Lydia stared out of the tall, mullioned

window of the grand drawing room,

watching the early morning mist slowly lift from the sprawling estate gardens. The soft breeze, carrying the scent of fresh roses and damp earth, drifted through the slightly ajar window, brushing against her face like a gentle caress. To anyone else, it might have seemed like a peaceful, perfect morning—the kind of day for leisurely strolls or tea in the garden. But for Lydia, it was just another fleeting moment in a life of constant change. A new country, a new estate, and soon,

another school.

She sighed softly, her fingers absently

tracing the lace trim on her gown.

Her father’s diplomatic post had them

moving with such frequency that any hope of stability had long since vanished. The past year had seen her through nine different schools, each more prestigious than the last, and yet each one as impermanent as the one before it. But Lydia wasn’t bitter. It was her final year, after all. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and with it, the freedom to choose her own path—one that would lead her to university and, hopefully, a more settled life.

Her mother’s voice called her from the dining room below, breaking her reverie. Today was important, or at least her parents believed it to be. Lydia was to begin her studies at the renowned Lady Blackwell’s Academy for Young Ladies, a place where only the daughters of the aristocracy and the wealthiest families were admitted. Her father had gone to great lengths to secure her a place at the academy, pulling strings with his political connections. To mark the occasion, they had even arranged for a new carriage, one

befitting her new status.

While she cared little for the school itself, the thought of the gleaming black barouche waiting in the courtyard brought a small smile to her lips. “At least something good has come of this,” she mused as she rose from her seat and made her way down the wide, winding staircase, her gown rustling softly against the polished wood.

In the richly adorned dining room, her parents sat at the long oak table, the morning sunlight filtering through the high windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Her father, dressed immaculately in his morning coat, sat behind the newspaper, while her mother, elegant in a pale lavender gown, sipped her tea from delicate china.

“Good morning, Mother. Good morning,

Father,” Lydia greeted, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on their cheeks.

“Morning, my dear,” her father responded, folding his paper neatly before rising from his seat to prepare for his departure. He bent down to kiss her mother on the hand, a gesture so tender and familiar that it made Lydia smile despite herself. “Must you always be so affectionate, Father?” she teased, though she secretly admired their unwavering devotion to one another.

Her father chuckled, placing his hat atop his head as he prepared to leave for his duties. “One day, my dear, you’ll understand,” he said, giving her a knowing look before stepping out into the waiting carriage.

As the sound of hooves and wheels echoed faintly from the driveway, Lydia turned back to her mother, who regarded her with a soft, knowing smile. Lydia groaned, playfully rolling her eyes. “Oh, Mother, please,” she said, taking a seat and reaching for her cup of tea.

“What, darling?” her mother replied, her voice feigning innocence as she sipped her own tea.

“I’m not a child anymore,” Lydia said, setting her cup down and standing to adjust her gloves. Her mother rose as well, smoothing the lace on Lydia’s dress even though it was already perfect.

“I just don’t want you running late, dearest,” her mother said softly, fussing over her as mothers do.

Lydia blushed lightly, batting her mother’s hands away with a soft laugh. “You’re making me feel like a child, Mother. I’ll be fine.”

Her mother smiled warmly, the bond

between them as strong as ever, despite the many changes their lives had endured.

Lydia’s heart swelled with affection as she thought of the many times her mother had been her rock during her father’s long absences. They shared everything, from secrets to dreams, and even the occasional girlish gossip. It made the constant moving bearable.

Outside, the new carriage awaited her, the sunlight glinting off its polished brass fittings. The footman opened the door, and Lydia climbed inside, settling onto the velvet cushions as the horses began their steady trot through the estate’s tree-lined path. The rolling countryside stretched out before her, a picture of serenity. Green fields dotted with grazing sheep and distant manor houses glimmered in the early light. The air was cool, crisp, and filled with promise.

As they approached Lady Blackwell’s Academy, Lydia could feel her heart quicken with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. The academy loomed ahead, a grand Gothic structure of grey stone and ivy, its towering spires casting long shadows over the cobblestone courtyard. It looked more like a castle than a school, its grandeur both intimidating and awe-inspiring. The other girls were already arriving, stepping down from their carriages, their fine gowns swishing elegantly as they exchanged greetings.

Lydia descended from her carriage, her shoes tapping lightly against the cobblestones as she surveyed the scene. The academy’s imposing doors stood open, welcoming the girls into its hallowed halls. She took a deep breath, reminding herself not to be intimidated. After all, she had long since learned that wealth and status often masked the same

insecurities that everyone else carried.

Inside, the academy was even more breathtaking. Ornate chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and the walls were lined with portraits of past headmistresses and alumni. Lydia wandered through the hallways, taking in the exquisite decor and the hushed murmur of students. She soon found herself drawn to a small, dimly lit art studio tucked away at the end of a long corridor.

Pausing at the threshold, she gazed at the canvases scattered across the room, each one bearing the marks of an artist’s hand. One painting in particular caught her eye—an unfinished portrait, its subject only half-formed, yet hauntingly beautiful. She found herself drawn to it, her fingers reaching out as if to trace the brushstrokes.

“That piece is not finished,” a voice broke the silence, low and melodic, sending a shiver down her spine.

Lydia spun around, startled. In the shadows stood a figure—a young man, tall, with an

intensity that seemed out of place in the

refined world of the academy. His eyes, deep and piercing, locked onto hers, and for a moment, she found herself unable to look away. He stepped forward, the light catching the sharp angles of his face, and Lydia felt her heart race.

“I—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing.

