Years later...
Looking back, there was only one question she could never stop asking herself.
If she could choose again...
Would she still choose him?
She would.
Again and again...
****
Black—velvety, deep, like night pressed into paper. Its edges were trimmed in a thin line of gold, softened with age.
There was no name or address, no printed labels, no barcode stickers, nothing that suggested it had passed through an ordinary postal system. Only a dark red wax seal pressed with an unfamiliar crest.
It looked less like mail...
And more like a summon.
"Isa," Mum called. "There's mail for you."
"What's that?"
I didn't answer immediately. I turned the envelope over in my hands.
The wax seal bore a quartered shield: an open book without words, a feathered quill crossed with an iron key, a candle burning low, and an ivy-clad stone tower. Above it, etched into a narrow banner, were two unfamiliar words.
Veritas in Tenebris.
Mum stepped closer, curiosity replacing the distraction she'd worn only moments before.
"That's not one of those scholarship letters, is it?"
"I... don't know."
"It looks..." She frowned at the seal. "...old."
Carefully, I slipped my thumb beneath the wax and broke it.
The crack echoed louder than it should have.
Inside lay a single folded letter and a slim black handbook.
The paper matched the envelope—soft, impossibly dark, its edges lined with muted gold. Elegant handwriting shimmered across the page.
At the top was my name.
Miss Isadora Ryles
My pulse quickened as I began to read.
Congratulations.
You have been offered admission into the Autumn Term at Creisleigh Hall under a Full Academic Scholarship.
You are to report to the school grounds no later than 5:00 p.m. on the 3rd of September using the enclosed orientation map. Late arrivals will not be permitted entry without prior clearance from the Head Administrator.
Upon arrival, report directly to Madam Velda, Quartermaster of Uniforms and Residential Affairs, who will issue your student attire, insignia, dormitory key, and complete your registration.
Failure to report will be regarded as noncompliance.
As a scholarship recipient, you are required to maintain a minimum academic average of 87% throughout your enrollment.
Failure to meet this requirement may result in the immediate withdrawal of your scholarship.
Enclosed is the Student Handbook. You are required to familiarize yourself with its contents before arrival.
Due to the school's policy regarding privacy, we advise that information concerning your attendance be shared only with those you consider necessary.
We look forward to welcoming you to Creisleigh Hall.
When I finished reading, she reached back into the envelope.
Tucked behind the letter was a slim black handbook, its cover trimmed with the same muted gold as the envelope.
Across the front, embossed in elegant lettering, were the words:
Student Handbook
The handbook was thicker than she'd expected.
Student Rules and Regulations.
I flipped through the pages
. Full uniform must be worn from the moment of arrival.
. Mobile phones and personal electronic devices are prohibited.
. Communication with the outside world is limited and may be supervised.
. Morning and Evening Assembly are compulsory.
. Restricted areas are not to be entered under any circumstances.
I blinked.
"Limited communication?"
"No phones?"
I flipped another page.
There were dozens more.
"...Well," I muttered. "That's... intense."
Before I could say anything else, Mum let out a small gasp.
"You got in."
When I looked up, tears had already filled her eyes.
"Isa..."
The next thing I knew, she had wrapped me in one of her crushing hugs.
"You got in!"
I laughed, hugging her back just as tightly.
"I did."
The words still didn't feel real.
****
After the excitement settled and Mum finally let me breathe, I returned to my room with the letter and handbook.
I opened my laptop almost out of habit.
Creisleigh Hall.
She'd searched the name countless times before submitting her application. Every article, every mention, every scrap of information she could find had been carefully read.
Even then, there hadn't been much.
Tonight, she found herself reading it all over again.
The official website revealed little beyond the school's history and reputation. There were only a few distant photographs of the grounds, taken from beyond the gates.
No virtual tours. No student blogs. No glimpse into daily life at Creisleigh.
What it did emphasize was the school's reputation. Its rigorous academics, pioneering research, and state-of-the-art learning facilities were mentioned repeatedly.
The website spoke of an institution where tradition and innovation existed side by side, producing graduates who went on to excel in science, technology, medicine, engineering, business, and countless other fields.
She scrolled to the About section and smiled faintly. She could almost recite it from memory.
About :
Established in 1824, Creisleigh Hall is an independent residential academy committed to academic excellence, discipline, and leadership.
Its curriculum is rigorous, challenging students to pursue excellence through dedication, integrity, and perseverance.
Beyond academics, Creisleigh fosters a close-knit community shaped by tradition, healthy competition, and a culture of personal responsibility.
For nearly two centuries, the institution has prepared generations of students to lead with knowledge, character, and purpose, encouraging each new class to contribute to the legacy of the Hall.
***
She remembered reading those words months ago, then Creisleigh had felt like anything more than an impossible dream.
Back then, it had been just another prestigious school she'd admired from afar.
Now, her acceptance letter lay open beside her.
This time, the words meant something different.
In two weeks, she wouldn't be reading about Creisleigh Hall anymore.
She'd be walking through its gates.
She smiled.
Then, almost instinctively, she reached for her phone.
Mal.
He had to hear about this.
Her thumb hovered over his name.
The smile on her face faltered.
***
Three days earlier...
I had been sprawled across her bed, phone in hand, wondering for the hundredth time how romance authors got away with writing such ridiculous scenes.
"'Devon!' she cried. 'That's my good girl,' he praised..."
Argh.
I sighed, rolling my eyes as she adjusted her position on the bed, curling up with one knee bent.
