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There are schools, and then there is Ellesmere-Régnier International Academy.

Nestled among sloping vineyards, pine forests, and mountain silhouettes, ERIA, located on an exclusive stretch of countryside near Lake Geneva, less than an hour from the city proper, kissed by snowfall and diplomacy, is not funded by wealth so much as by dynasties—the kind of money that doesn't just open doors... it builds palaces. Marble corridors whisper in six languages. Every hallway is a runway. Every exam, a battlefield. Here, legacy is not earned—it is expected.

The Academy is divided into four Houses. Each one ancient. Gilded. Competitive to the point of cruelty.

House Valmont—my House—reigns above them all.

Founded by a French duchess turned diplomat, Valmont is the beating heart of strategy, elegance, and political power. Our crest: a white falcon on crimson silk. Our motto: Nés pour commander — Born to command. We are heirs to monarchies, empires, conglomerates—descendants of war rooms and coronation thrones. House Valmont doesn't pursue excellence. We embody it.

As President of Valmont, I preside with studied poise and sovereign control.

Cassia Wexler, my secretary and right hand, ensures my directives are executed with frightening precision—often before I've finished speaking.

Alessandro di Rinaldi, our Vice President, is infuriatingly charming—Italian nobility with a smirk made for trouble and a mind as sharp as a stiletto heel.

And then there is Lucien—my twin, the only soul who knows where my mask ends and I begin. He is the House's Comptroller, the guardian of our treasury and the architect of our dominance.

Next comes House Kingsley, our most persistent rival.

Anglophilic to the core, it is led by the impenetrably poised Charlotte Pembroke, a Windsor cousin and heiress to a jewellery empire older than most countries. At her side is Yumi Han, South Korean chaebol royalty and her vice president—a former ballet prodigy whose grace masks an almost terrifying precision. Their motto: Noblesse oblige. Together, they project an icy veneer of tradition and aesthetic dominance. A threat—but a predictable one.

House Prescott follows, not far behind in ambition or resources.

Its president, David Montgomery, is the quintessential American legacy—old money charm, Wall Street instinct. His vice, Ariane Lefèvre, is a Monégasque tech heiress with brilliance that borders on the clinical. Prescott is innovation wrapped in cashmere. Their motto: To lead is to evolve.

And lastly, House Sorel—the wild card.

Where Valmont is elegance, Sorel is fire.

Its president, Noelle Carter, is a scholarship student from Brooklyn with the mind of a general and the mouth of a revolutionary. Beside her, Rafael da Costa, Brazilian aristocracy with a philosopher's soul and the fists of a street fighter. Their motto: Truth, or nothing. They speak too loudly, challenge too often, and yet... somehow, people listen.

We may wear the same school crest, but make no mistake—Ellesmere-Régnier is a kingdom.

There are those born to rule.

Those born to serve.

And those naïve enough to believe they can change the order.

I intend to remind them all precisely where they stand.

I moved down the corridor unhurriedly, the click of my heels echoing like punctuation against polished stone. Around me, the air simmered with unease—a cocktail of anticipation, dread, and the faintest whiff of fear. I glanced right.

Cassia moved beside me, her steps elegant, her fingers tapping her phone with studied calm. But I noticed the faint stiffness in her posture, the way her brows creased ever so slightly. She was rarely unsettled. Cassia thrived under pressure, drew power from chaos. Which made her question all the more significant.

"What should we do, Sera?" she asked quietly, her voice lined with something very close to uncertainty.

I tilted my head slightly to show I was listening, my expression unreadable as always. She continued in a hushed tone, outlining several strategies—damage control, deflection, redirection—all spoken with practiced efficiency.

"So... what do you think?" she asked at last, her eyes scanning my face for a flicker of reaction. She knew she would receive none.

I drew in a breath, preparing my reply, when I heard footsteps approaching from the opposite end of the corridor. I stopped, gaze lifting.

Lucien's voice reached me before his figure did.

"Fifi."

My lips parted in exasperation. He knew exactly how I felt about that nickname—especially in public. But I let it pass, just this once. He held his tablet like a shield, tapping furiously.

"I think the Board is preparing to cut our budget," he said without looking up. "If they do, Valmont's reputation may not recover easily."

I was about to respond when another voice sliced through the corridor—cool, polished, and unmistakably condescending.

"I don't believe it's just your House, Lucien. From what I've heard, they intend to reduce funding across the board."

Charlotte Pembroke approached with her usual royal glide, hair gleaming like frost beneath the chandeliers. At her side was Yumi—sharp-eyed and silent—and behind them, the presidents of House Prescott and House Sorel. Charlotte cast a look toward Cassia, the edges of her smile edged with venom.

"Apparently, it's due to... frivolous spending. I don't think we need to ask who might be responsible."

Cassia stiffened. Her eyes narrowed, though her lips remained calm. She had planned every Valmont gala, soirée, and summit on my behalf—down to the champagne selection and security code names. The accusation stung.

Before she could respond, I raised a gloved hand.

Silence.

Without a word, I turned and continued walking. The door to House Valmont's private meeting room stood ahead. I stepped inside and crossed to the head of the table, the room falling quiet as I took my seat. The others followed, each claiming their places with varying degrees of tension.

I scanned the table once.

Someone was missing.

"Where is Alessandro?" I asked, voice cool and unhurried. "I asked for him ten minutes ago."

Lucien didn't look up. "Late. As usual. Probably got lost admiring himself in the mirror."

Before I could respond, the doors swung open.

"Ma chère," came the familiar drawl, "you called for me, and the sun came out. Coincidence? I think not."

Alessandro strolled in, blazer slung effortlessly over his shoulder, his dark curls perfectly disheveled. That signature smirk played at his lips—equal parts irritating and disarming. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew he was admired, and did nothing to hide it.

"You're late," I said, gaze cool.

"Sono qui, principessa. Every queen deserves a little suspense," he said with a slight bow.

Lucien didn't even glance up. "She asked for a vice president, not a poet."

"Fortunately," Alessandro replied, taking the seat beside me, "I'm both."

I fought the urge to smile.

I did not succeed entirely.

"Well," I said, folding my hands before me with composure, "since we're all here... let's begin."