I threw a pair of jeans onto the rapidly growing pile of clothes on my bed. I wanted to look as smart and confident as possible to withstand Cassia’s demeaning stare. Alas, my clothes were against me. Just the usual jeans and sweaters, and the only dress I owned had already been worn to dinner last night. I had about an hour to get ready before breakfast. The meeting would follow, announced in a text from Cassia.

Group Chat: Interschool Comp HQ
Cassia: Tomorrow’s meeting takes place after breakfast. Or do we need to hold a meeting for that too?

Everyone replied with a thumbs up—except Charlotte, Seraphine, and me. I wasn’t even sure Seraphine was in the group.

In the end, I chose the most desirable outfit I could manage: a skirt buried at the bottom of my suitcase (which I’d basically dumped clothes into for House Valmont). It was ankle-length and straight, not form-fitting. I paired it with a black slim-fit turtleneck and added a belt—thanks to Eloise’s recommendation (Eloise is my ChatGPT, by the way).

In the mirror, I could honestly say I liked what I saw. My afro was tied in a bun with a green scrunchie, a shade lighter than my skirt. I looked confident—though inside, I was clammy and nervous. With my only pair of black ballet flats, I took one last look.

Good.

When I entered the dining room, everyone was already there. Even Alessandro. That’s when I realised—I was very late.

What I hated most was walking into a full room, every head turning toward me. That was why I was never late. I’d even asked Eloise the best time to arrive, since Cassia hadn’t specified. Being Saturday, she’d recommended nine. Wanting to be early, I left my room at 8:40. It should only be 8:45 now.

The stares made me wish the floor would swallow me, but I pushed down my nerves and walked to my seat—the one farthest down the table. The walk felt humiliating.

As soon as I sat, everyone returned to eating.

“Ah, so we should have scheduled breakfast as well. My mistake,” Cassia remarked smoothly. She lifted a piece of brioche with her knife, spread butter with deliberate precision, and set it back on her plate as if it were an art form. Her tone was light, but each syllable cut like glass.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, wishing I could disappear. Nobody seemed impressed. Even Charlotte shot me a disapproving glance, her spoon clinking faintly against porcelain as she stirred her tea.

Then, surprisingly, Seraphine spoke.

“I must applaud the chef,” she said coolly, “for preparing all this for our breakfast at 8:30.”

I frowned. The food wasn’t anything extraordinary. Why compliment it? Seraphine never struck me as the type to flatter chefs. Then it hit me—our breakfast at 8:30. She was telling me the time.

When I looked up, she was already watching me, a faint smile on her lips. Then, almost instantly, her face returned to that expressionless mask I’d come to know, as if daring me to catch the hint. But it happened so quickly, I couldn’t be sure. Had she just helped me—or simply praised the chef?

No time to dwell. The meeting loomed.

Breakfast gradually eased. Conversation spread, tension thinning. I even managed a light exchange with Ariane about the roles we’d like to play, a complete contrast to my awkward monologue at last night’s dinner. She chuckled elegantly when I confessed I could never lead important guests to their seats—I’d only end up calling them all Mr. Sydney, since they looked alike to me.

“No,” she corrected gently, “a waiter or waitress handles that. And yes, middle-aged gentlemen in bespoke suits do indeed look alike—physically and, unfortunately, in personality as well.”

I stared at her, wide-eyed, as she went on:

“As in the case of our dear Mr. Sydney. He does resemble Senator Frizze, does he not?”

Senator Frizze—who had somehow won an election while embroiled in a sexual assault scandal, thanks to his connections.

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. I clamped my mouth shut, but no one noticed. Everyone was deep in their own conversations: Alessandro and Lucien serious across the table, Charlotte whispering to Yumi, David laughing at something on Rafael’s phone. Cassia leaned toward Seraphine, speaking intently, her manicured fingers resting lightly on her teacup, while Seraphine merely nodded from time to time, unfazed and unreadable.

After breakfast, we were surprised to head into the common room instead of the meeting room with the long table. When someone asked, Cassia said only, “Common room,” her tone clipped, as though the single word had been wrung from her.

She took a seat at the round table. Something in her voice suggested it hadn’t been her idea—likely Seraphine’s. We all sat, and to my surprise, I felt…equal. No straining my neck to see, no fear of being hidden when I wanted to speak.

If this was Seraphine’s way of saying everyone’s opinion mattered, I respected it.

We turned to her, as always, to begin the meeting. But she simply said:

“Let the person who suggested this meeting open it.”

And she gave me an approving nod.