Chapter 3 TWO WORLDS AFTER CLASS

LUNA'S POV

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The car was waiting outside before I even stepped through the campus gate.

A sleek black Mercedes; windows tinted, engine silent, driver spotless. I slid into the back seat without a word, adjusting my cuffs as the door closed behind me with a soft click.

"Back to the estate, Miss Lennox?" the driver asked, as if the answer could ever change.

"Yes, Walter. And please text my mother that I'll be home in fifteen."

He nodded once and pulled away from the curb, leaving the chaos of the student parking lot behind.

I leaned back into the leather seat, trying to reset my mind from the study session with Ezra. He was sharper than expected. Sharper, and annoyingly grounded, like nothing I said moved him, not really.

I wasn't used to that.

By the time we passed through the mansion gates and wound up the gravel driveway, I'd returned to composure. The estate stood like a palace among trees, all white pillars and glass balconies. It was beautiful. Cold. Like a museum you weren't allowed to touch.

Inside, my mother's heels echoed faintly from the west corridor. She emerged from the drawing room holding a crystal flute of something pale.

"Darling," she said, air-kissing my cheek. "How was your first day back?"

"Fine."

She examined me, frowning slightly. "You look... tense. You haven't been speaking with that Navarro girl again, have you? She's charming but too loud."

"I was paired with someone new for a project," I said instead, brushing past her into the lounge.

She followed, perching on the edge of a settee. "Someone suitable, I hope?"

"Ezra Blake."

Her expression faltered for half a second. "That boy with the scholarship?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

"Well," she said, regaining composure, "keep your boundaries, darling. Be polite, but distant."

Right. Like always.

"Oh," she added, lifting her phone, "Marcus texted me. He's back from Atlantic early. His parents suggested a dinner next Friday to catch up. I told them you'd be delighted."

Of course she did.

I nodded slowly. "Delighted."

But something inside me soured at the thought - not of Marcus, but of having to sit through another orchestrated evening of false laughter and vintage wine, pretending this was all I ever wanted.

HOME IS A VERB

EZRA'S POV

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By the time I got to the bus stop, the sun had dipped below the school's gleaming rooftops, casting long shadows over everything that wasn't rich enough to shine.

I rode standing up. It was packed - a blur of shoulders and tired eyes and cheap perfume. My backpack tugged at my spine, the straps worn too thin to hold weight properly. I held the rail with one hand and texted Myla with the other:

"On my way. Did Nana take her meds?"

The reply came fast:

"Yeah. But she hasn't eaten much. Can u grab milk?"

I hopped off two stops early, hit the corner shop, and grabbed the cheapest carton. Two kids outside were arguing over a melted ice cream cone. I dropped a coin in their paper cup on reflex.

Home was a second-floor flat above a noisy laundromat. The hallway always smelled like detergent and damp concrete. When I opened the door, Myla looked up from the couch, her socks mismatched and her textbooks open on her knees.

"Hey," she said. "How was school?"

I dropped my bag and offered her the milk. "Fine."

Nana was in the bedroom, curled under the faded floral blanket, a heating pad on her back. She stirred when I touched her forehead.

"Zra?" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"I'm home, Nana. You're okay."

She smiled faintly before drifting off again.

Later, after I'd made toast for Myla and fixed the broken shower rod, I sat at the chipped kitchen table and opened my notebook. Pages of ideas from earlier stared back at me.

Luna Lennox's voice still echoed in my head.

Precise. Dismissive. Sharp.

I thought about how she looked at me like I was a problem to solve - a variable that didn't fit her polished equation.

But I also remembered something else. The way her fingers clenched slightly when she was flustered. How she took control like it was second nature. Like she had to. Like the world expected her to perform perfectly, all the time.

I didn't envy her.

But I didn't hate her either.

And that might've been the most dangerous thing of all.

LUNA'S POV

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Dinner was served in the sunroom.

A long white table, too big for three people. A chandelier glittered above us like a frozen crown, and the garden beyond the glass looked perfectly still - like it knew not to make a sound.

My mother sat at one end, wine glass in hand, her eyes scanning some charity report on her iPad. My father was across from me, on a call with Tokyo, his Bluetooth earpiece blinking like a second heartbeat.

I cut into the roast seabass in silence, the porcelain barely making a sound against the knife. No one asked about my day. No one ever did unless there was a press mention.

It was always like this.

Cold elegance. Quiet forks. Gold-trimmed cages.

Then I remembered something. Ezra's handwriting - sharp but a little messy, like it didn't care what people thought. The way he watched people, like he was always listening for something beneath their words.

He made me uncomfortable. But not because he was rude or crass.

Because he noticed.

And I was so used to being invisible, even in a house made of glass.

"Are you alright, darling?" my mother asked, finally glancing up.

I blinked. "Of course."

"You're very quiet tonight."

I smiled. Polished. Practiced. "Just thinking about the project."

She nodded approvingly, then turned back to her screen. "Good. Stay focused. There's so much riding on your final year."

Yes. Like a future I never chose.

I excused myself early and went upstairs to my suite. Closed the door. Kicked off my heels.

For a second, I stood barefoot in front of the mirror, peeling off the version of me everyone else expected.

Then I reached for my tablet again and opened the project draft.

Maybe I'd underestimated Ezra Blake.

Maybe I wasn't just thinking about the project

EZRA'S POV

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Myla was asleep on the couch. She always fell asleep mid-science video, wrapped up in a blanket she refused to admit was from the baby section.

I tucked it tighter around her and grabbed my notebook.

The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the counter. Nana was resting. The apartment smelled like warm tea and mildew - real things. Not like the lavender perfection Luna probably bathed in.

But here's the thing:

When Myla laughed, it was full and reckless. When Nana held my hand, it grounded me. This place wasn't glamorous, but it was real.

Still...

As I looked down at the notes Luna and I had built together earlier, I couldn't stop thinking about the flash in her eyes when I challenged her. The tightness in her jaw when I got under her skin.

She didn't even realize it, but she wore her control like armor.

And I'd seen the cracks.

Not because she let me in. But because I knew what pressure looked like - the kind that makes you smile in rooms where no one listens, the kind that wraps around your throat and calls itself legacy.

I reached for my phone.

Typed a message. Deleted it.

Typed again:

"Refined the stats section. Sending it now. Let me know what you think."

Professional. Bare. Nothing extra.

But a minute later, the reply came:

"Looks solid. I'll tweak the visuals tonight."

Then:

"Do you always take notes like that?"

I stared at the screen for a beat.

Then replied:

"Only when I'm partnered with someone who needs convincing."

The typing dots blinked. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Then finally:

"Good luck with that."

I smiled - slow, surprised.

Maybe I wasn't just thinking about the project either.