His skin was pale, nearly alabaster, his eyes dark and mysterious, like the night itself, with lashes long enough to cast shadows

beneath his gaze. His sharp, sculpted jawline gave him an air of aristocratic grace, but his pink lips, delicate and soft, seemed almost out of place on someone so intensely striking. His black hair, slightly curled and tousled, fell across his forehead with an

effortless dishevelment, giving him the

appearance of someone both rugged and ethereal. The contrast between his muscular frame and his porcelain complexion made him seem as though he belonged to another world entirely.

Lydia felt the air around her grow thick and warm, her body rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from him. She wasn’t sure if it was the closeness or the sheer intensity of his presence, but something about him rendered her mind blank. He was undeniably attractive—so much so that words failed her entirely. She stood there, frozen, until his voice broke the silence, harsher this time.

“Pardon me, are you deaf?” he snapped, stepping forward with a casual yet

domineering grace, his hand resting

arrogantly on his waistcoat. He tilted his head back slightly, as if exasperated by the scene before him. “Honestly, I’ve told you Ladies not to bother me while I’m working in the studio,” he continued, running a hand through his dark curls in a manner so deliberate, it was clear he knew the effect it had.

Lydia blinked, startled by his arrogance. The spell he had cast over her began to break. What was he even talking about? Chasing him? She hadn’t the slightest idea who he was, much less any intention of seeking him out.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but you must be

mistaken,” she said, regaining her composure.

“I happened upon this room by chance. I’m looking for the headmistress’s office, not… you.”

She felt a quiet satisfaction in correcting him, hoping that would be the end of it. But instead, he let out a deep, mocking laugh that sent a rush of irritation through her.

“Are you truly that naïve?” he sneered, his tone dripping with condescension. “You were practically undressing me with your eyes, and now you’re pretending innocence? How utterly absurd.” His lips curled into a wicked smirk, and before she could step back, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her close. His breath was warm against her neck, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt off balance.

“Or,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, “we could dispense with the pretenses. I don’t mind at all.” His fingers lightly brushed against her neck as he lifted her hair, his lips grazing her skin in a way that made her heart race and her breath catch.

Lydia’s entire body tensed, her mind warring with the strange, unwelcome heat that spread through her. For a fleeting,

maddening moment, her body seemed to

betray her, responding to the closeness, the intensity of his touch. But as his kisses grew more insistent, reality snapped back into place.

Summoning every ounce of strength and

dignity, Lydia wrenched herself free and,

before she had time to think, her hand flew across his cheek with a resounding slap.

The sharp crack echoed through the room, leaving them both in stunned silence. Lydia’s chest heaved, her heart pounding, as she glared up at him. Whatever spell he had tried to weave, it was broken now. She refused to be anyone’s plaything, least of all his.

Delivering a swift slap across his cheek, Lydia spat out a curse under her breath before storming out of the room. As soon as she pushed open the heavy oak door, a sudden tightness seized her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Her heart pounded violently, and cold sweat beaded on her forehead. She hurried down the corridor, seeking refuge in a quiet corner where she could catch her breath.

After a few moments, she managed to compose herself and headed for the headmistress’s office. Thirty minutes had passed, and she was still unable to locate her classroom. The headmistress had been far too busy with an important meeting to personally escort her, a delay for which Lydia silently cursed the insufferable gentleman she had just encountered. “Thanks to Mr. Arrogant,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

As Lydia walked briskly through the grand hallways of the school, distracted, she suddenly collided with someone.

“Ahh! Watch where you’re going, you blind fool!” a girl snarled, her voice dripping with disdain. The girl, with raven-black hair and a haughty expression, flicked her locks over her shoulder as if Lydia were beneath her

notice.

“I’ve complained about the headmistress

allowing people like you into the school.

The disabled should be kept in their own

institutions—honestly, I can’t bear the sight,” she sneered, turning to her companions without so much as a glance in Lydia’s

direction.

Her friends, heavily powdered and painted, laughed along, clearly amused. Lydia clenched her teeth, her anger bubbling up. “The nerve of these spoiled creatures,” she thought bitterly.

“Apologies for the collision,” Lydia began coolly, “but if we’re to be fair, we both bumped into each other, which means you’re just as blind as I am.” She raised an eyebrow, daring the girl to respond.

The girl—Suzana, she called herself—looked utterly shocked, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. “How… how dare this thing speak back to me?” she stammered, looking around as if expecting the world to confirm her outrage.

Lydia, unimpressed, bent down to retrieve the book that had fallen during their collision, her patience wearing thin. Just as she was about to walk away, Suzana, apparently not content to leave matters as they stood, continued.

“I suppose you must be new here. That would explain your dreadful fashion sense,” Suzana said, looking Lydia up and down with obvious disdain. “Allow me to introduce

myself—I’m Suzana, and these are my dear friends, Tesla and Victoria.”

Tesla, who had barely acknowledged Lydia, gave her a quick, contemptuous nod. Victoria, standing tall and regal, spoke up

almost immediately. “We are the ones you should be wary of,” she said, her tone filled with the same air of entitlement that seemed to hang around the trio. “You’d do well to learn your place and step aside when we pass.”

As they pushed Lydia out of the way, the girls continued their conversation, giggling like pampered princesses.

“I heard Fernando was in the art studio this morning,” Tesla chimed, their voices growing softer as they sauntered down the corridor, consumed by their own gossip.

Lydia rubbed her temples in frustration,

circling her neck to release the tension. This day had been nothing like she expected, and the last thing she needed was to cross paths with such arrogant girls. It was hard to believe they were seniors, flaunting their wealth and behaving as though the world belonged to them.

With a heavy sigh, Lydia gathered herself and adjusted her dress. As she lifted her head, she noticed her classroom was directly in front of her. Finally.