The Heir's Ruthless Obsession

"Mmm..."

I woke up and stretched my arms, half-expecting my knuckles to hit the low, splintered wood of the orphanage bunks. Instead, my fingers brushed air. The ceiling was so high it felt like it had its own weather system. I rolled over, sinking into sheets that felt less like fabric and more like a cloud.

"Egyptian cotton," I whispered, rubbing a corner of the sheet against my face. "Goodbye, scratchy wool. I won't miss you."

I sat up and looked at the room. It was too quiet. The scent of lavender and lemon wax was so thick I could almost taste it.

"Okay, Isabelle," I muttered, giving my cheeks a sharp slap. Slap. "Ow! Okay. Real. You’re actually here."

I let out a shaky, high-pitched laugh of pure nerves but a shadow crossed the open doorway. Three girls in tailored blazers were walking past, their expressions shifting from bored to disgusted.

"Is that the scholarship girl?" one of them asked, not even bothering to lower her voice. "The one Genevieve Beaumont hauled out of the gutters?"

"Sounds like she’s already having a mental break," the other snickered.

I felt the heat climb up my neck. I offered a weak, sheepish wave. "Morning! Just... testing the acoustics?"

They didn't even blink before moving on. I dove for the door and turned the lock, leaning my forehead against the wood. "Great job. You look like an unhinged squirrel. Professional."

A deep, heavy chime echoed through the floorboards. The assembly bell.

"Holy Grail, I'm going to be late!"

I showered quickly, moving with so much haste that I almost tripped several times. 

I lunged for the closet. The uniform felt like it belonged in a museum. I fumbled with the buttons of the crisp white shirt, my fingers shaking so hard I nearly ripped the thread.

"Money and clouds," I breathed, smoothing the navy blazer. "Don't tear it. Don't breathe on it. Just get to the hall."

I grabbed my bag and schedule slip, bolted out the door and immediately realized I had no idea where I was going. I spotted a group near a fountain, girls with headbands that probably cost more than my violin.

"Um, excuse me?" I started, trying to sound like I belonged. "Could you tell me where the—"

They turned in unison, looking me up and down like I was a smudge on a window.

"Are you lost," the girl in the center asked, "or just lacking a mirror?"

"I'm looking for the Cathedral," I stammered, clutching my map.

"Try looking for a tailor first," the second one giggled. "Your ribbon is crooked. It’s actually embarrassing to look at."

"Sorry," I muttered, backing away. "My bad."

I turned a corner, glaring at the map. "It's a labyrinth. A literal, gold-plated labyrinth." I looked up at the white spire in the distance. "I can see the building! Why can't I get to it?!"

Thump.

A muffled, wet sound came from behind a stone shed. I followed it into the shadows and stopped dead. Two girls were holding a student down. The leader was shoving a handful of dead, dirty leaves toward the girl's mouth.

"Eat it," the ringleader hissed. "You like attention so much? Scavenge for your lunch, you rat."

The air left my lungs, replaced by a hot, sharp rage. "HEY!"

The three girls spun around.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" I snapped, stepping forward. My heart was trying to exit my chest but my voice held. "Ganging up on people is pathetic."

The leader, whose name is Arabella, burst out laughing. "The stray has a bark. What are you going to do, charity case? We know who you are. The girl who played a fiddle for the Beaumonts."

The girl on the ground looked at me, her eyes wide and pleading. I pulled out my phone and held it up. "I'm calling security. And I'm recording this."

I wasn't but my thumb was hovering over the screen like I meant it.

"You've got guts," Arabella mocked, poking a branch into my chest. It caught on the weave of my new blazer. "Do you have any idea who my father is? My father sits on the board!”

"I don't care if your father is the King of France," I snapped, smacking the branch away. "Don't poke me like I'm a dead animal."

"She’s feisty," another snickered. "Like your pet fox, Arabella."

"Don't compare my fox to a beggar," Arabella spat. "I want to see her cry. I wonder if those silver eyes turn gray when you beg." She reached out like she was trying to grab my face. I flinched and closed my eyes, waiting for the punch to land on my face, when a voice stopped us. 

"HEY!"

A new voice, cold and sharp as a razor, cut through the alley. A girl with brown, perfect curls stood there. The atmosphere shifted instantly.

"Emmeline..." Arabella whispered. Her face went pale.

Emmeline Schuyler.

She was tall, with a slim, model-like figure that made the academy’s charcoal uniform look like it had been draped on a Parisian runway. Her brunette hair was thick and heavy, falling in dark waves that sat perfectly over her shoulders without a single strand out of place.

Even the way she wore the uniform felt like an insult to the rest of us. The navy blazer hugged her shoulders, making the fabric look like silk. Her white shirt was so crisp it looked as if it had never been folded, and the pleated skirt hit her at the perfect mid-thigh length.

