ANNABELLE –
The secondhand wheels of Annabelle Wilson's suitcase shrieked against the marble steps of Founder's Hall—like something feral clawing to get out. Each grating scrape drew stares that pinched and whispered. The vinyl handle, cracked and peeling, cut into her sweat-slick palms.
She hesitated at the threshold, auburn hair slipping free from its tie. Inside, Thornfield smelled of lemon polish and quiet tyranny. Vaulted ceilings loomed high enough to drown in shadow, and oil portraits of pale, unsmiling patriarchs lined the walls.
Full integration into academy life. That's what the scholarship brochure had promised in looping calligraphy across paper thick enough to smell like money.
Designer loafers struck marble with sniper precision, each click a reminder that bloodlines mattered more than GPAs. Conversations stilled when she strayed too close, then reignited behind her back: scholarship, charity case, work-study. Words slicing thin and sharp.
Room assignment. Orientation. Survive. The words drummed in her skull as she wiped sweat-damp bangs off her forehead. Drugstore mouse had already surrendered to the heat. In the slick gleam of marble, her reflection stared back: too slight, too real, a sparrow stranded in a nest built for predators.
"Watch it, Scholarship."
The words dripped sugar but burned like bleach. Nikki Clark materialized out of nowhere: platinum bob and predator's smile, uniform sculpted so close it felt like mockery of the dress code itself.
Then came the shove: manicured fingers digging just enough to bruise pride, perfectly angled so any watching dean would see nothing but a stumble. Annabelle's balance faltered, suitcase handle slick with sweat, and time slowed as the battered case tipped forward.
With a sound like surrender, the duct-taped zipper split open. Her life spilled across Thornfield's polished marble: dog-eared textbooks stamped with library barcodes, spiral notebooks patched with duct tape, pens gnawed to near ruin—every item screaming poor girl trying too hard.
Annabelle dropped to her knees, fingers trembling as they chased the shards of her dignity across gleaming floor. Every cracked spine felt like a confession: I don't belong.
The laughter followed fast—soft at first, then splintering into something brittle and bright.
Nikki Clark stood over her, backlit by the chandelier's cold brilliance—an angel carved from malice and old money, eyes pale and cutting as broken glass. The smirk twisting her glossed mouth needed no translation: You'll always kneel here, Scholarship.
Two girls flanked her, brunette twins sculpted from the same marble cruelty.
"Oops," Nikki cooed, voice lacquered in syrup and sharpened to a point. She bent down just enough to make sure the entire hall caught every poisoned syllable. "Did I break something valuable?"
A pause—calculated, surgical. "Oh, wait. Scholarship kids don't own anything valuable, do they?"
Phones rose in a silent, hungry wave—screens flickering like votive candles lit for her humiliation. Heat burned up her throat, blotching her cheeks crimson. Her fingers clawed for her chemistry notebook, the only armor she had left.
And then a shadow cut across the polished floor.
"Problem here?"
The voice was smooth as polished mahogany, rich with lazy arrogance. Justin Court crouched beside her, moving with the lazy elegance of someone who'd never checked price tags. Golden hair caught the chandelier's light like it was staged, skin gilded by money generations deep. His blazer whispered bespoke, and the cologne he wore smelled like legacy.
For half a heartbeat, Nikki's predator smile slipped.
"Just helping the new girl figure out the food chain, darling," Nikki purred, venom sugar-spun to sound harmless. Her manicured hand ghosted over Justin's sleeve—a claim staked in silk and malice. "Everyone has to know where they rank eventually."
Annabelle shoved the last battered notebook back into the torn mouth of her suitcase, every motion honed sharp with fury. Rising slowly—knees raw from marble, face still scorched with shame—she made herself look Nikki straight in those glacier-pale eyes.
"Thanks for the tutorial on Thornfield politics," she said, voice low and unshaken despite the riot beating against her ribs. "But don't worry." A breath, a tilt of her chin. "I already know exactly where I stand."
Something flickered across Justin's face—surprise first, then something darker. Hungrier. The look of a boy who'd just tasted something unfamiliar and couldn't decide if he wanted to own it, break it, or keep it hidden like a secret.
Nikki's hand clamped tighter around his arm. "Justin, we're going to be late for dinner," she murmured, sweet as poisoned honey.
He didn't budge. His ice-blue gaze stayed pinned to Annabelle, dissecting her with lazy fascination—like he'd stumbled on something raw and real in a world polished to death.
Annabelle tightened her grip on the broken suitcase handle, the cracked vinyl digging crescents into her skin. She lifted her chin, letting the rage cool into something sharper.
"Don't worry," she said, voice cutting through the hush like a scalpel. She took a slow step back, putting space—and power—between them. "I'm sure you'll both find your place eventually."
The statement hit Nikki like a backhand across her flawless face. A ripple went through the watching wolves—surprise first, then giddy hunger. Somewhere near the back, a laugh slipped out, half-strangled by a manicured hand.
Nikki's eyes flared wide, then narrowed to icy slits. "Excuse me?" she spat, but the words cracked on the edges.
Annabelle didn't answer. She was already turning away, dragging her battered suitcase like a wounded animal refusing to die in front of its hunters. Every step was measured, unhurried, the deliberate gait of someone who refused to crawl no matter how many marble floors demanded it.
First day at Thornfield Academy: first blood drawn. First name scrawled on her private list of debts to be settled. Behind her, the hallway crackled—phones still lifted like tiny guillotines, whispers a swarm of insects picking bones clean.
Welcome to Thornfield Academy: where charity came with a lock on your throat and a debt collector in every hallway. And the only rule worth remembering? Sooner or later, everyone paid.