Lydia stood by the tall, mullioned window of the grand drawing room, her gaze drifting over the estate as dawn unfurled its soft light across the grounds. The mist clung to the hedges like a veil not quite ready to lift, the air outside still thick with the scent of damp earth and rose petals. A breeze whispered through the slightly open window, brushing her cheek with a tenderness that made her eyes sting—not from emotion, but from the strange, aching silence of yet another beginning.

A new country. A new estate. And soon, a new school.

Her fingers absently traced the delicate lace of her sleeve as if the soft, repetitive motion could ground her. She had long given up on the idea of permanence. Her father’s diplomatic

assignments ensured that nothing lasted for long—homes, friends, classrooms, even dreams. Nine schools in twelve months. Each more illustrious than the last, and each one just another ornate cage she’d eventually be forced to leave.

But Lydia wasn’t bitter. Not anymore. This was her final year. If she could just endure a little longer, she’d finally be free—free to choose her own future, one far from boarding passes and formality, where maybe, just maybe, she could belong.

“Lydia, darling, breakfast!” her mother called from below, her voice sweet as it echoed through the marble halls.

With a sigh, Lydia peeled herself away from the view and made her way down the grand staircase, her gown trailing behind her like a ghost of who she was expected to be. The scent of tea and warm scones greeted her

before she even stepped into the sunlit dining room, where her parents sat with all the poise of portraits come to life.

Her mother, dressed in soft lavender, smiled warmly, a teacup balanced between her

fingers. Her father, ever dignified, glanced up from the paper and gave her a nod of approval.

“Good morning,” Lydia said, brushing kisses across their cheeks.

Her father stood, folding the paper with exact precision before placing a kiss on her mother’s hand. The tenderness in the gesture made

Lydia’s heart ache in that strange, quiet way it always did when she saw how much they loved each other—consistently, effortlessly, endlessly.

“Must you always be so affectionate, Father?” she teased, though the corners of her lips

betrayed her affection.

“One day, you’ll understand,” he said with a wink, placing his hat on and heading for the door.

When the rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves echoed outside, Lydia turned back to her mother.

“Oh, Mother, don’t start,” she sighed as she took a sip of her tea.

“I haven’t said a word,” her mother replied,

sipping hers as though she hadn’t already fluffed Lydia’s dress a dozen times before breakfast.

“I’m not a child anymore,” Lydia said,

smoothing her gloves.

“No,” her mother agreed softly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be proud of you.”

They shared a quiet look, filled with unspoken things—memories of tearful goodbyes, secret late-night laughter, and the invisible string that tethered them through every upheaval.

Outside, the carriage gleamed in the golden light, its brass details polished to a mirror shine. Lydia stepped inside, letting the velvet cushions embrace her as the horses began their rhythmic trot through the countryside. The landscape rolled by like a dream—green hills, scattered wildflowers, grazing sheep.

But her thoughts were already drifting ahead.

Lady Blackwell’s Academy stood at the edge of the horizon like something pulled from a gothic fairytale—its towering spires and

ivy-covered stone casting long shadows over the gravel courtyard. It wasn’t just a school for girls, but a co-educational institution for the sons and daughters of aristocrats, tycoons, and powerful legacies. Here, elegance and

ambition collided.

As the carriage slowed, Lydia’s pulse

quickened. She stepped down onto the

cobblestones, lifting her chin with the quiet grace of someone who had learned to wear

armor beneath her silk.

Inside, the academy was even more

magnificent—crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and oil paintings of past legends watching her every move. She wandered the marble halls in search of the headmaster’s

office but found herself instead in a quiet wing of the building, drawn toward a door slightly ajar.

It was an art studio. Dust motes danced in the light spilling through stained glass windows. Paintings lined the walls—some chaotic,

others hauntingly beautiful. But one canvas stopped her. Unfinished, raw, yet alive with emotion, the portrait called to her.

She stepped forward, her hand rising to touch the edges of the brushstrokes—until a voice shattered the silence.

