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Chapter 1: The Arrival
The air smelled different here. Softer, cleaner, like freshly cut grass mixed with rain, a smell that didn't belong to the city she had left behind. For a moment, as she stood at the school gate, suitcase still in her hand, she wondered if her father would have liked it here—the tall iron fences, the red-bricked buildings, the manicured lawns. But the thought cut deep, and she quickly shook it off before her throat closed up again.
Her father wasn't here anymore. That was the whole reason she was.
"Excuse me, are you new?" A girl with neatly tied braids stopped in front of her, blinking at her curiously.
"Yes," she managed, pressing her voice into something steadier than how she felt. "Transfer student."
The girl's gaze dipped to the luggage she still hadn't let go of. "Oh. Welcome to Saint Clair's Academy. You're in the right place."
Saint Clair's. Even the name sounded heavy. The buildings looked like they had been lifted from another century, glass windows towering over her, catching the morning light like mirrors. Students were streaming through the gate, uniforms neat and pressed—navy blazers, crisp white shirts, plaid skirts and trousers. Everyone looked like they belonged. Everyone but her.
"Thanks," she said softly.
The girl gave a small smile, but didn't linger, disappearing into the crowd.
She stood for a moment longer, her grip tightening around the handle of her suitcase. She could feel people staring. Whispers. That was nothing new—people always stared, always whispered. But this time it felt sharper, like the air itself was prickling against her skin.
"She's so pretty…" someone murmured.
"Where did she come from?"
"…She doesn't look local."
She swallowed, lifted her chin, and pulled her suitcase behind her. If she'd learned anything in the past few months, it was that showing cracks only made people push harder.
The main building smelled faintly of polished wood and lemon cleaner. Her shoes clicked against the floor as she followed the signs to the administrative office. Behind the desk, a secretary adjusted her glasses, looked up, and then smiled.
"You must be Miss Elara Winters," she said warmly.
"Yes."
"Your transfer documents came in last week. I'll take you to your homeroom teacher now."
Elara. Her mother had insisted she keep her full name when they moved back to this country, even though people often stumbled over it. She wondered if they would here, too.
The secretary led her through a maze of hallways until they stopped outside a tall wooden door.
"Here we are—Class 2-A. Your homeroom teacher, Mr. Langford, is inside. Best of luck, dear."
Elara gave a polite nod and waited for the secretary to leave before taking a slow breath. Her heart was hammering. Not because of the class. Not even because she was new. But because this was the first time she'd have to stand in front of people again, hold herself together, pretend that she wasn't still carrying the weight of funeral hymns in her chest.
She knocked lightly.
"Come in!"
The classroom fell quiet when she opened the door.
Dozens of eyes turned toward her—curious, calculating, some openly wide in surprise. Rows of neatly arranged desks, a chalkboard with today's date scribbled across it, sunlight streaming in through tall windows.
Mr. Langford, a man in his forties with kind eyes behind rectangular glasses, beamed at her.
"Ah, you must be our new student. Everyone, please welcome Miss Winters."
Elara forced her lips into the kind of polite smile she'd practiced in the mirror.
"Would you introduce yourself?"
Her palms were clammy, but she clasped them behind her back and faced the class.
"My name is Elara Winters. I recently moved back to this country. I hope to get along with everyone."
Simple. Polite. Non-inviting.
A wave of whispers rippled through the classroom. Some students exchanged glances, some leaned closer to their friends.
"She's beautiful…"
"…like a doll."
"…where's she from?"
"Winters? Isn't that foreign?"
"Settle down," Mr. Langford said, but he was smiling faintly too, like he understood their reaction. "Elara, you may take the empty seat by the window."
She followed his gesture. That's when she noticed him.
He was sitting one row over, toward the middle—tall, sharp-featured, the kind of boy people would automatically notice in a room. His hair was dark, his uniform flawless, posture straight as if he were born to fit into this kind of place. His eyes met hers for only a second, unreadable, before flicking away again.
But the silence around him was different. Students seemed to glance at him instinctively, like he set the tone for the class.
And when she slid into her seat, she heard it—the barely-suppressed laugh from his direction.
"New girl looks like she stepped out of a painting," he murmured, just loud enough for the nearest row to hear. "Maybe we should call her Mona Lisa."
A few students snickered.
Her jaw tightened. She didn't look at him.
It didn't matter. She was used to names. But the mocking lilt in his voice, the way others immediately echoed his amusement, lodged under her skin.
She unpacked her books quietly as Mr. Langford began the lesson. But she could feel it—the weight of his attention, not constant, but there, sharp as a thorn whenever it brushed her way.
Whoever he was, she already knew one thing.
He was trouble.
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The morning dragged, her pen moving automatically across the page as Mr. Langford explained equations on the board. But every so often, she caught snippets of whispers:
"…can't believe she just—"
"…maybe she's smart too?"
"…wonder if Adrian cares."
Adrian. The name seemed to circle back again and again. When she risked a glance, she saw the boy who had called her Mona Lisa—Adrian. He wasn't even trying very hard in class. He sat with one arm propped against his desk, eyes half-lidded, like he already knew everything being taught. And maybe he did, because whenever the teacher asked a question, his hand rose lazily, and the answer came smooth, precise, flawless.
The class clearly expected it. He was their standard. Their star.
And he knew it.
By lunchtime, Elara had almost convinced herself to ignore it. She carried her tray into the cafeteria, scanning for an empty table. But whispers followed her here too, like shadows.
"She doesn't even look nervous."
"…probably thinks she's better than us."
"…let's see how long she lasts."
She sat by the window, alone, poking at her food. Her stomach twisted; she wasn't hungry anyway.
"Mind if I sit?"
The braided girl from the morning was standing there, holding her own tray.
Elara blinked, then nodded.
"I'm Lila," the girl said cheerfully as she sat down. "I'm in your class too. Everyone's just… like that with new people. Don't take it personally."
Elara smiled faintly. "Thanks."
"They'll get used to you," Lila continued. "Though, I should warn you… Adrian doesn't usually let anyone outshine him."
Elara frowned. "Adrian?"
"The boy who sits in the middle row," Lila whispered. "Top student. Top everything, really. People sort of… follow his lead."
Elara remembered the smirk, the nickname.
"He already gave you one, didn't he?" Lila asked, raising a brow.
"…Mona Lisa," Elara admitted reluctantly.
Lila winced sympathetically. "Yeah. That means he noticed you."
Elara stabbed her fork into her salad, biting back a sigh. She hadn't come here to be noticed. She just wanted to survive. To study, to keep moving forward. To silence the echoes of grief that still crept in when nights grew too quiet.
But already, she could tell—Adrian wasn't going to make that easy.
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The day ended, the final bell echoing through the halls. Students gathered their things, laughter and chatter filling the corridors. Elara moved slowly, packing her books into her bag.
As she walked toward the exit, she heard his voice again, smooth and low.
"Careful not to crack the painting, Mona Lisa. Would be a shame."
He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that same infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. His eyes flicked over her, not cruel exactly, but amused in a way that made her skin prickle.
Elara met his gaze steadily.
"I'd rather be a painting than a shadow," she said coolly, brushing past him.
For a heartbeat, silence followed. Then a low chuckle.
"Oh," Adrian murmured behind her. "This might actually be fun."
She didn't turn back. But her steps were faster, sharper, as she pushed out through the gates, the evening sky bleeding into shades of gold.
Somehow, she already knew—this school wasn't just going to test her grades.
It was going to test her heart.
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