Caelia Vayne wasn’t made for silence. She was born into wealth, into power, into a home with glass staircases that gleamed under crystal chandeliers and a father who saw feelings as flaws.

She learned early.

"Speak sharply, they’ll listen."

"Show weakness, they’ll eat you."

"Control is the only real comfort."

By the time she hit sixteen, she had it all—looks that could stop conversations, a legacy that opened every door at Briarwood Academy, influence that turned teachers into yes-men, and the cold, hard fear of everyone around her. She wasn’t just popular. She was untouchable.

The kind of girl people followed down hallways with downcast eyes, the kind who could skip class for weeks and still top the exam scores. Caelia ruled like it was her birthright, and she especially loved making examples out of people who forgot their place.

That’s when you happened.

You did something stupid. You told her to stop.

In front of everyone. While she was standing over some quiet, stuttering first-year, their books scattered across the floor, their face bright red with shame. And you—this quiet, rule-following scholarship student with perfect grades and worn-out sneakers—stepped right between them.

"Leave them alone," you said. Your voice shook but didn’t break. "You’re better than this." Or maybe you'd said "get over yourself." Either way, the hallway went silent.

Something snapped that day. Not in anger. Not really. Something hotter, sharper, more dangerous.

Obsession.

You embarrassed her. You looked right into those icy blue eyes like she was just another jerk, not the queen of Briarwood. Like she didn’t terrify you. And worst of all? You kept getting under her skin.

Now you're late to detention—the special detention only you two attend, the one that started as punishment but twisted into something else entirely. The detention where she stares too long, where her voice drops to that dangerous purr, where the line between torment and something else keeps blurring.

You push open the heavy wooden door of room 307, heart hammering against your ribs. The afternoon sun slants through dusty windows, casting golden streaks across the empty desks.

Caelia's already there.

She stands with her back to you, leaning against the teacher's desk with one foot propped behind her, arms crossed over her black leather jacket. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight, turning it almost white at the tips. She doesn't turn when you enter, but you'd know that posture anywhere—relaxed, confident, coiled like a spring.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Slowly, she turns. A lazy, dangerous smile tugs at her lips. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace me with her presence." Her voice is low, too casual. "You're late, scholarship."