“That piece is not finished,” came a voice smooth and low, like silk laced with iron.

Lydia turned, startled.

In the shadows stood a boy—no, a young man—tall and lithe, with a presence that felt both magnetic and untouchable. The dim light played across his pale skin, casting soft

shadows beneath his lashes. His dark eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, Lydia

forgot how to breathe.

“I—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, the heat in her cheeks rising fast.

But his gaze didn’t waver. And something about him—about the way he stood there, half in light, half in shadow—told her this was no ordinary encounter.

He stepped out of the shadows slowly, as though unbothered by her presence, yet every movement was deliberate—like a dancer aware of the pull he had on his audience. His black hair, tousled just enough to seem

accidental, framed a face so striking it didn’t seem real. Pale skin like porcelain, eyes like ink, and lips the color of blooming roses after rain.

“I don’t recall inviting you in,” he said, his voice velvet over steel. Not angry, not even cold—just observant, amused in the way a lion might be when a butterfly lands on its paw.

Lydia straightened, her embarrassment

burning beneath her skin. “I was looking for the headmaster’s office. I must’ve taken a wrong turn.”

He tilted his head, one brow lifting, studying her with unsettling focus. “You must be new.”

“I am.”

He said nothing, just watched her. The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid. Lydia felt the weight of it like pressure behind her ribs.

“I should go,” she said finally, though her feet made no move toward the door. There was something about him—an elegance laced with danger—that made it hard to turn away. Like staring at a storm from the edge of a cliff, knowing you should run, but craving the wind in your hair and the thrill in your veins.

“Go, then,” he murmured. But he didn’t move aside.

Lydia’s heart thudded louder in her ears.

“Do you always speak to strangers this way?” she asked, trying to recover some measure of composure.

“Only the interesting ones.”

He stepped closer. Not too close, but enough that the space between them felt altered. Intimate. Electric.

“You’re not like the others,” he said, his eyes flickering over her face as if committing it to memory. “They arrive in droves, all diamonds and arrogance, mouths full of titles and

rehearsed charm. But you…” His gaze dropped to her hands, still gloved, slightly trembling. “You look like you’ve lived a thousand lives and none of them were yours.”

Lydia’s breath caught. She hated how much truth there was in that.

“What’s your name?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe to balance the

conversation. Maybe because she wanted to hear it spoken in that low, unreadable tone.

“Callum.”

The name curled into the room like smoke

elegant, dark, and unfamiliar.

“And you?” he asked.

“Lydia.”

He nodded once, slow. “Fitting.”

She furrowed her brows. “Why?”

“Because you look like someone who doesn’t know if she’s running from something… or

toward it.”

The air shifted again—thicker, charged.

Lydia swallowed, unsure whether to thank him or slap him.

But before she could speak, his gaze flicked to the door behind her.

“You should leave before they find you here,” he said, turning back toward the half-finished painting. “They don’t like girls in this wing.

Especially ones with questions.”

“And you?” she asked, pausing at the doorway. “Do you?”

His lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “I like storms. Even the ones that don’t know they’re storms yet.”

Lydia lingered for a breath more, then turned and slipped out into the hall, her heart

pounding. She didn’t look back—but she felt him watching her all the same.

And for reasons she couldn’t yet explain, she knew this wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning.

Lydia gathered the remnants of her poise like shattered glass, each breath sharp, each step purposeful. The scent of aged parchment and distant violets hung in the air as she moved through the academy’s endless, echoing

corridors—each hallway an intricate gallery of stained-glass windows, flickering wall sconces, and oil portraits that seemed to watch her with hollow eyes.

Her shoes tapped a steady rhythm against the marble floors, though inside, her thoughts were anything but composed.

“Thanks to Mr. Arrogant,” she muttered under her breath, the words like smoke curling from her lips. That brooding, raven-haired stranger had stolen more than just her time—he’d

disturbed something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name. Still, now wasn’t the moment to dwell on his shadowed gaze or the way his voice lingered in her ears like a

forgotten melody. She needed answers, a

map, anything to anchor her in this cold,

unfamiliar world.

