Dmitri's POV
Her lips were still on mine. Not physically, she'd left an hour ago, the scent of her shampoo and foundry dust lingering in the air but the phantom pressure remained, a brand. I paced the length of my room, my knuckles raw from where I'd slammed them into the pillar earlier. The kiss hadn't been a mistake. It was a tactical acquisition.
She came to me.
The thought was a dark, possessive flame in my chest. I hadn't planned it. I'd planned the lesson, the shaping, the forging of a weapon that would be unmistakably Mine. But when her fingers had curled into my sleeve, a silent, shaky question… control had slipped. Just for a second.
And in that second, I'd taken.
The taste of her, sharp like ozone, sweet like fear was still on my tongue. I could still feel the frantic rabbit-beat of her heart under my palm, the way her body had melted into the kiss for one breathless moment before she'd stiffened, torn.
That was the point. To tear her. To unravel the neat, principled world Julien represented and re-weave her into my darker, stronger tapestry. She was a variable that needed to be solved, a fire that needed to be contained within my own hearth. Anywhere else, she was a risk. Here, with me, she was an asset. My asset.
Love was a fragile, useless word. This was a necessity. This was ownership. If the kiss made her hesitate, made her look at Saint Julien with a fraction less light in her eyes, then it was more than justified. It was essential. She needed to understand that every breath she took at St. Aurelia was a breath I allowed. Every victory would be a victory I engineered. The kiss wasn't a romantic overture; it was a border drawn on a map. Mine.
Let Julien have his soft words and valley houses. I was giving her a throne. And every king needs a chain to keep their crown from being stolen. My lips on hers was simply the first link.
Julien's POV
The golden light of the late afternoon sun felt like a lie. It was too warm, too gentle for what I had to do. My hands were sweating, making the manila folder feel slick and diseased. I'd read the contents three times. Each time, the cold knot in my stomach tightened. It wasn't just about protecting her anymore. It was about winning.
I found her in the music wing. Not practicing, just sitting on the floor, her back against the lockers, her violin case across her lap like a shield. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed. There was a new quietness to her, a stillness that felt dangerous. And on her lower lip, a faint, barely-there abrasion. A dryness. A bite mark.
"Isabelle."
Her eyes flew open. For a split second, before she saw it was me, her expression was… wary. Guarded. Then it softened, but it was too late. I'd seen it. "Julien. You're… here."
"I need to show you something." My voice came out flat, harder than I meant it to.
"Okay." She didn't move from the floor. Just watched as I knelt, the stiff wool of my trousers scratching my knees. I threw the folder down between us. It slapped the polished floor. A few papers slid out, the ledger page with the Volkov seal glaring like a poisonous beetle.
"What is this?" she asked, but her voice was already distant. She knew.
"The truth." I pointed a finger at the seal, my nail tapping the paper.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Your scholarship. It wasn't the board. It wasn't merit. It was a purchase. Viktor Volkov bought your slot. Dmitri just… collected the merchandise."
She picked up the ledger page. Her hands weren't trembling. That scared me more than anything. "He told me you fought for me," she said, not looking up.
"He lied." The words were ash in my mouth. "I did fight. But he fought harder to make sure you ended up where he could watch you. Where he could control the narrative. He doesn't protect you, Isabelle. He curates you."
Finally, she looked at me. Her silver-grey eyes were like chips of flint. "Why are you showing me this now?"
"Because it's not too late." I reached for her hand. She let me take it, but her fingers were limp, cold. "I have a car. At the north gate. My aunt's place in the valley, it's empty. We can go tonight. Right now. No masks, no Schuylers, no… him." I squeezed her hand, trying to pump some warmth, some life back into it. "Just us. Like it was supposed to be."
The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the overhead lights and the frantic drum of my own heart. I saw her gaze drift over my shoulder, towards the courtyard. Towards the Foundry.
"I can't just run, Julien."
"Why?" The word burst out, edged with a frustration I couldn't hide. "Because he's shown you a fancy mask? Because he… touches you like he owns you?" My eyes flicked to her lip again. I couldn't help it.
She pulled her hand from mine as if burned. "He sees me. He doesn't look at me like I'm a broken thing that needs to be kept in a quiet room in the valley."
The blow landed perfectly. "That's not…That's not what I'm offering!"
"Isn't it?" She stood up suddenly, looming over me where I knelt. "Safety. Seclusion. Hiding. That's your solution. His is to give me a weapon."
"He is the weapon!" I shot to my feet, the folder scattering under my shoe. "He created the game so he could be the only one who knows the rules! Can't you see that? He's not making you strong, he's making you dependent !" My voice was too loud in the hall. It echoed back at us, shrill and desperate. I was losing. I could feel it, the ground crumbling under my feet.
She hugged her violin case to her chest, a physical barrier. "He's the only one who didn't flinch. When I fight back, he doesn't look disappointed. He looks… interested."
"He looks predatory !" I was shouting now. I never shouted. The ugliness of it hung in the air between us. I saw her flinch, and a petty, vicious part of me was glad. "You love the way he looks at you? Like you're a fascinating bug he's about to pin to a board? That's not love, Isabelle. That's pathology. And you're choosing it. You're choosing him over…"
I trailed off. Over me. The unsaid words were the loudest in the room.
Her face was pale, but her chin was up. That defiant, stupid, beautiful chin. "I have to see it through. I have to know what happens when the mask comes off."
"You already know!" The jealousy erupted, hot and sour. "You'll be his! That's all that happens! You walk into that ball on his arm and the girl I know, the one who cared about truth, about justice, she doesn't come out. She gets consumed. He won't share you, Isabelle. Not with your past. Not with me ."
There it was. The raw, selfish core of it. My fear wasn't just for her safety. It was the terror of being erased from her story, of being replaced by a darker, stronger character. I was offering an escape, yes, but I was also demanding a choice: Me. Choose me.
She looked at me then, and her eyes were full of a terrible, clear understanding. She saw my jealousy, my need to be the hero, my fear of being left behind. She saw the small, ugly man inside the golden boy.
She took a slow step back. "Then I guess I'm already lost."
The words were final. A door closing. I had thrown every truth I had, every piece of ugly evidence, and it hadn't been enough. The folder on the floor was just paper. The kiss on her lip was a fact.
I turned away before she could see my face crumple. The walk to the north gate was the longest of my life. The car was there, idling, a promise of escape. But it was empty. It had always been empty.
I had given her an ultimatum: the truth or the mask.
And with my jealousy laid bare and my offer smelling more like a cage of my own making, she had chosen the devil. At least he was honest about what he was.