They don't play to win. They play to hurt.
Sterling Academy's irresistible reputation all came crashing down last year when a list of the 'top thirty girls too...' had been anonymously published.
Now recovering from the pits of hell the media dragge...
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right we're you left me | taylor swift ❝ everybody moved on, i,i stayed there ❞
I DON'T REMEMBER much after Valé's call. Just that I somehow ended up in the living room, my hands shaking as my legs were stuck to the floorboards paralysed in fear.
Mr Cathans was smiling softly as he and mom flipped through photo albums — he hasn't really smiled in a while, not like this anyway so I felt shit having to break the news.
The warm air blowing through the air conditioning swept me up in a daze that left me elevated. "Nadia," Mom looked up at me in concern when she realised I wasn't smiling — rather contrasting as I batted away at unshed tears. "What's wrong?"
"Luca. He was in the fire." The smile works its way off Mr Cathans's face and his eyes fall on to me. "The school's auditorium they said no one was in there, but—" I feel like a robot, reciting back the words Valé had said. "They found a body and it's Luca's."
"No."
Mom makes a sound at the back of her throat and if I described myself paralysed in fear before then there are no words to describe how Mr Cathans seems to be now.
All the colours drained from his face as he stared up at me. "Caleb's already there with Atlas." I add, hoping he realises his son isn't alone, despite his condition.
That's pretty much all I remember if I'm being completely honest.
Which leads us to now, paparazzi induced at the front of the hospital. I don't know how they found out, how they knew which hospital he's in, but it doesn't really matter anymore. The damage is done.
"Mr Cathans, what exactly happened for your son to be admitted?"
"Will he be alright?"
"How serious are his injuries?"
"Will your girlfriend be here as well despite the ongoing speculations?"
"You!" The cameras point to me, and I shield myself using the back of my palm from the momentarily blinding flashes as Mom and Mr Cathans's disappear into the ongoing trance. "My daughter loves the new prints that you're mother has dropped!" He calls out.
"Thank you," I mutter, trying not to lose my balance as I eye the rocky footpath leading up to the double doors of the hospital. I've never had to deal with this kind of attention.
I only ever sat at the front of the fashion shows that use Mom's materials and watched the models walk.
"Who is she?" Another unfamiliar voice calls out, now directing away from Mr Cathans and Mom to me.
The one that said the compliment rattles off my name, the fact Dad's dead and the names of the textiles company that the Baelene's have inherited.
Finally, drinking up the laid—out information, one of the other men calls out to me invading my personal space as the camera pushes past the rest. "What do you make of the speculations?"
