The Heir's Ruthless Obsession

Isabelle’s POV

I stood there, frozen, staring at a boy who looked like he’d been edited into reality. His hair was that rare, effortless gold that actually caught the light and his eyes were a startling, clear blue. He looked like one of those Greek gods I once read about in a book. 

I looked down at my scuffed shoes and the dirt on the hem of my skirt. My throat felt like it was filled with sawdust.

“...Uh,” I managed. My brain was stuck in a reboot loop.

He smiled. It was a soft, easy expression that made my heart do a weird, stuttering hop.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice was low and smooth like a cello.

“I... I know,” I stammered, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my bag. “I got lost... The map… and there were these girls... and I walked in circles. A lot of circles.”

He let out a warm, genuine chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. St. Aurelia wasn't built to be helpful. It was built to be intimidating.”

He stepped past me and knocked on the massive cathedral door, three sharp, rhythmic taps. A side entrance creaked open and a man in a stiff suit poked his head out, looking ready to snap at whoever was interrupting.

“She’s with me,” the boy said.

The man’s irritation vanished instantly. He gave a quick, almost submissive nod and stepped aside. I stared at the back of the boy's head. Who is he that a three-word sentence opens locked doors?

“Come on,” the boy whispered, motioning me inside. “I’ll show you where to sit. If we’re quiet, the Dean won't even notice.”

The interior was massive, a cavern of white stone and soaring arches that made me feel the size of an ant. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper. Julien led me toward the center and I noticed the way heads turned as he passed. It wasn't the way people looked at a bully, it was the way they looked at a celebrity they actually liked.

Once we sat down, a bell tolled, a deep, heavy sound that vibrated in my teeth. Director Alexandre Rousseau stepped to the podium and the room went dead silent.

“Welcome, students,” he began, his voice booming.

I watched the Director, then looked at the boy beside me. The jawline, the way they both held their shoulders... it hit me like a physical punch. The resemblance is too obvious to miss. This must be Director Rousseau’s son. 

“I want to acknowledge those who have distinguished themselves,” the Director continued. “First, Dmitri Volkov.”

The air in the room didn't just get quiet; it got heavy. It felt like the temperature dropped ten degrees. I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. Please tell me it’s not the ‘Dmitri Volkov’ I’m thinking of. Please tell me it’s not the one that had those cold ocean eyes I met at the gala. 

I turned hoping maybe the universe would do me a big favor, but I was dead wrong. It was that ‘Dmitri Volkov’, the one who warned me to stay in the shadows. 

Dmitri stepped onto the stage. He moved with a kind of lethal grace, his dark uniform looking more like armor than school clothes. His eyes, that cold, piercing grey scanned the pews until they locked onto me. The gaze alone said plenty. The saliva in my mouth dried up quickly as I tried to swallow the lump stuck in my throat. 

The air stuck in my chest. I couldn’t swallow. Beside me, I felt Julien stiffen, his easy smile vanishing.

“Dmitri,” the Director said, oblivious to the silent tension, “your results have been exceptional. Congratulations.”

Dmitri gave a sharp, single nod. He didn’t smile. He looked like a king being handed something he already owned. As he walked off, his eyes flickered to Julien, then back to me. It wasn't a "well done" look, it was a warning. That look sent a shiver down my spine. 

“Next,” the Director’s voice warmed up significantly, “Julien Rousseau.”

The room exhaled. The tension snapped, replaced by a wave of excited whispering and applause. Julien stood up smoothly and walked to the stage. He was the sun to Dmitri’s moon.

“Julien recently won a national piano competition,” the Director said, beaming with pride.

I clapped until my hands stung. When Julien sat back down, he caught my eye and gave me a tiny, secret nod, as if to say, It’s okay. I’ve got you.

When the assembly let out, I tried to disappear into the crowd but Julien was already there, blocking my path.

“You’re Isabelle, right?”

“Yes,” I whispered, clutching my bag like a shield. “How did you know?”

“My father hasn’t stopped talking about the ‘Violin Prodigy’ from the Beaumont gala,” he teased, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m Julien Rousseau. It’s nice to meet you properly.”

“I-I know,” I stammered, feeling the heat climb up my neck. “I mean, everyone knows who you are.”

“You arrived late,” he said, leaning in a little closer. “And I saw where you were coming from. Did you have a run-in with Arabella and her friends?”