Just as she rounded the corner, lost in thought, her body collided with another—sharp and sudden, like ice cracking beneath a weight it couldn’t bear.

“Ahh! Watch where you’re going, you blind fool!”

The voice that followed was cold and cruel, laced with the kind of venom that didn’t need volume to strike.

Lydia blinked, reeling back. Standing before her was a girl with raven-black hair as sleek as polished obsidian and a smirk sharpened into something weaponized. She flicked her hair over her shoulder like a dagger unsheathed, her eyes skimming over Lydia with the

dismissiveness one reserved for dirt beneath their shoes.

“I’ve complained about the headmaster letting people like you in,” the girl spat, not even

bothering to lower her voice. “The disabled should be kept in their own institutions.

Honestly, I can’t bear the sight.”

Lydia’s jaw clenched.

The sting wasn’t new—she’d heard cruelty dressed in lace before—but there was

something particularly vile in the girl’s

polished delivery. A venom that came not from ignorance, but delight.

The girl’s companions—painted in silk,

powdered like porcelain dolls—snickered

behind lace-gloved fingers. Laughter, light and hollow, echoed off the stone.

Lydia inhaled slowly. Deep. Measured.

Controlled. The kind of breath one takes before stepping into battle.

“Apologies for the collision,” she said, her voice crisp as the morning frost. “But if we’re being accurate, we both bumped into each other. Which makes you just as blind as I am.”

She met the girl’s glare head-on, her tone light but her eyes unwavering. She didn’t blink.

She didn’t back down. She never had.

The girl—Suzana, Lydia would later

learn—looked momentarily stunned, like a queen unaccustomed to being questioned by peasants. Her perfectly glossed lips parted in disbelief.

“How… how dare this thing speak back to me?” she stammered, her indignation simmering just beneath her painted veneer.

Lydia bent to retrieve her fallen book,

the motion graceful, unbothered. But before she could retreat, Suzana’s voice sliced through the air once more.

“You must be new. That would explain your charming fashion sense.”

Lydia straightened, adjusting her gloves. “Charming” echoed in her mind like a poison tipped with honey.

“I’m Suzana,” the girl declared with theatrical flair, gesturing to the two shadows at her sides. “And these are my dear friends—Tesla, and Victoria.”

Tesla nodded once, more to herself than to

Lydia, her bored eyes already drifting away. Victoria, however, stood tall with the elegance of a statue carved from pride.

“We are the ones you should be wary of,” she said, her voice silken, her smile sharp. “You’d do well to learn your place, and step aside when we pass.”

Then, with the haughty entitlement of those who’d never been told “no,” they brushed past Lydia as if she were air.

Their giggles trailed behind them like the tail of a poison-drenched perfume.

“I heard Callum was in the art studio this morning,” Tesla cooed.

“Was he?” Victoria murmured, her tone steeped in intrigue. “I’ll have to pay him a visit. Maybe he knows how to spot talent.”

Their voices faded as they vanished down the corridor, their laughter muffled by distance and their own delusions.

Lydia stood still for a moment, the quiet

wrapping around her like armor. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, not from fear—but resolve.

Let them play their little games.

She had seen storms fiercer than their

whispered cruelty. She’d learned to survive far worse than painted smiles and poisonous words. And unlike them, her strength wasn’t woven from entitlement—it had been forged in movement, sharpened by silence, and

tempered by every school, every home, every

moment she’d ever had to start again.

With a breath, Lydia smoothed her skirt and raised her chin.

And when she looked up, she found herself standing before her classroom door.

Finally.

The door creaked open beneath her hand, groaning as if reluctant to reveal what lay

beyond. Lydia stepped into the classroom with a slow breath, her heels tapping quietly against the polished stone. It was empty—thank God—and for the first time since her

arrival, silence embraced her like an old friend.

