Gossips

The holidays had come and gone like a wisp of perfume—sweet, fleeting, and already fading at the edges of memory. Lydia returned to Lady Blackwell’s Academy with her satchel slung across her shoulder and a sense of quiet resolve in her chest. The school grounds were buzzing, its ivory towers and pristine

walkways now crowded with returning

students draped in silk scarves, velvet coats, and the casual arrogance that came with old

money.

Everywhere, voices echoed with stories of yachts and chalets, of family estates nestled in the mountains, of new jewelry collections and designer outfits acquired over the break. The hallways smelled of new perfume and old

entitlement. Girls with glassy smiles clutched steaming cups of imported coffee as they boasted about their holiday escapades, while the boys leaned against walls with smirks that suggested they’d done things no one dared to speak aloud.

But louder than all the gossip about vacations and ski trips was the hum of something more delicious: the scandal.

It started as whispers. Then, like spilled ink, it stained the air—impossible to ignore.

Everyone was talking about the article.

A glossy, slightly sensationalized piece had

appeared in The Blackwell Bulletin, the

Academy’s most notorious underground

publication, known for its brutal honesty and shameless exaggeration. It detailed, in bold lettering and embellished language, the

hallway incident that had unfolded just before the holiday break.

How Lydia—unapologetically fierce and

maddeningly poised—had stood up to the

formidable Suzana, shutting her down in front of a crowd. The article painted her as a heroine of sorts, calling her “the unexpected storm that disrupted the order.”

But it wasn’t just that.

It was what followed: a single photo of her walking beside Callum D’Aramitz, the school’s coldest and most unattainable figure, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes suspiciously cast in her direction.

Then the dating rumors began.

They spread like ivy, climbing every corner of the campus: that Lydia and Callum had been paired for an important art project by the headmaster himself. That they were seen “talking” in the library for over an hour. That Cassidy—the golden half-sister—had invited Lydia to her estate over the break.

Now, as Lydia made her way to her studio class, she could hear the murmurs all around her. Girls clutching their pearls, boys nudging each other with grins.

“She must’ve done something. No one talks to Callum unless he lets them.”

“Maybe she’s his type, whatever that is.”

“I heard she actually kneed him in the—”

“Please stop,” Lydia muttered as she walked alongside Cassidy through the sculpture

garden, her tone clipped. “It’s only a project, and everyone is making a fuss over nothing.

I don’t care about this gossip, and besides,

I have no interest in your brother.”

As the words fell from her lips, a sudden

silence drew her attention—and when she turned, Callum was standing barely inches away, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the stone path.

His presence was startling. Crisp uniform,

collar slightly undone, jaw sharp as ever. He leaned in slightly, dark eyes locked with hers, an unreadable expression flickering beneath the quiet smirk on his lips.

Lydia’s breath hitched, heart stammering against her ribs.

Cassidy, ever the observer, raised a brow and cleared her throat. “Ahem… Are you two

planning to stand like that all day?” she teased, folding her arms with a bemused grin.

Lydia jerked back, stumbling a step as heat crept up her neck. “W-what are you doing here?”

Callum didn’t answer immediately.

He straightened up, slipping his hands into his pockets with deliberate ease, and let his gaze linger on her face.

“Why are you two gossiping about me?” he asked, his voice lazy and teasing. “Or is it that your new friend here can’t stop dreaming about me?”

Lydia’s blood boiled.

She blinked hard, her composure cracking. “Oh, please,” she muttered, folding her arms. “Why must the world revolve around you,

Callum?”

He laughed. Actually laughed. A rich, velvety sound that seemed far too relaxed for

someone so famously aloof. “So you already know how to speak to me with that tone, even though I never gave you the permission? How disrespectful can you be?”

It wasn’t just the arrogance. It was the

enjoyment in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was some thrilling new game he’d discovered in an old library.

And that was it. That was the final thread.

Without a word, Lydia raised her knee and—swift, precise—kicked him right where it would hurt the most.

Callum let out a strangled sound, doubling over with a groan that echoed across the

garden. Cassidy gasped, wide-eyed.

And Lydia—head held high, curls bouncing with each furious step—spun on her heel and sprinted down the corridor, her heart pounding with something that felt dangerously close to exhilaration.

Behind her, gasps turned into laughter.

Someone clapped. Someone whistled.

But Lydia didn’t look back.

Her thoughts were a chaotic swirl of

satisfaction and horror. She had just kneed the most powerful boy in the academy in front of his sister and a dozen onlookers.

But gods, it had felt good.

And somewhere—though she didn’t know it yet—Callum, still bent over and wincing, was laughing again.

Not because he was hurt.

