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I'm Astra Hawthorne. A scholarship girl and the "Trash-tra" in Zane Ashton's eyes. The arrogant star quarterback has made my school life a disaster, but I still have to move into his house as his family's live-in nanny for money to survive. I figure my senior year will continue under his torment, but worse, he pulls me out of a new football player's hug and declares, "Astra is mine." The hallway smelled like cheap body spray and desperation. "Is the little piggy gonna cry?" one of the jerks sneered, his voice loud enough to bounce off the lockers. They circled the other girl like hyenas, poking her, laughing when she flinched. I recognized her shaky hands clutching her books to her chest. Same hands I'd seen on myself in the mirror too many times. I pulled my own hoodie up higher, letting the fabric swallow my hair and half my face. Keep moving. Don't make eye contact. Don't exist. I knew the rules: if they saw me, I'd be next. And nobody—nobody—ever stepped in when it was my turn. Why should I play the hero now? I took another step. Then a pair of expensive sneakers planted right in front of me. My heart slammed so hard I tasted it in my throat. "Going somewhere, Trash-tra?" That voice. Low, lazy, laced with venom. Zane freaking Ashton. I froze. Of course it was him. The king of this hellhole. Star quarterback. Golden boy. My personal nightmare. He wasn't with the piggy crowd, he ran with his own pack. Four of them flanked him now, all smirks and letterman jackets, like they'd rehearsed this in the locker room. Zane tilted his head, dark hair falling just over one eye, and flicked my glasses with one long finger. They slid crooked across my nose. "S-stop it," I whispered. He leaned in closer, mocking my stutter perfectly. "S-stop it." I hated how my whole body vibrated when he got this close like every nerve remembered every time he'd made me feel small. I hated him. I hated the way the entire school worshipped him. Yes, objectively he was stupidly handsome: sharp
