The festival's finale was supposed to end with laughter and fireworks. But sometimes, the quietest moments crack the loudest.
The afternoon sun dipped behind the school's main building, casting long shadows over the festival grounds. Booths buzzed with students in lighthearted chaos, snapping photos, laughing over snacks, and chasing last-minute stamps on their event cards.
Ethan stood near the game booth he'd helped set up earlier, arms folded, trying to enjoy the lull between crowds. Claire was nearby, talking with some classmates. Lena had disappeared since the confrontation.
And Isabella?
She sat beside the booth's register, legs crossed, phone in one hand, not typing, just watching. Her other hand never strayed too far from Ethan's side, brushing his sleeve occasionally like a tether.
Sophie walked up a few minutes later, silent as always, carrying a small, handcrafted origami from the art booth. She held it out to Ethan without a word.
"Thanks," he said, blinking. "Did you make this?"
She shook her head.
Then glanced at Isabella once.
And walked away.
The paper crane trembled slightly in Ethan's palm. He didn't miss the glint in Isabella's eyes as she followed Sophie's retreating figure.
Logan appeared right on cue, holding a skewer of grilled mochi and a drink with two straws.
"Hey, romantic lead," he said, nudging Ethan with his elbow. "Where's the cute couple energy? You two look like a security detail."
"She's resting," Ethan muttered.
Isabella didn't even blink.
"Resting?" Logan laughed. "She's in predator mode, dude. Look at her. I've seen less intense bodyguards on crime shows."
Isabella sipped from her drink slowly.
"I can hear you," she said.
Logan raised both hands in surrender. "And I respect it. Great couple synergy. Terrifying, but great."
A ripple of noise cut through the air, low at first, then sharper, as heads began to turn near the school gates.
A sleek black limousine coasted silently to a stop by the curb.
The driver exited quickly, walking to the rear door. Whispers rolled through the students like a storm front. Phones lifted. Eyes narrowed.
"Who the hell is that?" Logan muttered, squinting.
The door opened.
A girl stepped out — tall, composed, dressed not in the school uniform, but something elegant and tailored. Black pleated skirt. Silk blouse. Polished shoes. And sunglasses that didn't belong anywhere near a high school event.
Her hair was dark, cascading past her shoulders in soft waves. Not dyed — cultivated. Her posture? Effortless. Her aura? Drenched in old money.
No one spoke. Not until she removed her glasses with a single, smooth motion.
And locked eyes with Isabella.
Ethan turned just in time to catch the flicker — that single crack in Isabella's flawless mask.
Her fingers, once steady on the drink, tightened just enough for the plastic to crinkle.
Then she stood.
"No," she said quietly. "Not her."
The girl — Vivienne Crowe — smiled faintly. Not toward Ethan. Not toward the crowd. Just... at Isabella.
A private, knowing smile.
And then she walked into the festival like she owned it.
The crowd parted for her without hesitation. Ethan felt a strange pressure settle on the air — not magical, not scripted, just undeniable.
"Who's she?" Logan whispered, still watching. "She looks like the final boss in a dating sim."
Ethan didn't answer.
Because Isabella hadn't moved.
And for the first time all day, her silence wasn't confidence.
It was a calculation.
Claire approached from behind, holding two drinks.
"Hey, Ethan, I—" She paused as she followed everyone's gaze.
She saw the girl.
She saw Isabella's expression.
And slowly, Claire lowered the drinks to her side.
No one said anything for a moment.
Because somehow, they all knew:
Everything had just changed.
They say storms don't warn before they hit. But Vivienne? She sent an invitation first.