But because now, more than ever, he knew—Lydia was going to be impossible to ignore.

...****************...

Few days before the grand Razzito Ball

unfolded like a delicate ribbon of laughter and silk. Cassidy’s room was a sprawling wonder of pink-gold accents, delicate chandeliers, and velvet throw pillows strewn across the chaise by the tall arched windows. Sunlight spilled generously into the room as if eager to be a part of the moment, casting everything in a soft, glowing haze. The air was laced with the scent of sweet perfume and the rustle of

designer gowns pulled from racks that looked more like a boutique than a bedroom.

Lydia stood barefoot near the mirrored wardrobe, her long hair cascading like black ink down her back as she examined the

options Cassidy had laid out.

Cassidy, perched cross-legged on the bed, grinned wickedly. “So… you really kicked my brother in the—well, you know.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Lydia groaned, her hand over her face. “Please don’t remind me. I acted on impulse. And now the entire school probably thinks I’m deranged.”

Cassidy laughed, the sound light and warm. “No one’s ever done that to Callum. Ever. He usually makes girls cry, not run away victorious.” She leaned in with a mock-serious whisper. “But Lydia… just so you know, he might bite back.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of him,” Lydia replied breezily, though her cheeks betrayed her with a hint of color. “He’s not as terrifying as he thinks.”

“Hmm,” Cassidy said, rising to her feet and walking toward the rolling racks. “You’re not like the rest of them. That’s probably why he’s interested.”

“I’m not interested,” Lydia said quickly, almost too quickly.

Cassidy chuckled. “Right. Of course not.”

Soon, the conversation turned to softer things—ball gowns, silk gloves, which heels wouldn’t make them suffer through the night. Cassidy pulled out a blush-toned gown for herself,

delicate with lace and soft shimmer.

Lydia held it up and arched a brow. “Maxwell won’t know what hit him.”

Cassidy turned red instantly. “Lydia!”

“What? I’m only saying the truth.” She winked playfully. “You’ll be the most stunning girl in the ballroom.”

Cassidy giggled and stepped into the dress. It fit like a dream. Then, she turned her focus to Lydia, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“No. We’re not done yet. You need one too.”

“I told you, I don’t even want to go—”

“You have to go. Your father is attending, and besides, we can’t let Callum’s ego go unchecked,” Cassidy teased, already pulling out a deep floral-printed gown from the back of the rack. “Try this. Now.”

Lydia sighed, giving in, and disappeared

behind the screen. When she stepped out, the room seemed to pause. The dress, a cascade of dark florals against a silken base, hugged her in all the right places. It swept down to the floor, soft but daring, accentuating the length of her neck, her figure, the curve of her back. Her hair, black as night, spilled down her spine like an ink-stroke in motion.

Cassidy’s mouth parted slightly. “Now that’s a dress that’s perfect for you.”

Lydia glanced at herself in the mirror, almost startled. “It’s… a bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s perfect,” Cassidy said, smiling with

satisfaction.

Meanwhile, the sun had begun to retreat

behind the manor roofs of the D’Aramitz estate, casting the corridors in golden streaks as Callum returned from his afternoon ride. His horse-riding clothes were dusted with specks of sun and earth, and he moved through the manor like he belonged to it—effortlessly, unapologetically.

Maids rushed in his direction, bowing slightly, the scent of hay and expensive leather trailing behind him. He pulled off his gloves with

casual precision, handing them to a waiting butler.

“Is my sister home?” he asked, his voice calm and clipped.

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied. “She’s in her room—with Miss Lydia.”

Callum paused mid-stride. Something flickered across his face—something almost unreadable. Eagerness? No. He pushed it away. “Alright.”

He took the stairs slowly, his horse-riding

helmet tucked under his arm. As he neared the end of the hallway, he stopped at Cassidy’s

ornate pink door, half-open. He was about to knock when he heard Lydia’s voice—cheerful, light, like summer wind on a quiet lake.

He hesitated, caught off guard. She didn’t sound like the girl who rolled her eyes and challenged him at every turn. She sounded… free. Happy.

Then he saw her.

She turned slightly, and his breath caught. The dress molded to her like it had been made for her. The lines of her body, the sweep of her long black hair, the effortless grace with which she carried herself—it was all too much. Too dangerous. Too beautiful.

He clenched his jaw, retreating before either of them could see him. By the time he reached his room, he was already shedding his clothes. Sunlight spilled onto his bare chest through the high windows. He raked his fingers through his hair, irritated.

He had never once cared who his sister invited over. And yet here he was, peeking through doors like some lovesick boy. Ridiculous.

He stepped into the shower, letting the water run cold.

And still—her image lingered. That dress. That smile. That girl.

Lydia.

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