The space smelled of chalk and varnished oak. Rows of carved desks stood in perfect

formation, their surfaces etched with initials and secrets from years past. A tall arched

window spilled pale morning light across the room, casting soft shadows on the floor like ghosts stretching their limbs.

Lydia crossed to the far side of the room, to the seat by the window, and sank into it. Her

fingers brushed over the smooth wood, grounding herself in the simplicity of stillness. No staring eyes. No venom-tipped words. Just her, the quiet, and the weight of everything unsaid.

She rested her elbow on the desk and tilted her chin into her hand, letting her eyes drift

beyond the window’s edge to where the courtyard stood—vast and elegant, all marble fountains and clipped hedges, like something torn from the pages of a dream. Yet beneath its beauty was an unmistakable chill, a rigid

structure where every smile had sharp edges, and every word carried a second meaning.

Lady Blackwell’s Academy was no ordinary school. It had teeth beneath its polished

exterior. Its walls whispered with tradition, wealth, and control—and those who walked its halls did so like predators disguised in silk.

This was a world built on legacies, and she had none.

Already, the air felt heavy with unspoken

hierarchies. The other girls with their cold stares and gilded names, their laughter as

cruel as it was hollow. They were trained in

elegance, yes—but also in dominance. Every interaction felt like a dance with invisible knives.

Lydia had danced before.

But still… something about this place stirred her. Beneath the suffocating formality and rigid tradition, there was a pulse. A quiet hum. As though the walls themselves held secrets too old to name—whispers of rebellion,

passion, and longing stitched between the stone. As if something unseen watched her, waiting to see what she would become.

She wasn’t sure yet.

Her life had been a constant blur—countries, languages, uniforms, temporary friendships. And now here, in this gothic fortress of a school, she was expected to become someone. Someone worthy. Someone that mattered.

She turned her gaze to her reflection in the glass. Pale skin, eyes too tired for her age, mouth set with quiet defiance. Not the kind of girl who belonged here, but perhaps the kind that could change something.

No, she thought, not change. Survive. And maybe—if fate allowed—be more than just

another name lost in this place’s marble silence.

The door behind her creaked, a soft warning.

She straightened in her seat, smoothing the front of her uniform just as the first few

students began to trickle in, their voices a low hum of gossip and polite rivalry.

The moment of stillness passed.

But Lydia carried it with her, tucked beneath her ribs like a fragile ember.

She wouldn’t forget how this day began.

She wouldn’t forget their faces.

And she wouldn’t forget the way this place looked at her—as if daring her to become something they couldn’t control.

**Later That Day**

The final bell at Lady Blackwell’s Academy was not a sound but a sigh—a long, weary

exhalation that slithered through the stone corridors, carrying with it the weight of

another day endured. Lydia stood motionless in the emptying classroom, her bag slung over one shoulder like an anchor.

The leather strap dug into her collarbone, a dull ache mirroring the exhaustion behind her eyes. The day had been a slow unraveling, each hour peeling away another layer of her resolve. She had come here hoping for

something—reinvention, perhaps, or at least refuge—but the girls in this place treated their bloodlines like scripture, and she was an

unbeliever in their temple.

She was stuffing her books into her bag, her mind already drifting toward the sanctuary of her dormitory bed, when she felt it—the weight of a gaze.

A girl stood across the room, watching her.

She was the kind of beautiful that seemed

almost accidental, as if she hadn’t realized the effect she had on the air around her. Her hair was the color of sunlit honey, spilling in soft waves down her back, and she held herself with the easy grace of someone who had

never been told she was anything less than perfect. But it was her eyes that caught Lydia—warm and open in a way that felt startling in this place, where most looks were either knives or shields.

The girl hesitated for only a second before crossing the room, her bracelets chiming

faintly with each step.

