At Elysian Prep, even the light is expensive.
Golden sun filters through stained-glass windows, catching on marble columns and scattering across rows of lacquered desks. The lecture hall smells faintly of beeswax and chalk, but beneath it all there's another scent—the perfume of dynasties, power distilled into silk, leather, and fear.
I'm always first. It's not vanity. It's strategy. Whoever claims the front row owns the room.
I arrange my books, smooth my skirt, and watch the others trickle in. The air shifts with each arrival, like pieces sliding into place on a chessboard.
"Morning, Seraphina," Aria Sinclair murmurs as she passes, her voice soft as snowfall. She glides into her seat with that effortless warmth people mistake for weakness.
Izzy Harrington arrives next, already reading off her tablet, lips moving silently as if she's two steps ahead of the lecture. Jules Cross follows, notebook hugged to her chest, eyes flicking around the room like she's gathering raw material for some secret script.
Penny Astor flutters in, curls bouncing, laughter spilling out like she's been saving it all morning. She perches beside me without asking—because of course she does—and whispers, "Wait until you hear what I just found out about Eva."
"Later," I murmur, keeping my gaze forward. She pouts, but she'll wait.
Lila Montrose trails behind, her designer shoes too new, her smile too wide. The effort clings to her like perfume—thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
Cass Devereux storms in, sleeves shoved to her elbows, hair escaping its braid. She drops into her seat like she owns the floor, not the room. A rebellion in motion.
Mia Rousseau is quieter. She slips into the room without a ripple, dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear, her sketchbook hugged protectively to her chest. But I know better—those eyes see everything, and one day she'll sketch the whole world in charcoal truths.
Celeste Duval enters just after, all elegance and hauteur, her presence as calculated as Selene's but colder, sharper. She doesn't sit. She claims her place, as though the desk were carved solely for her use.
Then comes Eva Laurent—flawless, untouchable. Heads turn without her trying, and she knows it.
And then—Selene Blackwell.
She doesn't so much enter as cut through the air. Sleek black hair, perfect uniform, eyes like a blade. When Selene takes her seat two rows back, the atmosphere tightens. Selene is precision. Selene is calculation. Selene is control.
Which makes the boy beside her all the more jarring.
Sebastian leans back in his chair, posture deliberately careless, tie undone, shirt untucked just enough to violate dress code without consequence. He stretches like he owns the place, like the years he spent away were nothing.
He smirks when he sees me glance back. As if to say: miss me?
I turn forward, spine straight, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
The professor clears his throat. "Senior year, ladies and gentlemen. You're expected to lead, to represent, to excel." His eyes dart toward the rows where we sit, where dynasties shine like crowns. "The Eleven will, of course, be expected to set the standard."
I catch Sebastian's grin out of the corner of my eye. He's not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to sit among us. But the Blackwells still have power—and now, with him back, they've doubled it.
By lunch, the school is a theater.
The courtyard blooms with manicured hedges, marble fountains, and imported trees that change color unnaturally early in the fall, because nothing here dares defy the aesthetic.
The Eleven hold court at our long stone table, each seat unspokenly claimed. Penny at my right, Selene at my left, the others fanned out in glittering symmetry. Boys linger nearby, like satellites orbiting a star.
It's here I first notice them more fully.
Mateo Alvarez sits beneath the fountain, reading quietly, clearly out of place among us. Scholarship boy. The only one who isn't born into this world of marble and glass.
Alexander Ward banters with Cass, both of them laughing too loud, their energy sparking like flint against steel.
Lucas Gray debates something with Izzy, their voices low and rapid, sharp as blades but strangely intimate.
Julian Hale leans toward Penny, not wooing, not flattering, but asking questions. She's eating up the attention like spun sugar.
Elijah Kane paints in the corner, sketchbook balanced on his knees, oblivious to the hierarchy unfolding around him.
Noah Price hovers protectively near Aria, watching her the way only someone who's known her forever could.
Kai Navarro argues politics with Jules, passion rising in his voice until she grins and writes it all down.
Daniel Mercer sits silent, calm, unreadable. He studies me with eyes I can't quite decipher.
Lucian Moreau flirts shamelessly with Eva, who accepts his devotion like the sun accepts light.
Gabriel Vale lingers on the edge, watching Celeste, his gaze heavy with something more than curiosity.
A dynasty of heirs. A court of pawns and kings.
And Sebastian Blackwell, sprawled casually across the bench opposite me, daring me with his smile
The clang of steel rings down the east wing. Fencing isn't just a sport here. It's tradition. Duel dressed up as elegance. Bloodless war.
I'm not supposed to be interested. But when I hear the crowd cheering, my feet carry me inside.
Two boys face each other on the strip. Domani—the son of an Italian shipping magnate, polished and practiced, the boy my father hints would make a strong match. His every move is disciplined, textbook.
Opposite him: Sebastian.
Mask off, grin sharp, blade flashing like lightning. He doesn't fence so much as fight. Reckless, raw, thrilling.
They clash, the rhythm broken, the audience holding its breath. Domani lands a point, Sebastian laughs it off. Sebastian lands two, Domani scowls.
And then, with a flick of his wrist, Sebastian disarms him. The sword clatters across the strip.
The crowd gasps. Sebastian doesn't bow, doesn't salute. He just lifts his eyes to me across the gym.
Challenge. Victory. Invitation.
I leave before he can see the way my pulse races.
The summons comes in the last period, hand-delivered in a crisp envelope.
Headmistress Harrington requests your presence. Bring Sebastian Blackwell.
Of course.
We walk side by side down the east wing corridor. He hums under his breath, lazy and amused, as though being sent for excites him.
Inside, the Headmistress's office smells of old books and sharper judgment. Shelves rise high with ledgers and files, portraits of former headmasters watching from gilded frames.
She steeples her fingers as we sit. "Miss Valmont. Mister Blackwell. Elysian Prep expects its heirs to set the standard. Which is why, effective immediately, you will co-chair this year's charity fundraiser."
My heart stutters. With him?
"With pleasure," Sebastian says smoothly, flashing his grin like a weapon.
I sit straighter, forcing my fury into a single, cutting line: "This must be a mistake."
The Headmistress's gaze sharpens. "It is not a request. It is an opportunity. And if either of you fails, it will not be your grades that suffer. It will be your dynasties."
The word dynasties lands like a gavel.
Sebastian stretches back in his chair, utterly at ease. "Guess we're partners, Queen."
I lift my chin, meeting his smirk with ice. "Not partners. Rivals forced to share a stage."
His smile widens. "Same thing."