Mr. Brown, servile and blind to my pain, didn’t even glance at my mangled fingers. I forced myself to look up at him through the haze of agony.

"They were clearly bullying me, yet you accuse me of causing trouble. Are you blind?"

His face stiffened for a moment, but then he recovered with shameless ease.

"Maxwell was simply correcting your arrogance—teaching you how to behave. That’s not bullying."

The way he turned to Maxwell after speaking, eyes gleaming with flattery, made my stomach churn.

"Maxwell, am I right?"

Maxwell snorted.

Colette crossed her arms, her voice dripping with condescension.

"Mr. Brown’s right. Everyone here can vouch for it—Maxwell was just helping Clara learn her place."

Her hangers-on jumped in instantly.

"Yeah, it’s for her own good. Who told her to be so shameless, wearing whatever another guy gives her?"

"Everyone knows Clara chased Maxwell first. He only agreed to date her out of pity."

"Honestly, she’s never been good enough for him—then she goes and flirts with someone else?"

Maxwell folded his arms, looking at me like a judge passing sentence.

"You hear that? Everyone thinks you’re not worthy. Kneel down, apologize, promise to be loyal, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll forgive you."

I had no idea why he thought the necklace came from another man. But in that moment, I knew one thing for certain—there was no future between us.

"Dream on," I said coldly. "Break up. I don’t date men who live off gossip."

I turned away from him, cradling my throbbing hand as I gathered the ashes from the cracked pavement into a small porcelain vial.

Silence fell over the field. Then came the whispers:

"No way… did Maxwell just get dumped?"

"She’s insane. With her background, how could she dump him?"

"Maxwell—the proud, untouchable golden boy—dumped by her?"

The murmurs sliced through his pride like blades. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing on the vial in my hands.

He strode forward and kicked it.

The force knocked me off balance, sending me sprawling onto the concrete. The vial shattered with a hollow crack, scattering the ashes I’d fought to save.

A gust of wind swept them up—gone, just like that.

"Dad… Dad…" My voice broke as I scrambled to catch them, heedless of the glass shards biting into my skin. My blood smeared the ground, but my fingers closed on nothing.

Maxwell’s voice was a whip.

"You’re breaking up with me over garbage like this? You need to be taught a lesson."

Something inside me snapped. My vision went red.

"You bastard!" I lunged, my hands clamping around his throat. We crashed to the ground. His face turned blotchy, his coughs choked and harsh.

"What are you standing there for? Get this crazy woman off me!" he rasped.

Colette’s shrill voice cut through the air.

"Pull her off him!"

Two male students wrenched my arms back.

Mr. Brown stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face.

"Student Clara Vale! Look at you—do you have any shame left?"

"If anything happens to Sir Maxwell, you’ll be expelled," Mr. Brown barked, backing away as if my fury might splash onto him. "And don’t think for a second you can drag your homeroom teacher into this mess!"

Freed from my grip, Maxwell closed in with slow, deliberate steps, his shadow stretching over me like a threat.

"Clara," he said coldly, "you’ve completely lost your mind."

His finger stabbed the air in my direction. "Tell me—which man gave you that necklace? You’d fight me for that?"

Colette glided up to him, her voice syrupy sweet. "Maxwell, let me show you something."

She unlocked her phone, swiped a few times, then held the screen out to him like she was handing him a loaded weapon. His eyes flicked down—and his face drained of color before hardening into rage.

He thrust the phone toward me so close I could see my own reflection in the glass.

"Dorian? He gave it to you?"

Dorian Keats—my neighbor’s older brother, my father’s colleague, five years my senior. The photo showed him passing me a small urn—the last of my father’s ashes—and resting a steadying hand on my head.

I opened my mouth, but Maxwell didn’t give me the chance.

"No wonder you ignored me all summer—you were with him."

He scoffed. "So you traded yourself for a necklace worth a few hundred? Tell me—how many times did you sleep with him for it?"

The fury that ripped through me left no room for thought. My hand connected with his face in a whipcrack slap that rang out across the empty field.

