2. Vogue

When I steponto Crestmont's campus, the sun is already high in the sky. Students swarm around me, their laughter and chatter a living, breathing mass of ambition and privilege. And then there's me: a mass of nerves and funded education. Awesome.

My grip tightens on the strap of my bag, knuckles whitening.

Here goes nothing.

I weave through the crowd, my eyes taking in the grand buildings that tower around in old-world grandeur, ivy-clad walls, and spires galore. It's a stunning spectacle and a world away from the 1970s blocks of Westfield University, where I did my Bachelor's degree. Cool shade offers a brief respite from the warm sun as I pass under stone archways, but it's the heat of opportunity that really makes my skin tingle.

"Watch it!" A guy with a skateboard nearly crashes into me, but I sidestep just in time. My heart doesn't even skip a beat. Growing up where I did, you learn to move quickly or get hit—by life, by chance, by skateboards.

"Sorry," he calls over his shoulder, with a set of manners I wasn't expecting after his rude initial outburst. I don't bother replying. I've got bigger things to focus on.

Like right now.

This lecture hall is enormous, swallowing students like we're nothing more than a morning snack. I slip inside, letting the cool air wrap around me for a second before scanning for a seat.

Back row, near an exit. Perfect. Nice and elusive. I make a beeline for it, darting past a group of older students who have come back to University for their post-grad. Most of us are in the region of twenty-three, twenty-four, fresh from under-grad and raring to go. Dropping into the chair like its home base, I pull out my notebook, and pen. I'm old school and proud of it.

I lean back, taking a moment to soak it all in. The hum of conversation fades as I zone in on the task ahead.

Learn everything. Miss nothing.

Easy.

A hush blankets the room as the professor strides in, the thud of his shoes against the floor echoing. He's all sharp angles and sharper eyes that sweep over us like we're equations he's already solved. Professor Harrow. I've heard whispers about him—how his exams leave the smartest kids crying, how he doesn't sugar coat the bitter pill of truth.

It's a challenge I'm more than up for, and I intend to show Hardass Harrow that I'm not afraid of him.

"Welcome to Advanced Business Strategy," he announces, voice clear and carrying without even trying. His gaze pins me for a second, and I sit up straighter, scribbling notes before he even starts teaching. I'm here to learn, not to make friends, but making a good impression on him is top of my list.

As the lecture progresses, I jot down everything. Harrow's words are gold, each sentence another step toward where I want to be. Top of the class. Top of the game. The life my mum worked her fingers to the bone for, starts with acing this.

When the lecture ends, there's a sense of relief that buzzes through the air. Students stretch, chat, laugh. I have a momentary pang that I'm not part of it, but push it aside. I pack my things slowly, watching them from the corner of my eye.

Suddenly, a girl approaches me with a friendly smile, her hair a riot of blonde curls. "I'm Jess."

"Vogue," I reply.

"As in the mag?"

"Sadly, no. More like my mum was a crazed Madonna fan. Strike a pose, and all that."

Jess snickers. "I fucking love that. Your mum sounds epic."

Beaming with pride, I nod. "She kinda is."

"You didn't go here before, did you?"

"No, I was at Westfield."

She scrunches up her nose, clearly never having heard of it. Not that I'm surprised.

"About a hundred miles north of here."

"Ah, okay," she says knowingly, nodding her head. "Sorry, I'm a local."

Also, not surprising. She screams old money, stately home, second country house, and pony-riding privilege. Not that I'm bitter or judging her. She is a gem, friendly and including me.

"Don't let this place intimidate you." She gathers her stuff, too, and I notice others joining in our little circle. "Not that I mean that in a mean way. But there are people here who are… less than pleasant when it comes to outsiders."

"Every place has its shadows," I say with a shrug, thinking about the guys from last night. "Just different alleyways to navigate." My reply earns a few thoughtful nods. They have no idea how true that is.

"Let's grab coffee sometime," Jess suggests.

"Sure," I agree with a nod. "Sounds fun."

We exchange numbers, tapping into each other's phones, and I make a mental note of the names and faces around me, as she quickly shoots out introductions. Allies or obstacles, time will tell. But every piece of information is currency, and I plan to be rich—in knowledge, in connections, in whatever this place has to offer. Something tells me Jess is going to be a good woman to have around.

"See you around, Vogue," Jess calls as we part ways.

"See you," I echo, slipping my phone back into my bag.

Connections were made, and the professor was impressed. I hope it's an excellent start to the day. One class down, countless more to go, but I'll be ready, studying until the words blur together, fighting for every inch of this new world I'm claiming.

I slip out of the lecture hall, my stomach reminding me it's time for the breakfast I skipped earlier because of nerves. The campus buzzes with energy, everyone eager to carve out their place here. I'm no different. I weave through the crowd, searching for a slice of solitude.

There is a bench tucked away under the shade of an old oak, like it's been waiting just for me. I settle in, unpacking my lunch I made up yesterday. I can't afford the on-campus café, but this is just fine with me. As I take a bite, I let myself soak in the quiet, just for a moment.

Eating alone gives me time to think. Mum would be proud to see me here munching on a packed lunch instead of blowing cash on overpriced campus food. It's because of her that I'm sitting here at all. Her sacrifices made this possible. Pride swells in my chest, mixed with fierce gratitude that stings my eyes. Blinking back the threat of tears, I focus on chewing.

With my early lunch done, I'm up again, ready to stalk the grounds like I belong here—which I do, even if I need to remind myself of that fact every so often.

I shuffle through the crowd of students spilling into the hallways and keep my head down, navigating the sea of bodies to find my next lecture. I try to do it without looking at the campus map Admissions sent me with my timetables and other paperwork when I was accepted.

I weave through groups of students, catching snippets of conversation about parties and who hooked up with whom. The drama doesn't interest me; I'm here to learn.

Glancing up from the sea of bodies, my gaze latches onto something—or rather someone—unexpectedly interesting. There's a guy shrouded in mystery; he's talking to one of the faculty members in a hushed voice, his expression unreadable but intense. The professor is nodding along, slipping something small into his pocket like it's nothing, but I can tell it's definitely something.

The student turns his head, and I see it's one of those guys from last night—the one who was holding Jones so Quentin could hit him.

I gulp as his eyes skate over me, lingering for a bit too long, and I make a show of looking casually away as if he doesn't interest me.

But my curiosity is pinging again and by their own force, my eyes shoot back to him, but there is just an empty space where he was standing.

"Who are you people?" I murmur before someone bumps into me from behind as he talks away on his phone, and I move forward again, ever swimming upstream, mysterious boys forgotten.