Rebirth: Love me Again

[IRAYA]

The color drained from his face. Kylie glanced between us, clearly unsettled by the tension.

"Iraya, it's just food. You don't have to be so dramatic about it," Kylie said with a hint of irritation. "Besides, isn't Jason the one who's paying for it anyway?"

But Jason only raised a hand to silence her, his expression hardening.

"I don't understand what's wrong with you today, but you'd better fix it," Jason hissed, leaning closer so only I could hear. "Do you want everyone to think you're crazy? Is that what you want?"

I held his gaze, unflinching. "What I want," I said slowly, "is for you to stop pretending to be someone you're not. But we both know that's never going to happen."

Before Jason could speak, I stood up, forcing a bright smile at the two of them. "I'll go get lunch," I said cheerfully, as if nothing happened.

Kylie's face lit up, her smile wide and sweet. "Thank you, Iraya! I'll pay you back when you return," she said, her tone dripping with practiced sincerity.

Jason, leaning back lazily in his chair, chuckled. "Oh, come on, Kylie. You don't have to. It's my treat. You have my credit card, right babe?" His words were casual, but his gaze was sharp, daring me to challenge him.

I said nothing. Instead, I plastered on another smile and turned to leave.

I hadn't made it far when their hushed voices floated to my ears.

"What's up with Iraya today?" Kylie asked, her tone laced with genuine confusion. "She seemed so different . . . Could she have known . . .?"

Jason's laugh was low and dismissive. "Don't worry about her. We had a little argument earlier, and, well . . . you know how girls get. It's probably just that time of the month," he said smugly.

The sound of Kylie smacking his arm, followed by her light, tinkling laughter, made my stomach churn.

"Jason, you're so bad," she teased, her giggle melting into flirtatious giggles.

They didn't care that their display was in broad daylight, in front of everyone.

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to keep walking as their laughter rang out behind me—a cruel reminder of their relationship that I used to ignore.

As I wandered down the hallway, lost in thought and plotting my next move, I was jolted out of my reverie when I collided with something—or rather, someone.

The impact sent me stumbling back, and before I could fully process what had happened, an icy sensation spread across my chest. I looked down, my heart freezing in sync with the cold liquid soaking into my shirt.

When I glanced up, my breath caught in my throat.

Leander 'the-devil' De Santis.

The name alone was enough to send chills through anyone. He was the untouchable prince of our school—dangerous, brooding, and utterly mesmerizing. A man both feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And now, here he was, towering over me, his presence as overwhelming as a storm.

He was tall that I only reach his chest, his lean frame betraying the strength beneath it. The fabric of his black shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, outlining muscles that seemed carved from marble. His dark, tousled hair was wild, strands falling carelessly over his forehead as if defying gravity.

But it was his eyes—those piercing, predatory eyes—that rooted me to the spot. They were like blades, sharp enough to cut through my soul, and they were locked onto me with an intensity that made my knees weak.

My stomach churned as I noticed the wet stain spreading across his shirt—the iced coffee he'd been holding now ruined.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. Panic surged through me, and before I could think better of it, I reached into my pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. Without waiting for his permission, I began dabbing at the wet fabric clinging to his chest, my hands trembling.

Big mistake.

The moment my hand made contact, his body tensed like a coiled spring. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I realized people were staring—everyone was staring.

The hallway had gone deathly silent, and I could feel the pressure of a hundred eyes boring into us.

Before I could finish wiping away the mess, he grabbed my wrist. His hand was large, his grip firm, yet surprisingly gentle against my skin. But the strength beneath it was unmistakable, a silent warning of just how easily he could my wrist if he wanted to.

My gaze snapped up to his face, and my breath hitched.

"Don't touch me," he growled, his voice low and menacing. The words were like shards of ice slicing through the tense air. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pushed my hand away, sending me stumbling back a step.

He turned away, pulling out his phone with the ease of someone who had all the time in the world. "Deliver me a shirt. Now," he ordered, his tone deep and commanding, before hanging up without waiting for a response.

Then, as if the incident wasn't humiliating enough, he casually peeled off his wet shirt right there in the hallway.

Time seemed to slow as his toned, chiseled chest came into view. I swear the collective gasp from the girls around us was loud enough to shake the walls. His muscles rippled under the fluorescent lights, his every movement oozing power and confidence.

Without sparing me another glance, he tossed the wet shirt in my direction. It landed in my hands like an unwanted burden.

"I don't need this trash anymore," he said, his voice cold and dismissive, before turning on his heel and striding away.

The hallway erupted in whispers the moment he disappeared from view.

My face burned as I clutched the damp shirt to my chest, my mind spinning. What had just happened?

Leander De Santis—the rumored heir to a mafia empire, the boy everyone in school was too terrified to cross—had just called his shirt trash and left it with me.

I bolted out of the hallway, my heart racing as I reached my car. Once inside, I clutched the steering wheel, trying to steady my breathing.

"It's fine. It's fine," I muttered, my voice shaky. "He's not going to do anything . . . right? I mean, those rumors can't be true. They're just stories. Aren't they? He's not really a mafia prince."

The rumors I meant were about students mysteriously vanishing—those unfortunate enough to cross paths with him. Whether it was a simple accident like bumping into him or provoking his ire in the slightest way, they were never seen or heard from again. Continue your journey on empire

But then, my gaze fell to the shirt still in my hands. I hesitated before turning it over, and my stomach dropped when I spotted the tag.

Brioni.

The shirt cost at least $1000 and he called it trash and casually threw it away.

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Great. Just great."

What had I gotten myself into now?