intrepidity

Aurora had never hated a class before.

Sure, she had subjects she didn't particularly enjoy—math could be a nightmare, and sometimes English made her overthink every word on the page—but she had never dreaded stepping into a classroom the way she did now.

Miss Holloway made sure of that.

It had started small. A comment here, a sharp glance there. Little things that could be passed off as strict teaching. But then it escalated.

Aurora would raise her hand, only to be ignored. She'd answer a question, and the teacher would hum in disapproval before moving on like she hadn't spoken. Her homework, once marked fairly, was suddenly littered with red ink, comments that made her stomach twist—Could do better. Didn't try hard enough. Sloppy work.

And then there were the public humiliations.

Spanish had never been her best subject, but Miss Holloway had a way of making it feel impossible.

"Aurora," Miss Holloway said sweetly one afternoon, making her look up warily. "Since you clearly have so much time to whisper with your little friend, why don't you answer this?"

She gestured to the board.

The sentence was long and complicated, filled with words Aurora had barely gone over.

Her mouth felt dry.

"I—I don't know."

Miss Holloway tutted, shaking her head in disappointment. "I expected better. I suppose being a Valenti means you don't have to try, does it?"

The class went silent.

Jude's grip on her pencil tightened. Riley looked about two seconds away from committing a crime.

Aurora, on the other hand, just curled in on herself, cheeks burning.

And Anne, because of course she had to be involved, snickered from her seat. "Guess money can't buy brains, huh?"

Aurora bit the inside of her cheek, keeping her head down as Miss Holloway moved on.

The rest of the class dragged on, each second feeling heavier than the last.

By the time the bell rang, Aurora was already stuffing her books into her bag, desperate to leave.

She was barely out of her seat when a familiar voice called out from the doorway.

"Rory."

Antonio.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual scowl in place.

He had come to walk her to lunch like he always did when he had a free period, but the second his sharp gaze landed on her, something shifted.

Aurora knew she wasn't that obvious. She had made sure of it.

But Antonio was perceptive in his own way—he noticed things people didn't think he would.

His brows furrowed as his eyes flicked from her tense posture to the teacher standing at her desk.

Miss Holloway barely spared him a glance before muttering, "Valenti."

Antonio's jaw ticked.

He didn't like the way she said their name.

Didn't like the way Aurora was avoiding his eyes, clutching her bag like it was the only thing keeping her standing.

Didn't like any of this.