"Maxwell, you bastard! That necklace holds my father’s ashes!"

Colette laughed—a sharp, ugly sound.

"Your father a dwarf? That’s all there is?"

"Clara, you’re pathetic. Lying through your teeth just to cover for Dorian."

Her smirk barely had time to fade before my second slap snapped her head to the side.

"Don’t you dare insult my father."

She stumbled into Maxwell’s arms, playing the victim to perfection.

"Maxwell, I just told the truth and she hit me!"

His face went dark. "Put her on the ground."

Two boys grabbed my arms. A swift kick slammed into my knee, forcing me down hard. The crack of bone against concrete made my vision swim. Cold sweat beaded at my temples.

Maxwell pointed down at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

"Apologize to Colette—or I won’t be so gentle."

Colette stepped forward, brushing her hair back in a mockery of elegance. She lifted her foot, displaying her diamond-studded sandal.

"Forget the apology. These diamonds are dusty. Lick them clean."

Laughter burst from the crowd—sharp, mean, hungry.

Maxwell tilted his head, a smile ghosting his lips.

"You heard her. Lick them."

Even Mr. Brown joined in, his tone oily.

"Clara, she’s being generous. And I saw you hit her first."

I gave a short, humorless laugh. Generous?

My gaze swept over every face, lingering just long enough to make them flinch.

Then I spat—deliberate and hard—onto Colette’s jeweled shoe.

“You insult my father, and I’m the one who should apologize?”

My voice was cold enough to frost glass.

“You want me to lick your shoes? You couldn’t buy the right to have me touch the dirt on them.”

Colette let out a shrill scream. A couple of eager boys rushed over and dropped to their knees, frantically polishing her shoes as if that would earn them points.

But her cheeks flushed crimson, rage bubbling so hot it nearly cracked her sweet “green tea” mask.

Then her eyes flicked to Maxwell. In an instant, she shoved her would-be shoe shiner away and stepped forward, tears glimmering on cue.

"Maxwell, you see? Clara doesn’t even respect you. She won’t obey you at all!"

Maxwell’s expression iced over.

"Bring me a rope."

They bound my wrists tight and fastened the knot to the back of his limited-edition Harley-Davidson. He slipped into a full racing suit, took a helmet from one of his lackeys, and strolled toward me with deliberate menace.

"You know what I’m going to do," he said. "All you have to do is admit you were wrong. If you stay stubborn… I’ll just keep going faster."

By now, students had streamed out of the cafeteria, the playground buzzing with curiosity. As soon as they saw what he intended, the crowd parted instinctively, leaving a wide ring.

Only Colette minced forward in her high heels and rested a manicured hand on his shoulder.

"Max, take me with you. I’ve never ridden your bike since you bought it."

He glanced at me, waiting for a reaction I refused to give. Then, with an indulgent smile, he brushed the tip of her nose.

"Of course. Go change."

Minutes later she reappeared, clinging to him from the back seat, arms wrapped tight around his waist.

The Harley roared to life beneath them, the engine’s guttural growl vibrating through the air. The rope bit into my wrists. If he gunned the throttle, I’d be dragged across the asphalt like a carcass. Skin would shred. Bones might break. I might not survive.

But then I thought of my father’s ashes—how this man might scatter them—and I knew I’d despise myself forever if I bowed my head to him.

Maxwell turned, his voice mocking.

"Better shout your apology loud enough for me to hear it!"

The throttle twisted. The bike lurched forward. My body jerked violently, feet scrambling to keep up. A second later, my legs failed me, and I hit the ground hard.

The world blurred. My arms, waist, and cheek tore open against the rough concrete, blood smearing in my wake.

"Stop!"

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom sedan burst through the school gates, tires screaming. It slammed into the Harley’s path, forcing Maxwell into a hard stop.

Helmet off, he stared, stunned, at the man stepping out of the official car—Grant Thompson, commander in a green military uniform, flanked by two crisp young officers.