1

The rhythm of her heels echoed in sharp, confident clicks across the marble-tiled hallway, steady against the muffled chaos that filled the school.

The breeze drifting through the tall windows carried a bite of cold, brushing across her cheeks as she moved with elegance through the crowd. Students around her were a blur of laughter, gossip, and youthful noise. Hands waved, sneakers scuffed against the floor, clusters of teenagers leaned against lockers or sprawled in corners. It was a universe of fleeting joys, small dramas, silly crushes — the kind of world most seventeen-year-olds lived in with careless hearts.

But not Elena Silva.

Her lips remained in their usual straight line, painted with restraint. She carried herself with poise, her head high, her chocolate-brown eyes steady. She never let herself forget who she was, not even for a heartbeat.

The daughter of the Silvas.

The most beautiful face of the Silva territory.

Her presence commanded attention even when she didn't want it. The crisp white of her school blouse tucked neatly into her pleated skirt, the subtle sway of her long hair as it fell down her back, the quiet steel in her gaze — it all drew eyes whether she willed it or not. Whispers followed her. Some admiring, some envious.

But Elena didn't stop. She never lingered, never joined the circles of giggling girls or rowdy boys shouting about weekend plans. She slipped past them all, heels cutting a path down the hallway, a solitary figure of discipline and quiet pride.

She wasn't like them. Couldn't be like them.

Her backpack hung loosely off one shoulder, her slender hand gripping the strap tightly as if to anchor herself to reality. At the end of the hallway, she halted in front of a heavy wooden door with a polished nameplate:

Mrs. Claire Johnson, Headmistress.

Elena inhaled once, steadying herself, then lifted her hand to knock. Her knuckles made three soft taps against the door.

"Come in," came the reply, firm yet distracted.

Elena pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The headmistress — a dignified woman in her early fifties with short silver-streaked hair — glanced up from a stack of papers. Surprise flickered across her features.

"Oh. Elena?" Mrs. Claire's voice held curiosity.

Elena closed the door behind her, the faint scent of lavender from a vase on the desk filling her senses. With graceful composure, she stepped forward and placed a crisp sheet of paper onto the desk.

"I wanted to talk about my scholarship, Mrs. Claire," Elena said evenly.

The headmistress's brows softened, her stern face warming with approval as she took the form. "Ah, yes. Of course. Sit down, dear."

Elena lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk, her posture perfect, hands folded in her lap. Her expression remained blank, unreadable.

Mrs. Claire adjusted her glasses and glanced down at the form — then frowned.

It was blank.

Her eyes flicked back up. "Elena, dear... you didn't fill this out."

"I won't be accepting the scholarship," Elena replied simply.

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

The headmistress blinked. "You... won't accept it?" Her voice faltered in disbelief. "But Elena, this is an honor. You've worked so hard, and your grades—"

"I am quitting my studies."

The words were spoken with calm finality, but beneath them, Elena's heart twisted.

Mrs. Claire set her glasses down on the desk. Her face, usually composed and stern, now looked startled. "Quitting?"

Elena nodded once.

"Why on earth would you do such a thing? You're our top student, Elena. The scholarship was offered because of your brilliance, your dedication. You have such a promising future—"

Elena cut in gently, but firmly. "I don't have a choice."

The headmistress's lips parted, then closed again. She studied Elena carefully, the way a mother might study a child hiding bruises. "Is this about your family?" she asked softly.

"No."

The lie slipped out easily. Too easily.

But Mrs. Claire wasn't convinced. She leaned forward slightly, concern etching lines into her face. "Then why? Elena, I've known you for years. You've never been the type to give up. Not on anything. What has changed?"

For the briefest moment, Elena's gaze faltered. She looked down at her hands, at the faint impression of her nails against her palm from where she'd been holding too tightly to her bag earlier. A sharp breath filled her chest, her ribs straining around the weight she'd been carrying.

Finally, she lifted her eyes again.

"I'm getting married," she said softly.

The room stilled.

Mrs. Claire's eyes widened. She leaned back in her chair as though the words had struck her physically. "Married?"

Elena nodded, her face smooth, her voice steady.

"At your age?" The disbelief was thick in her voice. "Elena, you're seventeen. You have your entire life ahead of you, and you're talking about marriage? That's... that's not right."

Elena's lips twitched into the faintest smile — polite, formal, empty. "I don't get to decide what's right, Mrs. Claire."

The headmistress's throat worked, searching for words. "Does your family—" She stopped herself. "Of course they do. Elena, listen to me. You're bright. Brilliant. You could go anywhere, be anything. Don't let them throw your future away like this."

Elena's heart ached at the sincerity in the woman's voice. For a moment, she wanted to believe. To imagine a life where her choices mattered, where her future wasn't signed away like a contract.

But she knew better.

This was her fate. The Silva family did not raise daughters to chase dreams. They raised them to protect legacies.

"I've made up my mind," Elena said, rising gracefully from her chair.

Mrs. Claire's voice sharpened. "Elena—"

"I won't regret it," Elena interrupted, though her chest tightened as she spoke.

The lie burned her tongue.

She turned, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she headed for the door. Her hand paused on the knob for just a moment. She forced her lips into a polite smile — the kind she'd perfected over the years to mask everything she truly felt.

"Thank you, Mrs. Claire," she said softly.

And then she stepped out, leaving the scent of lavender and the headmistress's heavy sigh behind her.

The hallway outside was still alive with laughter, with teenagers shouting about weekend parties and dances and football games. Elena walked past them like a ghost drifting through another world.

She was not one of them. She had never been.

Her mind replayed the words she hadn't spoken:

My marriage isn't my choice. It was decided years ago. To a man I barely know. A man the world calls ruthless. Gabriel Marquez.

The name carried weight. Power. Fear.

He was whispered about even in the hallways of her school, though most students didn't realize those whispers touched her life directly.

Gabriel Marquez. The throne holder. The man who owned half of Europe in shadows and silence. The man who, in a matter of weeks, would own her.

Her future had never been hers.

And as Elena walked, her chest ached with the quiet grief of a girl forced to grow into a woman too soon.

She had no choice.

Only the path carved out for her.

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