The dim room was, like everywhere in this school, exquisite to the point of absurdity—decor that didn't whisper wealth, but screamed privilege. The center table was carved from veined Carrara marble, cold to the touch, though the heated velvet seats tried their best to soften that truth. Above us hung a pearl chandelier that dripped like a waterfall frozen in midair; when I stood to my full height, I could almost graze its lowest crystal with my fingertips.

Paintings of Valmont alumni lined the walls—dukes, duchesses, politicians, generals, their eyes following us with the kind of disdain that said we'd never quite measure up. The high ceiling had been transformed into a celestial dome, a mural of Greek mythology spanning from Aphrodite's birth to Zeus hurling thunder—power immortalised. The large, arched windows—almost floor to ceiling—were cloaked in thick, black velvet drapes, muffling light and noise until the whole space felt like the inside of a velvet-lined casket. At the far end stood a grand bookshelf, more ornamental than functional.

I looked around the table, taking in each serious, tight-lipped face until my gaze landed—inevitably—on her.

Seraphine.

Unruffled as ever. Elegant, expressionless. Almost bored, as if the scandal threatening to unravel the academy's reputation was just another dull chapter in her gilded day. Her sapphire eyes, cold and distant, stared past everyone—like none of this could possibly touch her. And of course, it wouldn't.

Unconsciously, I mirrored her stance—perfectly poised, hands folded just so—before catching myself. Fury surged through me, hot and electric. I couldn't believe I'd ever admired her. Seraphine, who cared more about preserving appearances than defending what was right. She would rather gild the truth than let justice take root.

And yet... there's something about her, something effortless. That je ne sais quoi that makes people orbit her without even realising it. She is the French Princess. Princess Seraphine Valmont-Régnier. Her twin brother is the Crown Prince of France. Her influence wasn't earned—it was inherited. But it worked. This school may pretend to be a meritocracy, but everyone knew who really ruled: the girl with sapphires for eyes and history in her blood.

Her ancestor, King Louis Régnier, founded the school alongside a coalition of international aristocrats and visionaries. Her great-aunt, Duchess Eleanor Valmont, established House Valmont—the most prestigious of them all. She didn't just walk these halls. They were built for her.

And that fact infuriated me to no end.

But we had no time for dynastic resentment. The crisis was real and immediate. I glanced once more around the table as house presidents volleyed ideas, like clashing nobility in a court of glass. Not long after, Cassia and Charlotte began arguing—again—each defending their strategy with thinly veiled superiority. Cassia's American bite, Charlotte's British frost. The same old power play.

I sighed. I didn't belong here. I was only here because of my grades and a scholarship application I wrote at 2am while eating cereal in a Brooklyn apartment lit by a flickering bulb.

Just as I was about to tune them out entirely, a voice cut through the din.

"We have to be seen taking action," Lucien said.

His voice was calm, but resolute—and it landed like a dropped goblet in a silent room.

I hated that his words made sense.

I also hated that the way his black cashmere sweater made his hazel eyes look brighter didn't escape my attention.

But what he said—that doused me in ice.

"No!" I blurted, cutting him off, my voice louder than I intended.

The room froze.

Every gaze turned toward me. I straightened my spine, tamping down the tremor in my hands, and narrowed my eyes at the prince.

"We cannot be seen taking action," I said, my tone measured now, slicing. "Not when it means expelling a student for telling the truth."

The silence was sharp enough to bleed.

"This school was founded on Nobilitas Obligat, Virtus Ducit—nobility obligates, virtue leads," I continued, eyes locked on Lucien. "To expel Jude Mbaye would reveal the motto as a farce. It would tell the world that instead of promoting unity and inclusivity, this school protects its elites at the expense of justice."

Lucien blinked, then—laughing.

He actually laughed.

"You make a compelling case," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "But Mr. Sydney demands compensation—or he pulls his donation. That wouldn't normally be an issue, except Mr. Sydney is not just a donor. He's an influential board member. And he's reached out to other patrons. If Jude isn't expelled, we face a withdrawal cascade."

He tapped his tablet, and the numbers appeared on the wall screen.

"Forty-two percent of the academy's funding. Gone. That's elite programming. Scholarships. International excursions. The Gala. All of it."

Then he looked at me—his expression cool, but not cruel.

"Are you willing to risk that?"

I opened my mouth, words ready to leap into the fire, but Seraphine raised one gloved hand—lilac silk, imperious and feather-light.

The room obeyed.

"As House Valmont's President and school representative, I call for recess," she said, already rising from her chair, gliding toward the bookshelf like it had called her name.

Her voice, calm as glacier water, held finality.

Two Months Earlier

The chaos began quietly, as these things often do. Two months ago, Julius Sydney—the billionaire philanthropist and serial opportunist—announced his candidacy for president. The same day, he launched a campaign titled "Unity, Family, and the Future."

Jude found me after Chemistry—two hours of atomic structure and vapour pressure—and I could tell something was brewing the moment he stormed up the path.

We walked toward the Diplomatic Terrace, our usual haunt. Marble steps framed by clipped laurel hedges. Mont Blanc looming like a pale sentinel in the distance. The terrace had hosted everything from UN mock summits to whispered gossip wars. And at its edge, naturally, stood Le Salon du Verre—a glittering, over-designed alcove masquerading as diplomacy's drinking room. Crystal decanters. Shelves curated for photo ops. Charm, served chilled.

I'd always found it laughable. They poured power into cut-glass and called it progress.

We were the first to arrive—always were. Jude and I ran the debate team. Me as President. Him as Vice. We made it a point of principle to be early.

I sat at the round marble table meant to symbolise equality—ha!—while Jude stalked over to Le Salon, selected a decanter, and poured two glasses. He offered me one. I declined with a quiet shake of my head.

He studied me for a second before downing his own in a single, frustrated gulp. He winced.

"I still don't know what's in those," I muttered.

He snorted. "Fruit infusions. Non-alcoholic. Probably laced with elitism though."

Then he said, flatly, "Do you know the crap that idiot Sydney is spouting?"

I blinked. "The father?"

He nodded, jaw tight. "You need to see this."

He shoved his phone at me. I watched the video.

Julius Sydney. On a press stage. Smiling like he invented sincerity. He spoke of community, equality, investing in youth, "fostering harmony at ERIA." He cited his donation to the school as proof of his commitment to bridging divides.

It was—bluntly put—nauseating.

The man funding a school where his own son was the most consistent and vicious bully... now preaching about inclusivity?

When the video ended, I handed the phone back and simply said, "Wow."

Jude wasn't finished.

"I'm done playing nice," he muttered. "They all pretend they don't see it—what Joseph does. The taunts. The sabotage. The threats. The bruises."

He pulled up another video. This one wasn't a speech. It was footage—grainy, quiet, terrifying in its clarity. Joseph Sydney, pushing a first-year scholarship student into a locker. Calling him slurs. Laughing.

Then another: Joseph mocking a student's accent. Tearing pages out of someone's poetry notebook. Laughing again.

Jude looked at me, voice trembling—not with fear, but righteous rage.

"I'm posting this," he said. "Today."