The weight on her shoulders

**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.

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