He didn't wait for my blessing.

That same night, just after lights-out, the video went live. Jude posted it across the student network, tagged it with ERIA's motto, and captioned it with four lethal words:

"Is this unity, Mr. Sydney?"

It spread like wildfire.

Within fifteen minutes, The Veritas Scroll—our anonymous student bulletin—had published an exposé linking Joseph's disciplinary record to a dozen complaints that had mysteriously "disappeared." Parents started forwarding the video to each other. By morning, it had reached Geneva. By noon, it was on the Société Nouvelle network with the headline:
"Donor's Son Accused of Bullying at Elite Swiss Academy."

By evening, Julius Sydney issued a press statement.

He didn't apologize.

He didn't deny.

He did what cowards always do—he deflected. Claimed the video was "selectively edited," called Jude "a disruptive influence," and demanded an internal investigation.

He gave the school an ultimatum: expel Jude Mbaye, or lose his funding.

The academy reeled in slow motion. Emergency meetings. Press liaisons. Every house buzzing with opinion and whispers. Cassia, naturally, blamed the school's "lax standards" on scholarship admission. Charlotte wanted "diplomatic discretion." And Seraphine?

Seraphine was silent.

And somehow, that was worse.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When we returned to the chamber, the room had changed. Not physically—but tonally. No one was smiling now. The laughter was gone. Even Cassia had dropped her biting remarks. We were deep in crisis territory, and everyone knew it.

Seraphine remained by the bookshelf, her back to us. The afternoon sun filtered through the velvet drapes now slightly parted, dust dancing like whispered secrets in the light.

She turned slowly.

"I propose," she said, in that perfectly calm, crystalline voice of hers, "that we host a high-level, international scholastic competition. A public contest. Between ERIA and the Constance Academy of Canada."

Murmurs rippled around the table.

She continued, stepping forward.

"We will extend an invitation to their debate team, fencing squad, cultural societies, and STEM divisions. A full academic, athletic, and diplomatic tournament. It will be broadcast, sponsored, and judged by international figures. Students will be paired across schools—cross-house, cross-border."

She let that sink in.

"If we must be seen taking action, let it be this: collaboration, excellence, and unity—on our terms."

I should have felt relieved. The media would love it. It would draw attention away from the scandal, keep Jude in school, maybe even renew donor interest.

But instead... I felt cold.

She was solving it, yes. But not for us. Not for justice. Not for Jude.

She was solving it for image. For optics. For legacy.

And they would all fall for it.

Cassia leaned forward. "If it's public, we'll need flawless execution. We'll need every house to participate."

Lucien nodded, visibly impressed. "It's a brilliant move."

Of course he'd think so. Of course they all would.

I sat back, jaw tight.

Seraphine Valmont-Régnier had just saved the school.

But not because it was right.

Because it was convenient.

As the others rose from the table, buzzing with newfound purpose, I stayed seated—watching her. Princess Seraphine, haloed in sunlight, surrounded by those who would follow her into fire without ever asking who lit the match. She had won. Again. But beneath the applause and polished glass, I made myself a quiet promise:

One day, I'll beat her at her own game.
Not for appearances.
Not for legacy.
But for the truth.