"What's with all these kinks everyone's into?" I muttered, mimicking in a low baritone, "That's a good girl," complete with a ridiculous smirk.
My voice drops deeper-mocking, smug. The kind of voice that, apparently, makes girls drop their panties.
I snort at my own thought. "Authors need to work better on these things," I mumble. "Like-how is that even physically possible? Absurd."
I glance back at my phone, thumb swiping past moaning Emma. "The size of a forearm..."
The door bursts open.
"Dora!" a familiar baritone calls.
Still glued to the screen, my brain stuck on the forearm logistics, I don't bother lifting my head.
"What did I say about knocking?" I mutter.
"Dor-aaa," he whines, stretching the vowels like it's cute or something.
I hate that it kind of is.
Maybe the panty-wetting voice theory does hold water-but as if I'd ever let him know.
When I finally raise my head, He stood at the foot of my bed like he had no idea what effect he had on people. Like existing in that loose shirt and joggers wasn't already a crime.
The faded tee hung slightly unevenly, the charcoal fabric of his joggers shifting as he leaned against one leg. Casual. Effortless. Annoyingly attractive.
From where I sat, I noticed the things I always tried not to notice—those coily, tortilla-toned curls falling messily around his face, the strands brushing against his eyes.
Eyes that looked golden under my lamp but turned mossy-green in different lighting, like they couldn't decide what kind of trouble they wanted to be.
How could someone be that good-looking and still be this irritating?
"Charming, right?" he said, like he had somehow heard my thoughts.
I snapped out of it. "As if," I muttered, forcing a disgusted expression, though my heart had the audacity to skip a beat.
He shrugged. "You just don't have good taste. The others seem to adore me."
I sighed at his narcissism. Unfortunately, he had the face to support the arrogance.
"So why were you looking for me?" I asked, turning my attention back to my phone.
"Escaping Camie," he said quickly.
A sharp little ache tugged at my chest.
"Yeah... Camie."
How could I forget?
Just as cheeky, charming, and ridiculous as Mal was, he was also a flirt. A shameless one. The kind of guy who didn't even need to try. A smirk, a wink, or simply walking into a room was enough to make half the girls notice him.
And here I was, mocking romance novels for creating unrealistic male leads.
Malakai and I...
Sometimes, I wished he would look at me the way I looked at him.
Malakai caught me staring down at my phone, lost in thought.
"Let me guess. Smut reading, right?" he teased. "Dora, as your best friend, if you ever need somewhere to practice all you've read, I assure you, I'll gladly sacrifice my body for this noble cause."
I let out a dry laugh.
"Sorry. I'm only interested in guys whose jaws could cut diamonds and who growl whenever another man dares to look at me."
His face twisted in disbelief.
I laughed at his expression, and before he could recover, I grabbed him and pulled him down onto the bed.
"What did you say, babe?" I growled.
He laughed, then easily reversed our positions, pressing me down gently but firmly.
"I believe this is how you growl," he said.
And then he did.
My breath caught.
His eyes locked with mine, amber-green glowing beneath the warm lamp light. Suddenly, the teasing disappeared. The space between us felt smaller, our breaths mixing, and for a moment, I forgot how to act normal around him.
Because this was Malakai.
My best friend.
The man I had secretly loved for longer than I wanted to admit.
Sensing the shift between us, his gaze dropped to my lips before returning to my eyes. He leaned closer.
Our lips brushed.
Then he kissed me.
A spark shot through me, and I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into it.
But just as the moment deepened, a voice came from outside my door.
"Isa?"
A knock followed.
My heart stopped.
The tension between us shattered instantly.
The door swung open.
Malakai pulled away, clearing his throat as he quickly recovered himself. "Uh... sorry, Mrs. Ellis."
Before I could say anything, he slipped past Mum and disappeared down the stairs.
I stared after him for a second before letting out the breath I'd been holding.
The room suddenly felt much quieter.
"Isa?"
Mum's voice softened.
"You alright?"
"I'm fine," I replied a little too quickly.
Mum studied me for a moment. Whatever she'd noticed, she chose not to comment.
"Dinner will be ready soon," she said instead. "Don't stay up here forever."
"Okay."
With one last glance, Mum closed the door behind her.
***
The memory slipped away.
I let out a slow breath and stared at his name on my screen.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but no words came.
***
The office was dimly lit. Lamps cast soft pools of light, barely reaching the corners, leaving most of the room in gentle shadow.
Thick drapes muted the daylight outside. Dark wood walls absorbed the warmth, making the space feel quiet and still.
A long table stretched across the center, polished to a low sheen, its surface reflecting vague shapes rather than clear images.
At its head sat a man. His face was hidden in shadow beneath the high-backed chair, but his presence was unmistakable - calm and commanding.
He wore a black wool coat, sharp-collared and fastened with antique brass clasps. A deep burgundy sash draped round his chest, marking quiet authority.
He tapped a single gloved finger against the table, the sound gentle but deliberate.
"They've all been sent?" His voice was measured, heavy with weight but slow.
From the shadows, a younger man stepped forward, shoulders tense. "Yes, sir. All letters were dispatched before dawn."
A brief pause. The head of the table shifted slightly, weighing the answer.
"Good," he said.
Then, low and even, "Inform Mr. Thorne, he will oversee orientation this year."
Silence followed.
"And remind him... there must be no incidents this time."
"Yes, sir," came the quiet reply.
The room settled back into stillness, waiting for the next move in a game only its occupants understood.