Every eye in the room was fixed on me, expectant and tense, as I read through the final draft of the proposal. Cassia had written the framework, but everyone had contributed. This was the document I needed to submit to the Board of Directors in less than an hour—our official crisis-aversion strategy.

At Noelle’s insistence that we work collaboratively rather than merely assigning tasks, we had drafted it together yesterday. I’m still surprised we managed to finish without major catastrophes. There were… moments. Particularly between Cassia and Charlotte. But that was inevitable; they differed so completely in opinion they might as well have been opposite sides of the same coin.

“It’s good,” I said at last.

They all exhaled in unison. An outsider would think we got along perfectly, watching how quickly their relief dissolved into excited chatter. For a moment, all our differences vanished.

This was our third draft. The earlier versions weren’t satisfactory, so I insisted we redo them. They think I’m simply being a perfectionist. They don’t know the truth: a student’s fate hangs on this document. If the proposal is rejected, Jude will be expelled—and I refuse to let that happen.

Only Alessandro knows why I pushed so hard.

Earlier this week, he and I met with the Board of Governors. I told them plainly that we would not expel a student for telling the truth, and that I was confident the solution I devised would satisfy everyone. Mr. Sydney did not appreciate my honesty. He cornered me into an ultimatum: if the board rejects my proposal, I am to keep my mouth shut and “be a good girl” when they expel Jude—or allow them to expel him immediately, no questions asked.

Naturally, I chose the first option. I trust our abilities. But I know the governors will not make this easy.

The rest of the committee has no idea. They simply think I’m chasing perfection.

With Alessandro and Cassia flanking me, I walked toward the official conference room where the Board of Directors held their meetings. Nervousness prickled at me—a rare sensation—but I needed this to go perfectly. How could I explain to the students that the school wasn’t built just by the elite, but for the elite, if I failed now?

As we approached the corridor housing the room, Cassia quietly rehearsed counterarguments to every hypothetical objection that might discredit the proposal. Alessandro joined in, teasing her with nearly irrelevant questions, a hint of mischief in his tone. I stayed silent, observing the space around me. Though I had walked this corridor countless times, the carved patterns and gilded frames seemed newly insistent today, reminding me that every legacy carried a burden—and every burden a lesson.

My eyes settled on the hyacinth carving in the frame honoring my great-aunt, founder of House Valmont. Hyacinths had always been her favorite, and her private journals were full of sketches and pressed flowers. I thought of one of their meanings—perseverance through hardship—and felt it ripple through me, steadying my shoulders and sharpening my focus.

I noted the exchange between Alessandro and Cassia quietly; alliances and rivalries often revealed themselves in these small moments, far more than in speeches or debates.

I drew a slow, deliberate breath, letting my heartbeat steady before we reached the door. Alessandro opened it with a subtle bow of the head, a gesture that spoke of both courtesy and unspoken loyalty. Squaring my shoulders, I stepped forward, letting the quiet strength of the corridor—and the memory of those hyacinths—carry me into the room.

I walked into the room, feeling every eye turn toward me, boring into me to detect a weakness to exploit. There was none. I stared straight at them, my gaze carrying the same intensity I had as a child when refusing to bend my stance. My mother had named it La Flamme de l’Âme—the flame of the soul. Warmth and strength flooded me at the memory of her words: I was a Queen’s daughter, entrusted to protect my soul’s flame.

I met Mr. Sydney’s stare, the most insidious by far. He lounged in his chair, smirking like a self-satisfied fool, clearly underestimating me. Good. It was always better when people underestimated me; the expression on their faces when they realised a silent cobra could be deadlier than a roaring lion never failed to satisfy me.

I took my seat at the center of the long table, offering my greetings to the room, Alessandro and Cassia at my sides. ERIA’s Principal, Mrs. Bunter, sat at the head of the table and began the meeting with the day’s agenda. She explained why the new building’s budget needed increasing due to rising costs, but no one was really listening. The real reason anyone was present was to decide the fate of the boy who dared to call out a presidential candidate for hypocrisy. Even governors who usually sent their secretaries were present.

Ms. Bunter’s agenda was unusually long; she was trying to secure approval for projects repeatedly dismissed, taking advantage of every board member’s presence. Her strategy seemed to work: the members were ready to approve almost anything to move things along quickly. Still, no one dared voice the desire to skip the agenda entirely—it would be rude to interrupt the Principal.

Mr. Sydney slammed his hand lightly on the table. “Can we move on to what we’re actually here for? We’re busy men, Bunter,” he said, voice sharp, sneering.

The only female board member, Ms. Lorraine, leveled a frost-filled glare at him. He chuckled, unbothered, then turned to the man beside him, a mirror image in arrogance.

“I still don’t know why she’s here,” he said, voice dripping disdain. “She isn’t married or a mother. I can’t believe she was invited to the board.”

Mr. Williams snickered, muttering something incoherent in agreement.

Ms. Lorraine watched them like a hawk observing prey—exasperation laced with calm disinterest. I admired her, but it also saddened me; for her, this was probably routine. In her forties, single, and highly successful, she would be one of my role models if I had any.

Ms. Bunter, sensing the need to diffuse the tension before more condescending, misogynistic remarks flew, turned to me and gestured for me to present the proposal.

I nodded at Cassia, who moved confidently toward the projector. Alessandro handed each board member a pre-prepared portfolio as she began.

“What we propose,” Cassia said, voice steady and precise, “is a publicized, broadcasted, highly competitive interschool competition between ERIA and Constance Academy of Canada. The portfolio before you contains details on how this would be executed.”

Cassia answered every question with unerring precision, and I could see the board members nodding along. But Ms. Lorraine asked the pivotal question, the one that could determine the proposal’s fate.

“How do we convince Constance Academy to participate? They are even more exclusive than we are and strongly dislike publicity. This will be broadcasted, won’t it?”

Alessandro and I had considered this from the outset. CAC would want to compete—they were rivals—but the board needed convincing.

“The competition will be broadcasted,” Cassia said, “but if a board member personally invites the school, I see no reason for them to refuse.”

“Their board operates independently. We cannot influence them without risking unwanted exposure,” Ms. Lorraine added. Her words made sense: pressuring CAC could create enemies in North America, where many board members had significant interests.

Mr. Sydney’s lips curled into a patronizing smile. “Then it seems the unruly boy must be expelled. Surely you knew this would be the outcome.”

I raised an eyebrow, ready to speak—but Alessandro cut in, voice firm and commanding.

“Jude Mbayye does not need to be expelled. CAC would honor the invitation. They need the publicity; if they continue rejecting the press, they risk closure in a few years.”

All eyes turned to him. CAC’s crisis was unknown to all but a few, and even I was surprised by his insight.

“The applications to CAC have been declining steadily for decades,” he explained. “In the past five years, the decline accelerated due to ERIA’s rising profile and occasional media incidents. To maintain enrollment, they must accept our challenge; a controversial, well-known school is more attractive to parents than a dying one.”

A ripple passed across the table. Logic won.

“Any further concerns?” Cassia asked, cool and unshaken. Silence answered her. Even Mr. Sydney looked defeated.

I spoke for the first time in the meeting. Every eye shifted to me.

“I would like to raise a complaint against Mr. Julius Sydney,” I said, smooth, deliberate, unwavering. “I hope that, following investigation, he ceases to be a board member.”

Shock rippled across the room. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of papers.