Lysa stared at the Polaroid in her hand long after the hallway emptied. Her fingers trembled, but her jaw stayed set.
A red X. A threat.
All over a single conversation.
She should’ve felt fear.
But all she felt… was heat.
Not the good kind. The sharp kind—the kind that ran through her veins like gasoline.
Who did Samuel think he was?
She crumpled the photo and shoved it in her drawer. Locked the door. Then lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in reach.
The next morning, Valemont seemed even colder. The hallways whispered louder, the marble floors harder beneath her boots.
Her phone buzzed.
*Unknown number:*
*"Detention. Room B-13. Noon. Don’t be late."*
No name. No explanation.
She didn’t respond.
Didn’t have to.
She already knew who it was.
***
At noon, Lysa walked down the deserted hallway leading to B-13. Most students avoided this wing—old classrooms, unused labs, broken projectors still hanging from the ceilings like fossils.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
Empty room.
Except for one figure leaning against the window, sunlight cutting across his cheekbones.
Samuel.
Of course.
“Breaking school rules already?” she said.
He turned, slow and deliberate, sipping coffee like this was a casual meeting and not a setup.
“Nice of you to show up.”
“You sent me a fake detention notice.”
“No such thing as fake when it comes from me.”
Lysa stepped inside, arms crossed. “What do you want?”
He walked toward her, each step unhurried but deliberate. “Curious. No fear. Most girls would’ve run.”
“I’m not most girls.”
He stopped inches from her. “That’s the problem.”
She stared up at him. “That Polaroid on my door. That was you?”
“Yes.”
“No shame?”
“None.”
She exhaled sharply. “You’re obsessed.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then rose again. “Not yet.”
Lysa’s stomach flipped.
She hated it.
She *loved* it.
“I don’t do games,” she said.
“You’re already playing.”
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out something small, and pressed it into her palm. Then turned and walked away.
She looked down.
A chess piece.
The queen.
Carved in deep red glass. Heavy. Cold.
She turned back toward the hallway, but he was already gone.
***
Later that day, she found Aria in the library, flipping through a fashion magazine like it was a novel.
“Ever heard of someone sending gifts as threats?” Lysa asked, dropping into the seat across from her.
Aria didn’t look up. “From Samuel?”
“Of course.”
Aria sighed. “He’s possessive. Controlling. Raised by men who taught him love is the same as ownership.”
“That’s toxic.”
“That’s power,” Aria corrected. “And you’re bait.”
“I’m not anyone’s anything.”
“Tell that to the queen in your pocket.”
Lysa didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
Because deep down, she knew Aria was right.
And worse?
Part of her wanted to see what would happen if she played along.
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