Everyone stared after her, stunned, as she walked away. Beautiful. Bold. Unbothered. And by that evening, the campus forum had a brand new trending topic:

  "If you had to choose between Clarissa and Lyra, who would it be?"

  > "Is that even a question? Clarissa. No competition."

  > "She's untouchable. The way she walks, talks—queen energy."

  > "She doesn’t beg, doesn’t chase. I’m in love."

  Somehow, the narrative of Clarissa being the jilted, bitter woman had vanished from the forum overnight—like it had never even existed.

  Clarissa's cheek was still burning from that slap. Her skin was delicate—anything more than a brush would leave a mark, and June had clawed her. Now, her face was a little swollen, with a faint scratch blooming red against her pale skin.

  She splashed cold water on it in the bathroom and didn't fuss. Some ice at home, and she'd be fine by morning.

  When lunchtime came around, she opened her bag and cursed under her breath—she’d forgotten her lunchbox. Typical. Just one more thing going wrong today.

  She sighed, gathering her things and preparing to hit the convenience store when someone called out from behind.

  "Clarissa! Your brother’s here to see you!"

  “…My brother?”

  Clarissa blinked, confused for a second. Then realization dawned, and she practically ran out into the hall.

  Sure enough, standing there not far from the door, was Atticus.

  Atticus stood quietly under the soft sunlight, dressed in a plain black T-shirt. The breeze tousled his dark hair, brushing gently across his beautifully sculpted face, a contrast to the sharpness in his eyes.

  People began to gather around him, stealing glances. But the boy remained untouched, as if the world around him didn’t exist. His gaze was distant, his presence self-contained, like he was suspended somewhere between time and thought.

  Clarissa spotted him from across the courtyard and quickened her pace. Even with all the chaos lately, she hadn’t stopped worrying about him. A boy so young, yet already cloaked in such silence—it wasn’t natural.

  She'd taken him for a full-body checkup the last time they went to the clinic, just to be safe. Physical? Perfectly healthy. Intelligence? Sky-high IQ. The only note? Slight developmental delay—nothing critical. Still, that had been enough to ease her heart a little.

  “Atticus?” she called out softly. “What are you doing here?”

  He turned to face her, voice cool and flat. “You forgot your lunch box. Auntie asked me to bring it to you.”

  “And school? Why didn’t you go?”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “There was an incident. We got the day off.”

  Clarissa raised a brow but didn’t press further. “Thanks. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No. I brought two. Auntie said to eat with you.”

  She let out a breath, both amused and helpless. “Alright then. Let’s eat.”

  She reached to take the bag, but Atticus moved it just out of reach. Before she could question him, he set it down and pulled out a small medical kit—alcohol swabs, an ice pack, and a Band-Aid.

  “Sit,” he said calmly, tugging her by the hand toward the nearby bench.

  Clarissa blinked. The scratch on her face wasn’t serious—it would scab and disappear in a couple of days. But Atticus treated it like surgery prep.

  The sting of the alcohol made her flinch. His face was so close she could feel his breath against her cheek—light, warm, distracting. She found herself momentarily dazed, her gaze caught in the soft flutter of his lashes.

  “You saw everything earlier, didn’t you?” she murmured.

  That meant he’d arrived during the fourth class... bought the alcohol and ice just for her. Her chest tightened, unexpectedly touched.

  Atticus gave a small nod. “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. I almost forgot it was even there.”

  But he didn’t respond. When he smoothed the Band-Aid over the scratch, he pressed down a little too hard.

  “Ow! Seriously?” she gasped, hissing through her teeth. “That hurt, you little devil!”

  Before she could swat at him, Atticus calmly pressed the cold pack against her cheek.

  “Hold this for ten minutes. The swelling’ll be gone by afternoon.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know,” she grumbled.

  She watched as he turned around, opened the bag again, and started setting out the lunch boxes. She opened her mouth to say something… then closed it again.

  He’s still a kid. Let it go. The two of them ate together quietly, side by side on the bench. Neither spoke, but there was a comfortable stillness between them.

  When they were done, Atticus stood and started packing up the boxes. “I’m going home. Auntie wanted me to ask what you want for dinner.”

  “Nothing special.”

  Atticus gave a short nod and turned away. On his way out, he ran into June. She was just ending a call, had been comforting Lyra, who had cried herself breathless on the other end.

  June spun around and bumped right into Atticus. They both staggered slightly.

  “Ugh—watch where you're going, you little punk!” she snapped, her bad mood boiling over instantly.

  Then her eyes locked on him. And she froze. His face—god, that face. It was stunning. Striking. More beautiful than Dorian or even William. There was something unearthly about him, like he didn’t quite belong in this world.

  “Oh… um, sorry about that,” she stammered, her tone flipping from venom to honey. She even smiled. “Didn’t see you there…”

  But her words trailed off when she met his eyes—flat, cold, merciless.

  Atticus didn’t say a word. He just stared at her for one long, and then… looked away, like she wasn’t even worth the effort.

  He brushed past her without a word. June stood frozen, her forced smile wilting.

  By the time Clarissa removed the ice pack, the swelling on her cheek had gone down significantly. Only a faint red mark remained, barely noticeable unless you looked closely.

  Just then, a soft knock came at her door.

  "Come in," she called, still seated in front of the mirror.

  Atticus stepped inside, carrying a small medicine box. His dark eyes flicked to her reflection, then to her cheek. He walked over and placed the box gently on her vanity.

  "Let me clean the wound again," he said, voice low and careful.

  As he began sorting the contents, his gaze fell on her makeup remover sitting on the table. His brows immediately furrowed. "You have a cut on your face. Don’t wear makeup for the next few days."

  Clarissa smirked slightly, amused by his seriousness. "Aw, are you worried about me?"

  She tilted her head, teasing. “Relax. I know. But without my brows drawn in, I look a little strange.”

  Atticus gave her a quick once-over and, without missing a beat, said, "You look good."

  "Huh?" Clarissa blinked.

  "You look good like this," he repeated, simply.

  Clarissa’s breath caught for a second. In the original storyline, Atticus never praised anyone. Ever. Not even in passing. Sure enough—cold little monsters were always the softest when they were still young.

  A warm, genuine smile tugged at her lips. “No one's prettier than you, though,” she quipped, eyes glinting. “But hey, I have a party tomorrow. I’ve gotta dress up a bit. Wanna come with me?”

  Atticus didn’t even hesitate. “No. I have things to do.”