Chapter 1 – The Devil Wears a Uniform

I didn't really give the actual summary but here it is

*Summary:*

At *Valemont Academy*, power comes dressed in secrets and silk.

*Lysa Morgan*, a sharp-tongued tomboy with a dirty mind and a bruised past, never belonged to the world of elite bloodlines and designer masks. But when a mysterious scholarship drops her into the lion’s den, she finds herself circling something far more dangerous than privilege.

*Samuel Virelli* isn’t just the academy’s golden heir — he’s the shadow behind its walls. Possessive. Deadly. Seductive. A playboy with a dark empire at his feet and a deeper obsession in his eyes.

Lysa is warned to stay away.

Samuel doesn’t care.

And the line between love and obsession is already bleeding.

As secrets unravel, alliances shift, and bodies drop, Lysa must decide:

Will she survive his world…

Or rise to rule it?

...----------------...

*Chapter 1 – The Devil Wears a Uniform*

The first thing Lysa noticed about Valemont Academy wasn’t the towering gates or the security cameras hiding in ivy.

It was how quiet everything was.

Too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that whispered peace—but the kind that warned you *not to make a sound*.

She adjusted her oversized hoodie and slung her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, ignoring the way two girls in plaid skirts sneered as they passed. Hair perfect. Lip gloss sharp. Faces built to judge.

Lysa smirked. Let them.

This place may have been dripping in wealth and old money, but she hadn’t come here to impress anyone.

She came because someone — *somehow* — paid her full scholarship. And no one, not even the school counselor, knew who.

Just a signature: *S.V.*

She didn’t care. Free was free.

Until she saw *him.*

Leaning against a matte black Maserati, sleeves rolled up, cigarette smoldering between his fingers like it belonged there. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show ink licking across his collarbone. And that smirk…

Like he knew all your secrets before you said a word.

“New girl,” he said lazily, eyes flicking over her hoodie, her combat boots, her stubborn chin. “You don’t look like the type this school breeds.”

Lysa tilted her head. “You don’t look like someone who cares.”

He laughed — a low, dangerous sound. “Touché.”

She turned to walk past him. He stepped in front of her.

“Name?” he asked.

“You first.”

“Samuel,” he said, the word thick with confidence. “But people here don’t call me that.”

“What do they call you?”

“Trouble.”

*Of course.*

Lysa rolled her eyes and moved again. He let her pass this time, but his voice followed.