Isla's POV
They taught me to walk without flinching.
My Boot heels steady, eyes forward, nerves buried so deep even I couldn't feel them.
Still—St. Arthelios scraped against something I'd buried.
It wasn't the gold-lined hallways or the way the guards wore suits instead of uniforms. It wasn't the forced smiles or polished lies. I'd seen that all before.
It was him.
Arthur Gray.
I hadn't seen him since we were kids, and even then, our families made sure we were kept apart like lit fuses. But today—we were seated inches apart. Breathing the same air. Tension curled beneath my skin the moment I sat down beside him.
I didn't look.
Didn't speak.
I could feel his eyes. Watching. Weighing. Like he wanted to dissect me, file my movements into threats or weaknesses. That's what Gray men did—control the room with silence.
He wanted me to look first.
So I didn't.
The rest of the day passed like a test. Everyone observing me while pretending not to. Teachers sizing me up. Students whispering behind manicured hands. The new girl. The Durova.
Let them talk.
When the final bell rang, I was sent to West Wing—Room 313. No roommate. No questions.
Just the click of a lock behind me.
The room was beautiful in a way that felt like a bribe—black marble floors, pale velvet curtains, high ceilings. Luxurious. Cold.
I dropped my bag and stood in the middle of it all.
Alone.
Finally, as I peacefully threw myself on one of the two big beds.
But even here…
My pulse hadn't settled since that class.
I didn't sit.
The silence felt too thick. Like the walls were listening.
Then my phone buzzed once—then again.
I didn't recognize the number.
But I knew the rhythm.
I tapped accept, bringing the phone to my ear slowly.
"You survived?" came the voice, smug and familiar.
I exhaled, half a smile tugging at my mouth. "You weren't supposed to call yet."
"I got bored."
Alice. Well—Cherry, if you asked anyone outside Russia. She was chaos in red lipstick and leather jackets. My anchor. My warning label. My oldest friend.
"You're early," I murmured, dropping to sit on the edge of the bed. "You're supposed to give me at least 24 hours before checking if I cracked."
"And you sounded too calm," she replied. "Which means you're either planning something or suppressing a meltdown. I'm betting both."
I leaned back. "Guess who I got seated next to."
"Ooh. Let me guess." A pause. "Arthur Gray."
I said nothing, but she guessed it right.
Her laugh lit up my ear like wildfire. "No way. No freaking way. Already?"
"Front row."
"Please tell me you stabbed him with your pen."
"Tempting," I muttered. "But no. I ignored him."
Alice whistled. "That's worse. Boys like that don't know what to do with silence. It's not submissive enough to soothe their ego, not bold enough to provoke a fight."
"Exactly."
Another pause.
"You okay?"
That question. The real one. She asked it softly.
I stared up at the ceiling. "Yeah. For now."
"You need me there yet?"
"No," I whispered. "Not yet. But maybe soon."
"Good. I packed heels and hell."
I smiled again. "Of course you did."
"I'll check you later Alice," I said. "Try not to start a war before lunch tomorrow." She said, her voice sliding back into its usual smirk. As I clearly imagined it.
"No promises."
She laughed again—light and reckless—and then the line went dead.
I let the phone drop beside me.
The room felt quieter now. But not safer.
Arthur Gray had seen me today.
Not fully. Not yet.
But the game had started.
And whether I liked it or not…
I was already playing.