I bit my lip, embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”

“You have a leaf in your hair,” he said gently. He reached out, his fingers grazing my hair for a split second as he plucked it away. The butterflies in my stomach did a little dance. “Don’t let them get to you. They’re just bored and rich. It’s a bad combination.”

He started walking, gesturing for me to follow. “I’m a third-year student. If you ever get lost and need guidance. I’m usually in the music wing.”

“You play the piano,” I said, trying to find my voice. “Congratulations… on your piano competition.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking down. “But the piano is a lonely instrument. It’s better with a violin. I can’t wait to see you at the Music Club, Isabelle. We need someone who actually plays like they mean it.”

He dropped me off at my French class. “Good luck,” he said with a wink. “And Isabelle? Don’t let the students scare you. Some of us are actually glad you’re here.”

I watched him walk away, his golden head disappearing into the crowd. But as I turned to enter the classroom, I came face to face with Dmitri, almost bumping into his chest. His eyes darkened as if he was trying to hide the anger but I could see the way his jaw tightened like they could snap any minute. 

“Isabelle.” My name sounded like a warning. “Making friends with the golden boy already. Interesting choice.” he said, as he stepped closer, leaving a little gap between us until I could smell his expensive cologne. 

“Hi”, my voice coming out flat as I tried to hide the tension coming from my chest and forcing a smile. The last thing I want is a female version of Claire on my first day in school.

“I told you to stay hidden in the shadows.” His voice dropped. “You chose to remain in the light. You made that mistake by accepting that scholarship. You could have remained in the orphanage but you didn’t. You came to the place where you will be hunted like prey.”

“Well, nice to see you too, friend,” I forced a tiny wave, hoping that would make him back off. 

“What? I’m not your friend,” he snapped. 

“Okay… fine.” I swallowed hard. “Let’s pretend we’ve never met. I’m Isabelle Duval. Your turn,” I said, smiling and extending my hand out for a handshake. I didn’t know why I did it. Maybe I just wanted to prove I wasn’t afraid. 

The predatory gaze on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a confused expression as if I was speaking a strange language. He looked at my hand like I’d offered him poison and his gaze lifted to my face, I was still grinning ear to ear. 

“Hm? Come on, my hands are hur—“

“I don’t give a bloody damn what your name is!” He gritted, his expression changing into something dangerous. I flinched and quickly grabbed my bag like a shield. 

“You must be stupid if you think anyone here wants to be friends with you.” He leaned closer until I could smell the faint scent of peppermint on his breath. 

“Run as fast as your tiny legs can go, little rabbit,” he whispered into my ears. “Julien won’t always be there to open doors for you.” 

I shivered as his breath swept my ears. My hands began trembling as the tension I’ve been suppressing inside me forced its way out. He’s not doing anything physical to me yet but deep down in my gut, I could tell this is going to be worse than Claire’s. I’ve walked into the demon's lair willingly. 

He pulled back just enough to let me see the cold promise in his eyes. “And when the real trouble starts… I’ll be the one waiting.”

I looked away first. But I knew he hadn’t. He straightened up his back and walked away. My mind went blank. I tried to control my breathing but it already sounded like I’d just woken up from a nightmare. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs to stop the tremor. It didn’t work. A bead of sweat gathered on my forehead. Today is not going well for me. 

I made my way into the French class as I tried to put myself together. 

Inside the classroom, the teacher, Monsieur Leclerc, asked us to introduce ourselves.

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Isabelle Duval,” I said, my voice came out thinner than I wanted. “Je viens de l’orphelinat...”

The word orphanage hung in the air like a bad smell. I saw Arabella in the back row, whispering to her friend and sneering. The word felt like a stain on my skin. The class went by in a blur as I tried to concentrate on Monsieur Leclerc’s teaching. 

By lunch, I was exhausted. I found a small table by the window in the grand cafeteria, trying to hide. I looked up and saw Julien across the room, surrounded by people, laughing. He looked like the center of the universe.

Then I looked at the far corner. The "Dead Table."

Dmitri sat there alone. He wasn't eating. He was staring directly at me, his grey eyes cutting through the noise of the room.

I looked at the gold of Julien and the iron of Dmitri and my stomach twisted. The "angel" might have opened the door for me but the "demon" was the one who decided if I lived or died here.