A fire Unquenchable

Lydia returned home as dusk painted the city in a soft, melancholy gray. The ache in her limbs mirrored the one gnawing at her

mind—a weariness that went far beyond physical exhaustion. She didn’t even bother

removing the elegant clothes Cassidy had

insisted she try on for the Razzito Ball. The layers of silk and tulle still clung to her frame as she stumbled into her room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

She collapsed face-first into the bed, the plush mattress barely cushioning the weight of her thoughts.

Her chest rose and fell slowly, her eyes fixed on the dim, patterned shadows dancing across the ceiling. The events of the day—the

whirlwind of fabric, mirrors, laughter, and the endless whisper of Callum’s name—played back like a haunting melody. There was always a storm wherever he went, and somehow, she was always caught in it.

She thought about her family. Her parents. The pressure that wrapped around her like chains made of silk—elegant, invisible, inescapable. Her father’s role in the diplomatic world meant their name was a symbol of prestige, poise, perfection. Lydia had long understood her duty: to move with grace, to speak with tact, to never waver. It wasn’t her life. It was the life of the Ambassador’s Daughter.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the quiet in her room finally offering a kind of peace she rarely tasted. And for the first time in weeks, she

allowed herself to feel the weight of it all. Her fists clenched into the sheets. The rules. The masks. The suffocating expectations. If she let herself cry now, she feared she might never stop.

Morning arrived far too quickly.

The sun bathed Lady Blackwell’s Academy in golden light as Lydia stepped through the iron gates, the cool breeze lifting her hair like a crown. The moment her boots hit the marble floors of the corridor, the whispers began.

“Isn’t that her?”

“That’s the girl who struck Callum.”

“No one’s ever done that before.”

Their words were knives disguised as curiosity. Lydia could feel them nicking at her pride with every hushed syllable. But she didn’t flinch. Her head remained high, her expression

unreadable. She’d learned how to wear silence like armor.

Still, a chill crept up her spine.

Something’s coming.

As she slid into her seat in the morning class, she noticed Cassidy’s absence immediately.

A small frown tugged at her lips. Strange.

Cassidy never missed class. Her presence—like her personality—was always loud, vibrant, unavoidable.

The lesson had only just begun when the door creaked open.

A woman stepped inside, statuesque and

immaculately dressed in a tailored navy-blue skirt suit. Her presence was commanding, her composure absolute. With the grace of royalty, she curtsied to Mr. Melda and offered a polite smile.

“Forgive the interruption, sir,” she said in a crisp, refined accent. “I’ve come on behalf of the headmistress. Lady Lydia is requested.”

The class fell silent for half a heartbeat—then erupted into whispers again.

Lydia blinked in confusion. The headmistress?

The woman turned her gaze toward her, and it was clear she already knew who Lydia was. Her unique black long hair made her as easy to find as a flame in a sea of ash.

“If you would follow me,” the woman said with a graceful nod.

Lydia rose, every eye in the room tracking her every move. She hated the way it made her feel—exposed, accused, as though she had done something unforgivable.

Mr. Melda’s cane tapped once on the desk. “That is enough, all of you.”

The walk to the headmistress’s office felt like a silent trial. The grand hallways, normally

beautiful in their antique opulence, now felt foreboding. The woman beside her said

nothing, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished floors.

When they reached the grand doors, she paused.

“She is expecting you.” With that, the woman opened the door and let Lydia step through alone.

The first thing Lydia saw was Miss

Oakwell—seated behind her oak desk, her

expression unreadable.

The second was Callum.

Lounging in a leather armchair like he

belonged there. One long leg crossed over the other, fingers lazily tapping the armrest, his school uniform slightly disheveled in that

deliberate, infuriating way. His eyes met hers, and there was a flicker of amusement in them. Mischief. Victory.

Lydia’s stomach turned.

“Lady Lydia,” Miss Oakwell said. “Please, sit.”

She took the seat beside Callum, her posture stiff, spine straight as a blade.

“Do you know why you’ve been summoned?”

Lydia’s voice came out steady. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Oakwell folded her hands. “It has been brought to my attention that there was a rather… improper incident yesterday between you and Lord Callum. He claims a young lady physically assaulted him.

I trust you understand the severity of such an accusation?”

Lydia’s blood ran cold. She turned sharply

toward Callum, her eyes wide with disbelief.

This is what Cassidy meant. He’s biting back.

But before she could utter a single word in her defense, Callum moved.

He reached for her hand.

And kissed it.

Lydia’s mouth opened slightly in shock. Her body stiffened.

“Miss Oakwell,” Callum said smoothly, “there’s no need for alarm. It was nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel. A misunderstanding. Lydia didn’t mean any harm.”

He smiled.

It was charming. Convincing.

Lying.

Lydia wanted to scream.

Miss Oakwell exhaled, clearly annoyed but not inclined to press further. “If that’s the case, then see that it remains private. This institution does not tolerate dramatic displays.

Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Callum said. Then he stood, pulling Lydia to her feet beside him, his hand at her waist like they were partners in a waltz.

They left the office under the illusion of lovers walking in harmony. But Lydia’s heart was

racing, her jaw clenched tight.

As soon as they were far enough, she yanked him down a side corridor and shoved him into an empty classroom. The door slammed shut behind them.

She spun around, eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?”

Callum leaned casually against the table,

looking every bit the bored aristocrat. “You’re welcome.”

“Welcome?” she echoed, stunned. “You turned me into a laughingstock. You lied to the

headmistress! You humiliated me!”

“I saved you,” he said calmly. “You’re lucky I find you entertaining.”

Her voice trembled with fury. “What is your deal, Callum? Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

He straightened slowly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Maybe it’s the way you walked in here like you owned the place. Or maybe it’s the kick. In a very delicate place.”

Lydia stumbled back instinctively, her spine meeting the cold wall as he advanced. He was too close, his voice dropping low like a promise.

“You think you can waltz in, mock me, assault me, and then pretend like nothing happened?”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Liar,” he whispered, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips lingered at her cheek, his breath brushing her lips.

Then he kissed her.

It was nothing like she imagined. It was a storm.

Hot. Fierce. Possessive.

His lips crushed hers with maddening intensity, and before she could stop herself, she responded. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel herself slip into something

terrifying and intoxicating.

But she pushed him away, gasping.

“Stop,” she whispered. Her voice was shaking. Her heart was pounding.

Callum stepped back, chest heaving. His smirk was still there—but there was something else in his eyes now.

Something darker.

He knew now.

She wasn’t immune.

And that changed everything.

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