Lead Me Into Temptation

Eris' POV

You ever step into a place and just know you're about to ruin it?

Yeah. That was me. Standing at the iron gates of Westbridge College, sunglasses perched arrogantly on my nose, tie hanging half-tied like I couldn't even be bothered to try.

Which, spoiler alert: I couldn't.

The sun was doing the absolute most, beaming down like it had a personal grudge against me.

My blazer was slung over my shoulder like some kind of war flag, hair messy but in that effortlessly hot way that made girls glare and boys look twice.

And the look on my face? It screamed loud and clear, "Go ahead. Hate me. I dare you."

And, oh baby, they delivered.

It didn't even take an hour.

First, it started with the stares, followed by the annoying whispers and the pointed fingers.

"Is that the new girl?"

"She looks... fake."

"I heard she got expelled from Saint Veronica's."

"Probably slept her way through it."

For the record? Gross. Also: boring rumor. If you're gonna insult me, at least be creative.

I strode into my first class like I owned the place, ignoring the way conversations fizzled out mid-sentence and how every set of eyes tried to discreetly and not-so-discreetly size me up.

I took a seat at the back, flinging my bag onto the desk with a loud THUD, scaring the guy next to me so badly he dropped his pen.

Oops. Not really.

The teacher, some miserable-looking man whose khakis were a crime against humanity, droned on about "respect" and "academic excellence" and "rules."

Snore. This is the most boring shit I have ever put myself into. As a matter of fact, sleeping wouldn't even make up for how lame this shit is.

I lasted about fifteen minutes before disaster struck.

Some girl, brunette, fake tan, acrylic nails so long she could scratch someone's soul, turned around and smirked at me.

"Nice skirt," she said, voice sugary enough to rot teeth. "They let anyone in here now, huh?"

Oh, honey. Wrong move.

I leaned forward, propping my chin in my hand and smiling sweetly. "Cute eyebrows," I said.

Pause.

Then, I added, "Must be nice to have a battlefield on your forehead."

Her mouth dropped open like a broken hinge.

The whole class went OHHHHH like it was a rap battle.

And then chaos. Sweet, beautiful chaos exploded. Just as I expected it to be.

Next thing I knew, I was standing, she was standing, we were exchanging insults like trading cards.

Somebody threw a book. I'm not saying it was me. But I'm also not denying it.

The teacher tried to regain control, shouting something about detention, suspension, end-of-the-world blah blah. I ignored him.

Then came the real highlight: I picked up a crumpled piece of paper. Some boring syllabus handout - and yeeted it across the room like a grenade.

BAM!

Direct hit... right on the teacher's clipboard.

He gasped like I had stabbed him. Honestly? It was Oscar-worthy.

Meanwhile, I didn't even blink. I just climbed onto my desk. Yes, onto the damn thing and saluted the entire class like a pirate captain ready to sink the ship.

"Welcome to the end times, bitches!" I announced proudly.

"Welcome to hell, Barbie," some bitter girl hissed from the second row, clutching her books like they might shield her from my madness.

I didn't miss a beat. Didn't even blink. I just tossed her a look over my shoulder and said, syrupy sweet, "Sweetheart, I built this hell."

The way her jaw dropped? Iconic.

Five stars. Would roast again.

Half the class was whispering. The other half was frozen, waiting for me to get tackled.

Which, well... They didn't have to wait long.

Cue the fun police. Two security guards in tight polo shirts, storming through the door like I had set the room on fire. Not yet, anyway!

One grabbed my arm in a firm manner, like he expected me to bolt, and started dragging me toward the hallway.

I resisted just enough to be annoying, dragging my heels across the linoleum with a loud screech that made everyone wince.

"Let go!" I said, dramatically flipping my hair. "I have rights!"

He ignored me. Rude. How can a hot guy like that ignore me, huh? I would have bedded him by now if he isn't this mean.

"Destination, Dean Mendez's office," I muttered under my breath, shooting a wink at the stunned students as I was pulled away. "Vibe? Doom."

And just like that, I was escorted out, flipping a double peace sign behind my back like a rockstar being hauled off stage mid-tour.

My grand debut: Absolute catastrophe. Zero regrets.

I freaking love this new school!

The dean's office smelled like polished wood, desperation, and poor life choices.

