ENTWINED IN CONFLICT

Slice of a new life

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.”