The morning sun broke over the New York suburbs as if it were a normal day.
The withdrawal process at Midtown High was a masterclass in bureaucratic indifference. Marcus Kane stood by his son's side in the main office, signing the final localized clearance forms while Ethan maintained the quiet, slightly detached expression of a gifted student moving on to grander academic horizons. To the administrators, he was just another high-achieving statistic transferring to an exclusive private institution. To Ethan, it was the formal deletion of a civilian anchor point that could be used to track him.
Once the paperwork was finalized, they returned to the colonial house to pick up Linda. The drive up to Massachusetts was defined by a heavy, expectant quiet. Marcus kept his eyes on the highway, his hands gripping the steering wheel with the protective tension of a stoic father. In the passenger seat, Linda rested a hand over her abdomen, her posture carrying the unmistakable, quiet weariness of a mother two months into a complicated pregnancy. From the backseat, Ethan watched the landscape blur into a smear of grey asphalt and green treelines, his supercomputer mind already mapping out the logistical network of this new operational base.
When the car finally pulled up the grand, sweeping driveway of the Massachusetts Academy, Emma Frost was already waiting on the manicured lawn.
She was the picture of aristocratic perfection—a flawless headmistress persona tailored specifically to dismantle parental skepticism. Her ivory suit was pristine, her smile radiating just enough warmth to mask the terrifying depth of her telepathic authority.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kane," Emma greeted smoothly, her voice a polished chime as she guided the family through the towering double doors of the main building and toward the student residential wing. "We are delighted to formally welcome young Ethan to the academy. As promised his curriculum has been fully customized to accommodate his unique intellectual trajectory."
The dorm room was spacious, elegant, and entirely sterile. The moment the luggage hit the floor, Marcus rolled up his sleeves, his eyes scanning the unpacking landscape with immediate, protective energy. "Alright, let's get these trunks cleared out before the afternoon heat sets in. Linda, sit down on the edge of the bed."
"Dad, stop," Ethan said, his cool voice cutting through the room's frantic energy. He stepped between his parents and the luggage, his expression shifting into a calculated blend of filial concern and mature authority. "Look at Mom. The drive was over four hours, and the stress of the transfer is already pushing her. She's almost three months along, Dad. The last thing her body needs right now is to stand in a cramped dorm sorting through clothes."
Marcus paused, looking over at his wife, whose shoulders were visibly drooping with exhaustion.
"Ethan is right, Marcus," Linda admitted, offering a tired, grateful smile as she leaned against her husband's arm. "My back is absolutely killing me."
"Exactly," Ethan pressed, layering the emotional leverage with surgical precision. "You both need to check into a hotel down the road, get some actual rest, and handle the drive back to New York tomorrow when the highway isn't congested. I can manage a few boxes on my own."
Linda shook her head, patting Marcus's hand. "There's no need to waste money on a hotel room if we aren't doing the heavy lifting, honey. If Ethan is settled, we should just head straight back to New York now while the weather is clear. The couch at home sounds much better than a hotel bed."
Marcus hesitated, looking between his son and his pregnant wife, before finally nodding. "Alright. Keep your phone on, Ethan. Call us the second you're done with orientation."
Ethan walked them back down to the grand driveway, enduring the lingering, emotional goodbyes with practiced patience. He stood perfectly still, watching their sedan disappear past the iron gates of the academy grounds until the sound of the engine completely faded into the New England wind.
The moment the car cleared the perimeter, the teenage facade shattered.
Ethan turned on his heel, his posture straightening into a cold, imposing baseline as he looked back at the White Queen. Emma stood a few paces behind him, her headmistress smile instantly evaporating into a sharp, calculating expression of pure corporate disdain.
"I'd appreciate it if you would take this stuff back to your mansion," Ethan said coldly, gesturing toward the luggage remaining in the foyer. "I'll come along shortly to dump the New York dossiers and walk you through the structural timeline for a few things."
Emma's brow twitched, her blue eyes narrowing as a flicker of irritation crossed her face. She looked down at him, her arms crossing over her chest. "Am I to understand you won't be residing in the quarters I so graciously prepared for you here, Ethan? Will you actually be staying with me at the estate?"
"Well, my belongings will," Ethan responded, his voice flat, his gaze already drifting toward the horizon. "No need to be so tense; we are technically married, so you keeping my stuff is perfectly normal. Besides, I have several variables in the city that require my direct, unmonitored attention. I'm leaving tomorrow, and I'm sure you'll join me."
Emma sighed and gestured toward the sleek silver town car waiting at the edge of the courtyard.
Since Ethan had no plans to attend actual classes until after the descent of the Exemplars and their subsequent attack on New York, Emma agreed to bypass the campus entirely and take him straight to her private estate.
The Frost estate in the Berkshires was a monument to old money and modern arrogance. Nestled deep within an exclusive, gated expanse of the Massachusetts coastline, the estate loomed over the Atlantic like a fortress of limestone and glass. Its classical revival facade was flanked by towering ionic columns, while the manicured gardens surrounding it were mathematically perfect, designed to project absolute control over nature itself. Inside, the air was cool, smelling of beeswax, polished mahogany, and seaside salt.
Once they stepped into the echoing, grand foyer, Emma didn't offer a tour. With a flick of her manicured wrist, she summoned an elderly, stone-faced butler. "Take his luggage to the attic," she commanded smoothly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "He won't be staying long enough to unpack properly anyway."
