Sirène learned about pressure the way she learned about power—indirectly.
It did not announce itself. It seeped in through conversations that stopped when she entered rooms, through invitations extended with too much politeness, through the sudden interest of people who had never once bothered to look at her before.
Blackthorne University did not operate on coincidence. Neither did the families who funded it.
The morning after the archives, Sirène found herself summoned to the Valemont table at breakfast.
It occupied the far end of the dining hall, positioned beneath a mural depicting the founding benefactors of the institution—men with stern eyes and softened mouths, immortalized in oil and silence. The table was already half full when she arrived. Silverware gleamed. Linen lay perfectly flat. Conversations unfolded in measured tones.
Her cousin Margaux glanced up first, offering a small smile that carried more calculation than warmth.
"You're late," Margaux said.
"I wasn't aware we were operating on a schedule," Sirène replied, taking her seat.
Her uncle did not look at her. "You were seen in the restricted wing last night."
Sirène paused, fingers resting lightly against the porcelain cup in front of her. "I have clearance."
"That isn't the point."
"No," she agreed calmly. "It never is."
Margaux watched her over the rim of her coffee cup, interest sharpened. "Blackthorne has eyes everywhere," she said lightly. "You should remember that."
Sirène did remember. She remembered far too well.
"Is this concern," she asked, "or instruction?"
A brief silence followed.
Her uncle finally met her gaze. "The Ashcrofts have been asking questions."
There it was.
Sirène kept her expression neutral. "They always do."
"Not about us," Margaux said. "About you."
Sirène lifted her cup, taking a slow sip. "Then I imagine they'll be disappointed."
Her uncle leaned back in his chair. "Lucien Ashcroft has never been disappointed," he said. "Not for long."
Sirène set the cup down carefully. The porcelain made a soft sound against the table—too loud in the quiet that followed.
"I won't be managed," she said.
"No," her uncle replied evenly. "But you will be observed."
Sirène rose from the table a moment later, appetite gone. As she walked away, she felt the familiar tightening in her chest—the sense of being positioned, assessed, prepared for something she had not yet agreed to.
Blackthorne did not ruin people by accident.
She encountered Lucien again that afternoon.
The seminar on institutional ethics was held in Ashcroft Hall—an irony no one commented on aloud. Sirène took her seat near the center of the room, posture relaxed, mind alert. The discussion had barely begun when Julian Rothmere arrived late.
Julian entered with the kind of ease that suggested he had never been denied entry anywhere in his life. His smile was quick, charming, disarming. He wore his wealth lightly, like an accessory rather than an identity.
He spotted Sirène immediately.
"Valemont," he said, sliding into the seat beside her without invitation. "I was hoping you'd be here."
She turned slightly, offering a polite smile. "You're late."
"I make an entrance," Julian replied. "It's a habit."
Lucien sat two rows ahead.
Sirène was acutely aware of this fact in a way that irritated her.
Julian leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You've been busy."
"Have I?"
"Restricted archives. Family ledgers." He shrugged. "People notice."
Sirène glanced forward.
Lucien had not turned around. His posture remained unchanged, attention seemingly fixed on the professor at the front of the room. And yet—
She felt it again.
That pressure. That awareness.
"People talk," Sirène said evenly.
"Yes," Julian agreed. "But Ashcroft listens."
Her fingers tightened briefly around her pen.
Julian continued, unbothered. "I don't suppose you'd care to explain why he's taken such an interest in you."
Sirène leaned back in her chair. "If Lucien Ashcroft is interested in me," she said, "he's yet to inform me of it."
Julian smiled. "That's not his style."
Neither was jealousy, Sirène thought. And yet—
The professor called for discussion, drawing attention forward. Sirène forced herself to focus, contributing when necessary, offering measured insights that earned nods and scribbled notes.
She did not look at Lucien.
She did not need to.
When the seminar ended, Julian rose with her, placing a hand lightly at the small of her back as they joined the flow of students toward the exit. The gesture was deliberate—possessive enough to be noticed, casual enough to be excused.
Sirène stiffened slightly.
Before she could step away, a voice spoke behind them.
"Rothmere."
Lucien's tone was calm. Neutral.
Julian turned, surprised, then amused. "Ashcroft."
Lucien's gaze moved—not to Julian, but to Sirène. It lingered there, steady, assessing.
"Your family's symposium begins tomorrow," Lucien said. "You're scheduled to attend."
Julian blinked. "I am?"
"Yes."
A pause.
Julian laughed softly. "Then I suppose I'll see you there," he said to Sirène. "Perhaps we can continue this conversation."
He withdrew his hand and left, whistling faintly under his breath.
Sirène turned slowly.
Lucien stood a step closer than necessary.
"You didn't correct him," he observed.
"About what?"
"About his assumptions."
Sirène lifted her chin. "They weren't worth correcting."
Lucien studied her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "He touches you easily."
Her pulse quickened, sharp and unwelcome.
"He's familiar," she said. "That's all."
Lucien nodded once, as though cataloguing the information. "Be careful," he said.
She laughed softly. "Is that concern?"
"No," he replied. "It's instruction."
The word landed heavier than it should have.
Sirène held his gaze. "You don't get to instruct me."
Lucien leaned in slightly—not close enough to touch, but close enough that his presence narrowed her focus.
"Everyone gets instructed," he said quietly. "The difference is whether you recognize it in time."
She should have stepped back.
She didn't.
"You've been watching me," she said.
"Yes."
The admission was immediate. Unapologetic.
"And you're comfortable admitting that?"
"I don't lie about things that are obvious."
Her breath caught, just barely.
Lucien straightened, breaking the moment with deliberate ease. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "The symposium begins at nine."
She watched him walk away, spine straight, movements unhurried. He did not look back.
Sirène stood there long after he disappeared into the crowd, her thoughts tangled, unsettled.
Julian Rothmere had been obvious.
Lucien Ashcroft was inevitable.
That evening, Sirène received an invitation.
It arrived not as a message, but as an envelope—thick, cream-colored, embossed with a seal she recognized instantly. Valemont. Ashcroft. Joint hosting.
Her stomach tightened.
The symposium would be public. Political. Strategic.
And Lucien would be there.
She closed the envelope slowly, fingers steady despite the tension coiling beneath her skin.
Blackthorne was tightening its grip.
And for the first time since her arrival, Sirène wondered—not whether she could survive it—
But what it would cost her if she did.