[Veronica's POV]
Power isn't something you're handed. It's something you take — with perfectly manicured nails and a steel spine wrapped in silk.
And I've worked too hard to let some random charity-case transfer student undo what I've built.
Rosella Rivers.
She walks around like she doesn't owe this school a thing. Like she's not walking on glass, breathing borrowed air. Like she hasn't noticed whose world she's been dropped into.
But oh, she knows.
And worse — she doesn't care.
That makes her dangerous.
---
At Saint Augustine's, everything is reputation.
The way you walk. The way you speak. Who your father plays golf with. Who your mother donates to during the annual fundraiser brunch. That's what makes you untouchable.
I built mine brick by brick.
Model student. Perfect grades. Social chair. Debutante. National fencing champion.
I could take out a grown man in under six seconds.
And yet, apparently, I couldn't handle one mouthy commoner.
That girl humiliated me in the hall.
Made me look small.
In front of Damien.
And that?
Unforgivable.
---
At lunch,
I sat at the centre table, the one lined with eucalyptus garlands and imported lavender from some overpriced farmer's market.
Everyone watched me, waiting for my move. For my next performance.
I didn't give it to them.
Instead, I sipped my iced matcha and let the silence simmer.
Let them wonder if I was retreating or strategizing.
Rule #1: Never show anger.
Rule #2: Never mention your enemies by name — make people ask about them.
I noticed Florence — one of my "friends" — scrolling on her phone, not-so-subtly watching Rosella at the far end of the cafeteria.
"She's getting bold," she said, tone casual. "Even sat with Lara today."
Lara.
The barely-in crowd. Friendly enough to be tolerated. Poor enough to stay in line.
"Let her play," I murmured. "The higher she climbs, the further she falls."
---
After school,
I took the private car to Julian's estate.
He wasn't my friend. He wasn't anyone's friend.
But he was the closest thing Saint Augustine's had to a real king.
He met me on the balcony overlooking the garden maze, where peacocks strutted like they paid rent.
"Rosella Rivers is making waves," he said without looking at me.
"She's a ripple in a teacup."
Julian turned. "You're nervous."
"No," I said smoothly. "I'm watching."
He smiled — not kindly.
"I remember when you were the girl no one noticed," he said.
"I changed that."
"You clawed your way into relevance. I respect that. But don't let pride make you sloppy."
I clenched my fists beneath the table.
"Damien gave her a card," I said.
That caught his attention.
"Without consulting me?"
He was amused now. I could feel it.
"I warned you," I said. "She's not some clueless scholarship girl. She's... calculated. She's a threat."
Julian tilted his glass.
"Good. The Society needs a little chaos."
---
Back at school that evening,
I walked through the quad just in time to see Rosella again — standing outside the dorms, speaking quietly to Damien. Her hands waved as she argued. His jaw clenched. Then, for a terrifying second, he smiled at her.
Like he saw her.
Like he understood her.
Like she mattered.
My stomach turned.
I didn't mind being disliked. I could handle envy, hatred, fear.
But irrelevance?
Never.
---
Later that night,
I lay in bed, scrolling through Rosella's socials.
Her page was bare. Clean. Almost... manufactured.
No random selfies. No rants. No luxury thirst traps like the rest of us.
Which meant she was hiding something.
And I was going to find out what.
I clicked on her tagged photos. Found one old post from her former school in Kent. Uniform. Lopsided braid. A cracked smile.
I stared at it longer than I'd admit.
Something about the picture felt heavy. Like her life before here had teeth.
Before I could stop myself, I messaged Julian.
> V: "Want me to dig?"
> J: "Always."
---
Last thought before sleep?
You want in, Rosella?
Fine.
Walk through the doors. Take your crown.
Just remember...
It's made of thorns.
And you bleed like the rest of us.