“I’m—I’m—hello! I’m Cassidy,” she said, her voice tripping over itself in a way that made Lydia blink in surprise. The girl—Cassidy—laughed, a bright, nervous sound, and thrust out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Lydia stared at the offered hand. The girls here did not introduce themselves to her. They whispered behind their hands, they let their eyes slide over her like she was a smudge on glass. But Cassidy’s palm was open, her smile unguarded.

“I’m Lydia,” she said, taking the hand.

“I know. Well—I mean, I noticed.” Cassidy’s cheeks pinked. “You’re new.

And your hair—oh, I love it. Is that your natural color?”

Lydia touched a self-conscious hand to the dark waves. “It is.”

“Wow.” Cassidy’s grin widened. “You’re

stunning. I hope that’s not weird to say. I just… I wanted to talk to you sooner, but the girls around here can be a bit much.”

_A bit much._ Lydia almost laughed. That was one way to describe the careful cruelty of Lady Blackwell’s, where every word was a chess move and every silence a verdict.

But Cassidy’s laughter was different

unstudied, unsharpened. There was no

calculation in it. No hidden blade.

They walked together down the corridor, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors, their reflections shimmering in the polished stone like ghosts. The conversation between them was easy, effortless, as if they had known each other in some other life.

---

**Three Weeks Later**

In three weeks, Cassidy had become the axis on which Lydia’s world tilted. She was the first face Lydia looked for in the mornings, the last voice she heard before sleep. They had claimed a corner of the ivy-laced veranda as their own, where they ate lunch beneath the dappled sunlight, trading stories like secrets. Cassidy spoke in exclamation marks and

half-finished thoughts, her hands always moving, her laughter always spilling over.

Lydia had learned this about her: Cassidy did not wear her family name like armor. She did not flaunt it like the others, did not wield it as a weapon. It was only by accident that Lydia

discovered the truth—Cassidy’s blood was older, richer, _nobler_ than most at Lady

Blackwell’s. And more than that: she was the half-sister of Callum D’Aramitz.

_Callum._

The name alone was enough to make Lydia’s stomach tighten. She had met him on her first day—if it could even be called a meeting. It had been more like an ambush. She had

stumbled into the art studio, lost and late, and found him there—bent over a canvas like a man in prayer, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his mouth a hard line. He had looked up at her with an expression so cold it had felt like a physical blow.

And then he had turned away, as if she were nothing. As if she were air.

She had not forgotten the way her face had burned under his dismissal.

And now, sitting at her desk in the west wing, Lydia felt that same heat creeping up her neck as the art teacher announced the term’s major project—a paired painting recreation, partners assigned from different classes.

The room erupted in murmurs as students surged toward the board where the pairings were posted. Lydia hung back, her fingers twisting the edge of her notebook.

Then—

_“Oh my god! Lydia’s been paired with Callum D’Aramitz!”_

The words hit her like a slap. The room tilted. Every head turned toward her, eyes wide with something between awe and pity.

_“Lucky,”_ someone whispered. _“He’s the most brilliant painter in the school.”_

_“No one’s ever beaten him. He’s like… a

legend.”_

Lydia’s throat tightened. Her hands trembled as she gathered her things, her mind racing. Paired with _Callum_? After that day in the studio? After the way he had looked at her?

Cassidy appeared at her side, her brow

furrowed. “You okay?”

Lydia leaned against her locker, the metal cool against her back. “I haven’t spoken to him since the studio. He was… dismissive.”

Cassidy nodded slowly. “He does that. Don’t let it get to you. Callum’s not like the others, but he’s not easy either. There’s a reason

people don’t get close to him.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know,” Cassidy said softly. “But maybe you’re meant to.”

---

That evening, Lydia sat alone in an empty classroom, the silence pressing against her like a living thing. The scent of chalk and oil paint clung to the air, familiar now, like the ghost of a memory. Outside, the sky bled into dusk, the school’s spires casting long, jagged shadows across the courtyard.

This place had not been built for girls like her.

But she was here.

And she was beginning to understand

something: survival at Lady Blackwell’s was not just about playing the game.

It was about knowing when to bend.

And when to set the world on fire.