As she stepped closer, her expensive heels clicking on the floor, a fragrance hit me, not the cheap, flowery stuff the other girls wore but something deep and intoxicating. It smelled like sandalwood, bergamot, and rain, the scent of someone who had never had to worry about a bill in her life.

She looked like she just walked straight out of a magazine. 

Her gaze narrowed on me as if she were reading a code. Then she looked at the girl in the dirt.

"Bullying again, Arabella? Did you forget the Dean's last warning?"

"Emmeline, wait! She started it!" 

"Do I look like an idiot?" Emmeline stepped closer. "Go to Student Affairs. Now. Tell them I sent you."

The bullies didn't argue. They scrambled away, throwing looks at me that promised a very short lifespan. My knees finally started to shake.

"Thank you," I breathed. "I didn't think—"

"What are you still doing here?" Emmeline interrupted. She wasn't being kind; she was being efficient. "I think you have somewhere to be."

"The girl on the ground—"

"The medical team is on their way," she said, looking at her watch. "Leave."

"Wait!" I called out as she turned. "Could you... Tell me how to get to the Cathedral? I'm hopelessly lost."

She paused, raising a brow. "You're the violinist. The one my mother mentioned."

"I guess so."

"Turn left and walk straight," she said. She took a step, then stopped. "And Isabelle? Stay out of trouble. This isn't an orphanage. People here don't play by the rules of a church."

She was gone before I could even say thanks.

"The assembly!" I shrieked, looking at my phone. "I'm going to be expelled on day one!"

I ran. I ran past the fountains and the library, my lungs screaming. I reached the Cathedral, a massive, terrifying fortress of white stone and lunged for the brass handle.

Click.

Locked.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, leaning my forehead against the cold wood. I yanked again. "No... no, no, please. Open the door. Not today."

"Are you trying to get in?"

The voice was soft, masculine, and actually sounded... nice. Which was a first for this school.

I froze. I turned around slowly and found myself looking at a boy whose hair actually seemed to glow in the sun. His eyes were a bright, startling blue-green, and he was watching me with a tilted head.

"The doors lock automatically when the Rector starts speaking," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "You must be new."

I couldn't move. I couldn't even remember my own name. I just stood there in the shadow of the door, staring at the most beautiful person I had ever seen.

And that moment, in the shadow of the cathedral was how everything truly began. 

Dmitri’s Pov (The Study)

The air in my father’s study always felt cold, a thick, suffocating blend of old leather, copper, and the stale bitterness of cigar ash. I stood there, my spine felt like a rod of frozen iron while father steepled his fingers behind the desk. 

“The Beaumont gala,” he said, the words dry and precise. “Give me a report.”

“It was posturing,” I replied. I kept my breathing shallow, trying not to let the tremor in my chest reach my voice. “The Beaumonts wanted to remind everyone they still have a checkbook. There was nothing actionable.”

His gaze sharpened like it was trying to dissect me. “And the girl? The one Genevieve called a prodigy.”

I forced my expression to stay flat, a mask I’d been carving since I was fifteen years old. “Average talent at best, a shiny toy for the Beaumonts to parade around for a tax write-off. She’s irrelevant, Father.”

His phone buzzed. He answered it, his face was unreadable until the person on the other end spoke. Then, I watched the impossible happen. The color didn't just leave his face; it drained out, leaving him looking like a sickly, grey corpse.

“Isabelle Duval,” he whispered and the way he said her name made the hair on my arms stand up. “You gave her a seat at St. Aurelia? Without my signature?”

My stomach didn't just turn; it dropped into a cold, dark void. Rousseau had gone over my head. He’d signed the papers before I could stop him.

“I couldn’t care less about her violin,” Father snarled. He stood up, his fist slamming into the wood with a crack that sounded like a gunshot. “If she’s who I suspect, if that face isn't a coincidence, she’s a loose thread and I pull loose threads. She’s a ghost that should have stayed buried in the dirt where she belongs.”

He leaned over the desk, fixing those black-pit eyes on mine. 

“She is in your world now, Dmitri. You will be her shadow. Watch every breath she takes. Every student she speaks to. Every note she plays. If she becomes a problem for this family...”

He let the sentence hang in the air, a silent, lethal promise. He didn't need to finish it. We both knew what happened to "problems" in the Volkov house.

“I understand,” I said, the words feeling like lead in my mouth.

I turned and walked out, my shoes clicking too loudly on the hardwood. I didn't let myself breathe until the heavy oak door was shut between us, cutting off the scent of his cigars. My pulse was a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

Isabelle thought she’d found a way out. Stay out of the light, little ghost, I thought, my hands finally starting to shake. Because once my father looks at you the way I’m already looking at you... There won’t be enough of you left to save.