Room 2892, where are you? I ask myself as I glance around the second floor of this massive building. Even the hallways are fancy with their immaculate tiles and marble statues.

The first bell rang 2 minutes ago, which means that I have one minute to find English Composition before the late bell dings. And the Virgo in me does not tolerate tardiness.

"Are we moving or not?" I hear a girl ask as she walks in front of me. It's the same red-head from outside. She looks like she could be Miss Universe with her pin-straight hair and pounds of makeup. I can't help but wonder how much earlier she woke up this morning just to apply it.

"Moving," I nervously respond, even though I stay still. She gives me an eye-roll and then shoves my shoulder as she goes to pass me.

"Geez, what'd you do to get on Jordana Hastings' bad side?" a voice calls out.

I turn around, and my eyes land on this tall, lean body with dark brown curly hair and matching dark brown eyes.

"Uh, nothing?"

He lets out a harmless chuckle and makes his way closer to me. "May I?" he asks, gesturing to the laminated schedule in my hand.

"Sure," I say, surprised that there's actually a decent human being at this school. "English Comp with Professor Withers. She's a gem," he says before pausing. "Kidding." He continues to skim the rest of my schedule. "You're on the wrong side, though."

"Fabulous," I mutter under my breath. "Now I'm definitely going to be late." He doesn't say anything, but I catch him staring. "What?"

"Nothing," he shakes his head, a smile on his face. "I just can't believe you actually printed out your schedule."

"As opposed to?"

He reaches into the front pocket of his khaki pants and pulls out his iPhone. "Using the school's app. All you have to do is log-in and your schedule appears on the homepage."

"Of course it does." I turn to look the other way, but feel his eyes on me, so I center my body back to him.

"Here, follow me," he says.

"I can't. I'll be late for class."

"I know. I'm walking you there. I had Professor Withers last year for Creative Writing, so I know what it takes to get on her good side."

"You don't have somewhere to be?"

"Nope. Free period. Why do you think I'm standing here talking to you?"

"Well, initially, I thought it was because you were a nice guy looking to help the new girl."

"You're not wrong about that. I am a nice guy, and I do want to help you," he smiles. "Shall we?"

"Okay."

"I'm Henry, by the way," he says once we start walking.

"Anastasia. Well, Stassie."

"Nice to meet you, Stassie."

"You, too," I smile.

It takes us about a minute to get to the classroom, and when we do, Henry reaches for the handle on the closed door.

"What are you doing?" I ask him when he begins to twist it open.

"Just trust me."

He pulls the door out and the entire class looks up at us, including Professor Withers, who stops mid-sentence.

"Good morning, Professor," Henry speaks up.

"Mr. Astor," she says, crossing her arms, "I didn't know that you'd be joining us this semester."

"Sadly, I'm not. However, Miss...," Henry looks at me, waiting for me to give him my last name.

"Moore," I whisper.

"...Miss Moore here is," he continues.

"Ah," she says, dropping the paper that she's holding onto the wooden desk behind her. "Then tell me, Mr. Astor, is there a reason why Miss Moore is late?"

"It's my fault. Dean Hemmings asked me to show her around the property since she's new to Sinclair Prep, but I lost track of time."

"It's hard to believe that someone as responsible as you would lose track of time, Mr. Astor."

"There's a first time for everything, I guess."

Professor Withers keeps her gaze on us and then sighs. "Miss Moore, please take your seat," she says, gesturing to the empty desk that's in the middle of the room. "Mr. Astor, you may go now."

"Yes, ma'am," he respectfully says, nodding his head. He looks over at me to make sure that I'm okay and I give him a soft smirk to let him know that I am.

Professor Withers uses the entire period to go over the class syllabus and emphasize how important exams are in relation to our overall grade for the semester. The rest of my classes before lunch follow the same format.

By the time lunch rolls around, my stomach is grumbling, so when I enter the luxurious cafeteria, the first thing that I do is head for the hot food bar. I texted dad in between periods asking him what was on the menu and he let me know that it was pan-seared salmon, grilled chicken, sautéed veggies, and mashed potatoes.

Full plate it tow, I scan the room for an empty table. All are taken, so I opt for a big round one where only a girl sits. Her white-blonde hair is in a messy braid and she's got AirPods in as she munches on some grapes.

"Mind if I sit here?" I ask, but she's looking down and clearly can't hear me. I can hear the music blasting from her headphones. Pretty sure it's some sort of rock band playing.

I speak up again, but she still doesn't acknowledge me, so I start waving my hand in front of her face. That finally does the trick, and she removes one of the AirPods from her ear.

"Sorry, what?" she asks.

"Would you mind if I sat here? All the other tables are taken."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," she says, bringing her tray closer to her body so that there's even more room for me.

"Thanks," I half-smile as I take the seat across from her. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"All good," she nonchalantly says, which seems like the rest of her vibe. The tie on her uniform is pretty much undone and she's wearing heavy red-lipstick. "Not a fan of the food?" she asks as I unwrap the plastic that's covering my red apple.

"Huh?"

"It's just that you went for the apple before the chicken."

"Oh," I chuckle. "I was craving something sweet first."

"Got it," she nods. "Well the brownies are delicious. In fact, my entire lunch was, which is a surprise considering last year's meals were a disaster. Like truly inedible. Apparently they hired some new guy this year to cook everything. I heard his background is pretty cool, too. Worked at a five-star restaurant in Chicago before scoring the gig here."

"Yeah...that new guy happens to be my dad."

"Ha. No shit. Which would mean you're the new girl that everyone's talking about."

"Talking about?" I repeat in a concerned tone.

"Welcome to Sinclair Prep...where nothing here is a secret." She pauses, then holds her hand out. "I'm Molly Lawson, by the way."

"Anastasia Moore. Stassie for short. And thanks for the warm welcome. Can't say that's really been the case so far."

"Damn, I'm sorry. Tell me, which heiress was it that gave you a hard time?"

"Uh...red hair. Name starts with a J."

"Ah, of course. Jordana Hastings. That girl puts the B in bitch."

"Can't even tell you what I did to make her not like me. I mean, I've only been here for a few hours."

"It's not you, trust me. That girl doesn't like anyone. But don't let her fool you; there happens to be some nice people at this school."

"That's good to know. I was truly starting to doubt that." I take a bite of the apple and then ask, "So, how'd you end up at Sinclair Prep?"

"Simple. Followed my family's footsteps. My dad, grandpa, and great-grandpa are all alumni."

"Wow. That's intense."

"Yeah, but it's also the case for the majority of the students here. Like Jordana, and a few of The Royals."

"The who?"

"The Royals," she repeats like it's obvious. "Jack, Rafe, and Johnny. We call them The Royals because they're pretty much treated like royalty around here. Their families give a shitload of money to Sinclair Prep every year. Especially the Carringtons. That's Jack's family. Makes him the leader of The Royals."

"Let me guess, that also makes Jack the most popular guy in school."

"Most popular, most wanted, most...everything, really. Doesn't mean he's not also the biggest jerk on this planet."

"Shocker," I joke. "Well, I don't really care who he is or what he has, he sounds like trouble."

"Like I said, he's the 'most' of everything. That definitely includes the most trouble."