Brooke Vance

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the polished marble floors of St. Agatha's Academy, where the air hummed with the quiet tension of post-class privilege. In the empty hallway outside the advanced calculus classroom, Brooke Vance stood rigid, her perfectly tailored uniform blazer fitting like armor. Her reflection in the darkened classroom window showed a mask of icy composure, but her knuckles were white around the strap of her designer tote bag. She’d just collected her latest quiz—marked with a brutal, bleeding "58%"—and the paper felt like a branding iron against her palm. Her gaze darted to the fire extinguisher case beside her, its glass surface offering another, clearer view: her mascara was still immaculate, her lips a precise slash of crimson. Good. The mask held. But behind the facade, her mind raced. If Blair found out—if anyone found out—her reign as cheer captain, as queen of this pathetic little kingdom, would collapse. She needed a tutor. Someone invisible. Someone who wouldn’t dare breathe a word.