Valedictorian,Villain Or MINE?

PROLOGUE

At St. Augustine High, power doesn’t come from popularity—it comes from your percentile.

And no one understands that better than Misha Raheja

An old-money girl with last names stitched into her blazers and classical piano in her blood, Misha doesn’t flaunt wealth. She doesn’t need to. Her intellect is louder than any brand name, and her silence is more commanding than the principal’s announcements. To her, achievement isn’t about gold medals—it’s about the quiet satisfaction of being better than everyone else and never having to say it out loud.

And for three years, she was. Untouchable. Unshaken. Unbothered.

Until he showed up.

Arjun Hooda

Scholarship student. Son of two professors. Wears crisp but inexpensive shirts like armor. Walks the hallways like he’s not trying to belong—he already does. Not rich, but rich in the kind of presence that makes you look up from your phone. The kind of boy who takes first rank once and suddenly has the whole school buzzing like he owns the position as its always for him.

And he made one mistake.

He looked at her.

Not just a glance—no. A full-on, deliberate, too-confident stare across the leader board when their scores tied. As if to say: “Nice crown. Let me hold it for a second or forever.”

From that moment on, it was war.

But not the loud, messy kind but more deep and witty.

Theirs was sharpened like debate rebuttals and narrowed eyes during test returns. A whisper-war of stolen glances, sarcastic compliments, and academic duels disguised as classroom discussions. They never flirted or did in their language. They counter-argued. They never smiled at each other. They smirked, right before one upped the other.

And somehow, they both started studying harder.

For the grades? Maybe.

For each other? Definitely.

Because every answer Misha gave was secretly for Arjun to hear.

And every time Arjun raised his hand, Misha’s pen paused—just for a second longer than it should’ve.

Their classmates thought it was competition. Their teachers thought it was inspiring.

Neither of them dared to admit what it really was: a mutual obsession wrapped in exam papers and ego.

She hated the way he always looked like he had something witty to say.

He hated the way she always looked like she knew more than him.

And yet, neither of them could stop noticing. Listening. Reacting.

Because at the top of the academic food chain, there’s only room for one crown.

And somehow, they both want to wear it—together, or not at all