Escaping The Grasp Of My Billionaire

Dawn clutched her heavy canvas tote bag tightly against her chest, using it as a physical shield as she practically sprinted out of the classroom.

The hallway of St. Jude's was a chaotic river of privileged teenagers. Students were rushing to their next periods, loudly discussing weekend plans in Aspen or complaining about their personal tutors. Dawn kept her head down, her chin tucked into the collar of her uniform blouse. She hugged the cold, tiled wall, trying to blend into the plaster, moving as quickly as her legs could carry her toward the library.

As she approached the intersection of the main corridor, where the long rows of metal lockers created a blind corner, she suddenly froze.

Her worn sneakers squeaked slightly against the linoleum floor as she abruptly halted her momentum.

Coming from the other side of the locker bay, completely hidden from her view, was a burst of loud, raucous male laughter. It was a sound she recognized instantly. It was the booming, obnoxious laugh of Freddie Dotson, Arlo's shadow and best friend.

Panic flared in Dawn's chest. If Freddie was there, Arlo was there.

Instinct took over. Dawn took a quick step backward, pressing her back flat against the cold metal of the last locker in the row. She held her breath, making herself as thin and invisible as possible. The metal lockers acted as a perfect visual barrier, but the acoustics of the hallway amplified every word spoken on the other side.

She stood there, trapped, forced to listen to the conversation happening just a few feet away.

"So, Arlo," Jonie Good, another guy from their wealthy clique, asked. His voice dripped with the kind of sleazy curiosity teenage boys used when discussing girls. "I've noticed you looking toward the front of the class a lot lately in Calc. Are you finally noticing the quiet little charity case? What's her name? Dawn?"

Jonie chuckled, a nasty sound. "I mean, she's always sitting by the window, doing those extra credit problems like her life depends on it. Kinda weird, but I guess she has a certain... tragic appeal."

Dawn's heart leaped into her throat. It felt like a physical object blocking her airway. Her eyes widened in terror. She hugged her books tighter, her fingernails digging so hard into the hardback cover of her calculus book that they threatened to snap.

The air in the hallway seemed to turn to lead. The silence that followed Jonie's question stretched out for what felt like an eternity. The only sound Dawn could hear was the low, mechanical hum of the air conditioning vent above her head.

Then, Arlo spoke.

It started with a laugh. A low, dismissive, incredibly arrogant chuckle that vibrated through the metal lockers and went straight into Dawn's bones.

"Are you out of your mind, Jonie?" Arlo's voice was lazy, dripping with absolute incredulity. It was the tone of a king being asked if he wanted to dine with a peasant.

"You guys seriously think I'd be interested in a boring little nerd like that?" Arlo continued, his words casual and utterly devastating.

He paused for a second. Dawn could almost picture him leaning against the lockers, running a hand through his expensive haircut, searching for the perfect insult to entertain his friends.

"She's like an underdeveloped little sister," Arlo finally added, his voice laced with pure mockery. "Completely, utterly uninteresting."

The words hit Dawn with the kinetic force of a freight train.

Underdeveloped little sister. Boring little nerd. Uninteresting.

It felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer and smashed it directly into her chest, shattering her ribs and crushing her heart into a million irreparable pieces.

All the blood drained from Dawn's face in a single heartbeat. Her skin turned the color of old ash. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in her chest, so intense that she physically gasped, her mouth opening silently as she struggled to pull air into her paralyzed lungs.

A violent, high-pitched ringing erupted in her ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the hallway. A wave of sickening dizziness washed over her. She pressed her hands flat against the cold metal of the locker behind her, her fingernails scraping desperately against the steel as she fought the sudden urge to collapse. The physical vertigo was nothing compared to the absolute devastation tearing through her soul.

Tears, hot and humiliating, instantly flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. But she refused to let them fall. She tilted her head back, staring at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, forcing the tears back down.

On the other side of the lockers, the boys erupted into a chorus of loud, mocking laughter. They quickly moved on to discussing the physical attributes of a senior cheerleader.

Dawn couldn't listen to another second of it. She couldn't breathe the same air as him.

She spun around. Her movements were clumsy and frantic. She practically ran down the opposite hallway, fleeing the scene like a criminal. As she reached the stairwell, her blurred vision caused her to misjudge the distance. Her foot caught the edge of the step. She stumbled violently, her books slipping from her grasp and crashing onto the concrete stairs.

She didn't stop to pick them up. She caught her balance against the handrail and kept running, pushing through the heavy wooden door of the girls' restroom.

The restroom was empty. Dawn rushed to the nearest sink. She gripped the porcelain edges with white-knuckled hands, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked pathetic. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, her eyes were red-rimmed, and a tiny drop of blood smeared her lower lip. She looked exactly like what he said she was: a boring, tragic little charity case.

She violently twisted the cold water faucet. The water gushed out. She cupped her hands, catching the freezing water, and splashed it harshly against her face. The shock of the cold was a brutal wake-up call.

She scrubbed her face until her skin was red and raw. She stared into her own wet, bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

Never again, she vowed silently, her internal voice trembling with a newly forged, desperate rage. I will completely, utterly kill this pathetic feeling. I will never let him see me bleed.