The Classy Thirteen

Château De Brissac

Reyan’s POV

I swear, if there’s anything that fuels my mornings more than coffee, it’s drama. And today? I had something way better than caffeine. Something juicier than the sandwiches in the canteen. Something that could single-handedly blow up Vivaan’s Mr. Perfect image.

On my phone sat a little treasure: a video. A video of Vivaan-the-golden-boy dropping Rakshita off at her house last night, her wearing his oversized leather jacket like a walking neon sign of “scandal.” The universe had blessed me, and I wasn’t about to waste it.

Obviously, I couldn’t send it to Aakarsh over WhatsApp like a normal person. No, no, no. That would ruin the fun. The real satisfaction lay in seeing his face explode in real time. So, I texted him: “Bhai, canteen. Early. Important.” The kind of message that screams top-secret operation.

Now here I was, tapping my foot impatiently in the corner of the canteen, phone burning a hole in my pocket. Students were bustling in—some half-asleep, some pretending to study, some pretending not to check each other out.

Typical.

I scrolled through the video for the hundredth time, pausing at the exact moment Rakshita stepped out of Vivaan’s car, Vivaan in the driver’s seat, his leather jacket draped around her like a carefully planted landmine. Uff. Iconic.

Finally, after what felt like a century, Aakarsh walked in. Tall, brooding, looking like someone had forced him out of bed too early. Behind him, Prerna trailed along, but she didn’t step inside—just stood by the corridor, arms folded, clearly waiting for him. Her face had that tight, upset look, and I didn’t need a psychic to know why. Vivaan and that play nonsense. Drama alert.

Aakarsh slid into the chair beside me with his usual annoyed expression. “Reyan, this better be good. I had to give Prerna some dumb excuse just to get here early. She already thinks I’m acting weird.”

I smirked. “Trust me, bhai. This is not just good. This is premium content.”

He narrowed his eyes. “If this is about some meme again—”

I cut him off dramatically by whipping out my phone, clicking on the video, and thrusting it toward his face. “Dil thaam ke baithiye, pesh hai aapke samne, Vivaan ka dagabaaz chehra!!.”

The moment his eyes focused, it was magic. His jaw literally dropped. His eyebrows shot up like they were trying to reach the ceiling. His hand even froze midair with his coffee cup. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost—or worse, Vivaan losing his sainthood.

“Oh. My. God,” he whispered, voice trembling with glee. “Reyan… are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” I grinned. “Recorded last night. Our boy Vivaan personally chauffeuring Rakshita to her house, jacket and all. Bollywood couldn’t script this better.”

Aakarsh leaned closer, replaying it again, eyes wide as saucers. “She’s wearing his jacket. HIS jacket. This is—this is lethal.”

I leaned back smugly, enjoying every ounce of his reaction. “Worth dragging you here early, right?”

“Worth a lifetime subscription,” he muttered, still glued to the screen. Then he looked at me, grin spreading across his face. “Reyan, this… this is going to set fire.”

I raised my eyebrows. “So… we drop it now?”

He shook his head instantly, lips curling into an evil smirk. “No. Not yet. Timing is everything, my friend. We keep it. We wait. And when the moment is right… boom. Explosion.”

Damn. The way he said it gave me chills. This man was practically Thanos with a USB drive.

I nodded slowly, though a tiny part of me felt that uncomfortable tug in my gut. Like—okay, sure, this was hilarious and chaotic, but also… was it kind of evil? Maybe. Did I care? Not really. Because, let’s be honest, we weren’t doing this for morality. We were doing it for the plot.