Ethan watched the servant haul the heavy trunks up the grand spiral staircase. He checked his custom phone, his eyes tracking the digital timestamp. "It's past noon," he remarked, glancing over at her. "Have you eaten lunch yet, Emma?"
Emma turned to him, her blue eyes flashing a look of icy disdain, her arms crossed over her chest. "Dealing with you and your endless bureaucratic nonsense and playing the doting headmistress all morning, Ethan, when exactly do you think I would have found the time?"
Ethan smirked, a dangerous, knowing glint in his eyes. "Really, nonsense that's a bit harsh. Well, since you're technically my wife now, I suppose that gives you the exclusive privilege to taste my cooking."
Emma paused, her perfect brow arching in genuine surprise as she processed the blunt statement. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Without answering, Ethan simply turned on his heel and walked toward the expansive, professional-grade kitchen.
Inside, an elderly woman in a pristine white apron was currently preparing to start the afternoon meal. Ethan stepped forward, offering her a disarmingly kind, gentle smile. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'll take it from here," he said kindly, dismissing her with a polite nod. "Go take the evening off. I'll be handling the cooking today."
The chef looked hesitant, casting a wary glance toward the doorway where Emma was now standing, but a subtle nod from the White Queen dismissed her. She muttered a polite thank you and quickly exited.
Left alone in the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen, Ethan glanced over a few local recipe books on the counter. With Sage's supercomputer mind scanning the culinary instructions in a fraction of a second, Ethan instantly came up with a menu based on the ingredients that the elderly chef had already placed on the table.
He chose a delicate, high-end French styled menu tailored precisely to Emma's sophisticated, health-conscious palette: a prime cut of Chilean sea bass, searing it to a perfect, golden-crisp finish before crafting a delicate lemon-herb butter reduction infused with white wine and a hint of saffron. He then garnished it with microgreens and perfectly sculpted asparagus spears.
As his hands moved with the dizzying, hyper-precise reflexes, the kitchen filled with the rich, mouth-watering aroma of sizzling butter and fresh herbs. Emma leaned against the marble island, watching the fluid, waste-free efficiency of his movements. Within twenty minutes, he had elegantly plated the dish on a matte black ceramic plate.
Emma watched him from the marble island, her eyes tracking his fluid, unhurried movements. "I must admit, I'm slightly amazed you can cook like a Michelin-starred chef," she mused, her voice carrying a rare note of genuine curiosity, as she picked up a silver fork. "Where exactly does a teenage boy from Newark find the time to learn culinary arts?"
"It's just a life skill," Ethan replied flatly, wiping down the counter with methodical precision. "I mastered it because it was necessary to survive. Nothing more. If you don't understand the chemistry of what you put in your body, you leave yourself vulnerable."
Sipping her wine, Emma kept probing, her sharp mind trying to cut through his defenses. "Flawless logic, as always. Now, while the fish is excellent, we didn't come here for this. Tell me what you're actually thinking. What are the true long-term plans for this little empire of ours?"
Ethan was entirely dismissive, waving a hand to cut her off. "It can wait until after the meal. Eat. Good food and such charming company shouldn't be ruined by things like corporate strategy."
Emma scoffed but yielded to the quality of the food, the kitchen falling into a tense, quiet lull until the plates were entirely cleared.
The moment the meal was done, Ethan pulled his custom black smartphone from his pocket. He checked the digital timestamp; it had been almost exactly two hours since his parents had left the academy grounds. He dialed his father's number.
"Hey, Dad," Ethan said into the receiver, his voice instantly shifting back into the warm, reassuring tone of a grateful son. "Just wanted to check in. I finished getting my room completely ready, and orientation is officially wrapped up. I'm just sitting down to eat lunch now."
"Good to hear, kiddo," Marcus's voice crackled through the speaker, sounding tired but relieved. "Your mother and I are making good time. The traffic out of the state line is moving smoothly. According to the GPS thing on this phone you gave me, we should reach home in exactly two hours and ten minutes. It's pretty nice and handy. Nice to hear a voice during the long drive since your mother's out cold."
Ethan's eyes flicked to the kitchen window, his mind automatically logging the route metrics. "Glad you like it, but is Mom feeling okay? The drive hasn't been too hard on her, has it?"
"She's doing fine," Marcus chuckled softly. "The second we hit the highway, she fell fast asleep. She needed it. When we get home, I'll help rub her feet and put her to bed, so don't worry."
"I don't need to hear the details. Well, I'll leave you to focus on the road, Dad. Drive safe. I'll call you guys tomorrow," Ethan said smoothly, hanging up the phone before his father could stretch the conversation.
The warmth bled from Ethan's face the second the screen went black. His cool, composed look turned toward Emma. "My apologies for the interruption," he stated, adjusting his posture. "Let us begin."
Ethan tapped his phone screen twice, initializing a localized, military-grade encryption bridge.
Instantly, a massive data dump appeared on the custom smartphone he had previously given to Emma. Dozens of heavily restricted folders, financial ledgers, and structural blueprints began flowing into her device through N.E.A.R.'s two terminals.
Ethan smiled, a sharp, humorless curve of his lips that signaled that things were about to get more complicated for the woman sitting across from him.