Saint Étoile Academy looked like something out of a fairy tale — one of those illustrated with ink and watercolor, featuring towering castles and gardens that seemed like living paintings. The buildings had light stone facades, adorned with flowering vines and arched windows with stained glass. The fountains in the central courtyard whispered crystal-clear water, as if sharing the secrets of old nobility. The white marble staircase, polished to reflect the golden morning light, welcomed students like a royal carpet.

But for Aika Louise, all that beauty had no shine. She walked through the wood-paneled hallways as if crossing a minefield — measured steps, eyes on the ground, clutching her books like a silent shield. The sound of polished leather shoes echoed around her, but she never blended in. She was like a painting hung on the wrong wall.

Her uniform was clean and pressed. But it stood out. No gold brocade, no custom embroidery, no family crests like the other students. Her skirt was cotton, her tie plain, without the soft velvet sheen her peers wore. Even the fabric looked cheaper, rougher.

— Hey, look who showed up... — murmured a girl near the lockers, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

— Oh, the scholarship girl. Did she get that uniform from a charity sale? — said another, laughing with exaggerated contempt.

Aika heard it. She always did. But she kept walking. Because stopping only gave them room for more — and she had learned that silence was her shield.

Saint Étoile wasn't just a school. It was a display case for the planet’s wealthiest. Heirs of business dynasties, children of European movie stars, members of royal families with family trees older than most countries. Here, names came with stories — and with numbers.

And Aika? She only had a single name. "Louise." No crest hanging in the halls of history. No inheritance. Just a suspicious recommendation letter and a perfect academic record. And a secret she didn’t even know about.

When she reached her locker — the one furthest from the others, of course — she turned the combination. The door opened, and a flood of shredded paper rained down on her head like dirty snow.

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply. She would not cry. Not here. Never.

— Good morning, Louise. Did it snow just in your locker? — said a sarcastic voice to her left.

Aika turned slowly. Kenji Vanderbilt. Always upright, always elegant, always cruel. His brown hair was perfectly combed, his brows slightly arched like he was constantly assessing everything with surgical disdain.

— Leave me alone, Kenji.

— Sure, sure… I just thought you might want some help. Should I call the cleaning staff? Or maybe... a crane? — He smiled like an artist admiring his own irony.

She didn’t respond. She bent down, picking up her books with trembling fingers, and left the hallway. The laughter stayed behind, but echoed in her mind like horns in a tunnel.

In the classroom, the chatter dropped when she walked in. One second. Then everything returned to normal — or nearly. It was easier to pretend she didn’t exist. Her presence always seemed to disrupt the social balance.

The teacher entered with military punctuality. Mr. Delacroix — French, demanding, with the air of a grumpy maestro. Aika loved his classes. Because here, words carried real weight. Equations, theories, facts. Here, she had value.

During the lesson on emerging economic systems, she lost herself in her notes, almost forgetting where she was. In the logic of spreadsheets, no one judged her skirt's label.

At lunch break, she went to the side garden. The most secluded area of the school, between ivy-covered walls and a solitary cherry tree. She sat on the cold stone bench, pulled out an apple from her bag and a notebook. She flipped through slowly, but her eyes weren’t really reading. She could still feel the stares. Even from afar, someone was always watching.

— You always sit here? — said a calm, well-modulated male voice.

She looked up, surprised. A boy with light brown skin, relaxed posture, and a perfectly tailored uniform — not because of luxury, but because it suited him. His wavy brown hair and observant eyes gave him a serene nobility.

Rafael Windsor. Son of a British hospital empire, and — according to rumors — a distant cousin of some European duke.

— Yeah. It's quiet here. — she replied, cautiously.

— May I? — he pointed to the empty space beside her.

She hesitated, but nodded slightly.

— Thanks. I needed a break from the inflated egos in my class. — He chuckled, not cruelly, just as a shared joke.

She smiled, still cautious, but genuinely.

— You're different, you know that? — he said after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

— I’ve noticed people think so.

— Not in the way they mean. You don’t pretend. This place... it’s all theatre. But you’re real. That scares people here. — He spoke while looking up at the sky through the cherry tree’s branches.

Aika watched him from the corner of her eye. There was something about him that didn’t match the rest. He didn’t seem to be playing the same game.

In the following days, Rafael started joining her regularly. Sometimes he brought sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, other times delicate pastries he claimed were “leftovers from home.” He told stories of travel, of war-zone hospitals, of grandmothers who hid jewels inside poetry books. And he laughed with her. Truly laughed.

But the closeness didn’t go unnoticed.

— Can you believe Rafael Windsor is chatting with the no-class girl? — whispered a senior student, walking by.

— He must be betting with someone. Or maybe it’s pity. — said another, nose in the air.

Aika pretended not to hear. But pretending didn’t ease the sting.

Then came the announcement.

At the end of class, the voice of the headmistress echoed through the school’s crystal-cut speaker system:

— Attention, students. All must attend the Grand Hall tomorrow at 10 a.m. for the opening ceremony of the International Youth Business Forum. The event will be broadcast live worldwide. Attendance is mandatory.

The hall was the school’s golden showcase. Red carpets, French crystal chandeliers, columns etched with matte gold. The next morning, everything gleamed. Students arrived in limousines, with discreet bodyguards at their heels, and were greeted with silver trays offering imported juices and petit fours.

Aika entered alone, sitting in the last seat of the farthest row. She expected nothing. She was always invisible at these events. It was better that way.

The speeches began. International figures appeared via video. Cameras flashed. The school gleamed for the world.

Then, a gray-haired gentleman stepped onto the stage. His dark suit was crisp, a white pocket square folded just right. Serious eyes, composed voice.

— My dear students… it is an honor to be here. This school represents the future. And among you, there are young people destined to change the world. Some of them don’t even know it yet. — He paused, scanning the audience.

Aika’s heart sped up for no clear reason. That speech... it felt like it was aimed right at her.

— In the coming days, great revelations will be made. And it is up to each of you to decide how to respond to the unexpected.

The man’s gaze met hers for a second. He smiled subtly. Like he knew something she didn’t.

She frowned, confused. But before she could think further, the applause started.

At the end of the event, while everyone crowded around investors and influencers for selfies, Aika slipped away quietly.

She was still the last on the list.

But something… was about to change.