I made my move. I picked up my tray with steady hands and turned away from the whole scene, heading toward my usual spot in the far corner of the cafeteria. I didn't say thank you. Didn't acknowledge Bryson's intervention at all. Because here's the thing I'd learned about people like him: they didn't do things out of genuine kindness. They did things because it made them feel good about themselves, because it reinforced their image as the golden boy who stood up for the underdog.

I didn't need his charity any more than I needed Sofia's cruelty.

Behind me, I heard Sofia's voice rise in pitch. "See? She didn't even thank you! That's what you get for helping people like her. They don't even have basic manners."

I kept walking, my spine straight and my face carefully neutral, even as her words burrowed under my skin. People like her. As if poverty was a character flaw, as if struggling to survive somehow made me less deserving of basic human decency.

I was almost to my table when I heard footsteps behind me—quick, purposeful strides that I knew instinctively weren't going to pass me by. I set my tray down and had barely settled into my seat when a shadow fell across the table.

"Mind if I sit?"

I didn't look up. "Yes, actually. I do mind."