I dragged my feet across the thick Persian rug like a toddler having a tantrum, then collapsed into the oversized leather chair like the burden of existing was just too much for my delicate soul to bear.

Legs crossed, arms flopped dramatically over the sides, I looked like a painting called "Saint Eris, Martyr of Mediocrity."

Dean Mendez stared at me like he was calculating whether he could legally commit murder.

Probably couldn't. Too bad for him.

I caught my reflection in the shiny surface of his desk: slightly smudged mascara, one ripped stocking, bruised knuckles.

Icon behavior.

With a sigh heavy enough to shift the Earth's axis, Dean Mendez slapped a fat folder onto the desk like he was throwing down the final card in a very sad, very rigged game.

WHAM.

My file.

A beautiful mess of detention slips, suspension letters, written warnings, angry complaint emails, maybe even a missing poster or two.

Honestly? It could probably crush a small child if dropped from a decent height.

"Miss Victorina," Dean Mendez said, voice stretched so tight it might snap like an old rubber band, "we do not tolerate-"

"Yeah, yeah," I cut in, twirling a loose thread from my skirt around my finger. "You don't tolerate 'violence' or 'disrespect' or 'free spirits.' Heard it all before, Pops."

His right eye twitched.

He opened his mouth, probably to lecture me into a coma about "school values" or whatever flavor of bullshit they were serving today.

But before he could get past "Miss Victorina, this is a serious-"

the door creaked open.

Correction, the door didn't just open. It parted like the damn Red Sea. And in floated her.

Victorina Victorina. My mother. Destroyer of Dreams. Briber of Institutions.

CEO of "Fix Your Face Before I Fix It For You."

She swept into the room like royalty slumming it among peasants, every step clicking sharply on the floor like a warning shot.

Pencil skirt so tight it could've doubled as body armor.

Diamond earrings so blinding I had to physically squint.

And that signature Victorina Smile? Glossy, deadly, colder than my future prospects.

"Dean Mendez," she said, her voice dripping with the kind of sugar that gave you instant cavities, "thank you for contacting me. Let's... resolve this quickly, shall we?"

No "good afternoon."

No "how are you."

Straight to business.

Classic Victorina.

She reached into her Hermes bag, which, for the record, probably cost more than my soul, and pulled out an envelope so thick it could've been classified as a blunt weapon.

Without even glancing at it, she slid it across the desk toward the dean.

Schhhk.

The sound of money moving faster than justice ever could.

Dean Mendez stared at it like it might bite him.

Blink.

Blink.

Sneaky side glance at me, as if hoping I'd turn into a remorseful little girl who regretted punching Becky with the Bad Eyebrows.

Spoiler alert, I didn't.

Dean Mendez cleared his throat, wiping his sweaty palms on his khakis in slow, pathetic motion.

His hand hovered over the envelope like Frodo about to touch the One Ring.

Victorina arched a perfect brow. "Take it," she said, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He took it. Good boy.

The second the envelope disappeared into his desk drawer faster than a bribe at a Vegas poker table, the atmosphere shifted.

Like we were all pretending that a totally normal, absolutely ethical conversation was happening.

"I trust this won't... tarnish Eris' record?" Victorina said smoothly, inspecting her nails like she hadn't just casually bought my freedom.

"Of course not," Dean Mendez said, laughing nervously. "Just a... minor misunderstanding."

Minor misunderstanding? Sure. Tell that to Becky's bruised ego.

I slouched deeper into my chair, kicking my boots up onto the edge of his fancy mahogany desk.

"Are we done here?" I asked, flashing my best oops-did-I-ruin-everything-again smile.

Dean Mendez looked like he was actively praying for early retirement or death. Whichever came first.

Victorina turned her glacier-cold eyes on me and gave me a look that promised violence. Not here, not now, but ohhh just you wait, sweetheart.

"Come, Eris," she said, each syllable clipped and dangerous. "We have... a lot to discuss."

Translation, I'm gonna die in the car.

I hopped up, saluted Dean Mendez like a disrespectful little gremlin, and followed Victorina out of the office, the click of her heels echoing down the hallway like the beat of a war drum.

Truly pathetic to be a bitch under your mom's wing.

She's going to kill my eardrums, I fear!