• The gates of Valmere Academy didn’t just open—they parted.

Polished black iron slid soundlessly across marble tracks, revealing a campus that looked less like a school and more like an estate someone forgot to call a palace. Stone buildings stretched across rolling green lawns, their windows tall and gleaming, reflecting the late morning sun like rows of quiet judgment. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain murmured. Even the air felt expensive.

And then there was Guest—standing just outside the gates, clutching a bag that suddenly felt too worn, too loud.

Guest stepped forward anyway.

Their shoes hit the cobblestone drive with a faint, hollow sound, like they were knocking on a door I didn’t belong behind. Around students filtered in—effortless, composed, dressed in uniforms that somehow looked tailored instead of required. Their laughter was softer, controlled. Even their boredom looked curated.

A sleek car rolled past Guest, engine barely audible, stopping near the main steps. Someone stepped out—sharp blazer, perfect posture, the kind of confidence you don’t learn, just inherit. No one stared, but everyone noticed.

That was the thing about this place. No one tried too hard—because they didn’t have to.

Guest adjusted the strap of my bag and kept walking, pretending I didn’t feel the shift in the air when people glanced at me a second too long. Not curious. Not welcoming. Just… assessing.

Scholarship student.

The word hadn’t been said out loud yet, but it didn’t need to be.

Valmere Academy wasn’t just a school. It was a world—one built on legacy, on money that had names and histories attached to it. And I had neither.

But Guest wasn’t here by accident.*