The first thing Ophelia noticed that morning was that someone had copied her nail color.
It wasn't exact—hers was a limited import from Virelli's spring line, a muted lilac with opalescent shimmer. The girl three desks down had something cheaper. Thicker. Overcompensating. It pooled at the cuticles. Sloppy.
Amateurs.
Ophelia tilted her chin slightly, letting the sunlight hit her cheekbones at a flattering angle. If one more girl in the academy dared to imitate her lip gloss palette, she was going to file an official complaint. Again.
The private academy of Saint Ovidia's Crown had always been her stage. And she'd fought for that status—for the whispered envy, the forced compliments, the way students cleared her path in the halls as if she were contagious with money and charm.
Which, to be fair, she was.
Or at least she had been.
Lately, there had been… murmurs.
She leaned back in her seat during etiquette theory, her manicured fingers twirling a stylus she had no intention of using. Professor Mettler droned on at the front of the room, something about posture and legacy and moral superiority. Or maybe it was foot placement.
Ophelia didn't care. She was too busy wondering who, exactly, had leaked the idea that Lucas—her half-brother—was now the ward of Serathine D'Argente. The duchess. The one who threw parties where crown princes showed up without guards.
Lucas. Her half-brother. Her project.
Ophelia's lips pressed into a tight, peach-glossed line.
She'd spent years fixing his posture, his awkward little silences, and his tendency to fidget like he was trying to fold himself invisible. Misty hadn't cared—she hadn't looked. But Ophelia had. She'd ironed out the creases, made him presentable, made sure he didn't humiliate the family name when he was paraded in front of potential buyers like a luxury watch with a manufacturing defect.
And now he was Serathine's heir?
Now he was engaged to Trevor Fitzgeralt?
That made Ophelia want to laugh.
Or scream.
The stylus she'd been spinning snapped between her fingers, the plastic cracking sharp and sudden. Several students turned toward her at the noise. She gave them a sweet smile.
There was something wrong with Lucas. Terribly.
The boy she knew would never speak to her like that. Would never speak to Misty like that.
Not in public. Not with that voice. Not with that spine.
At the Baye Gala, he hadn't looked scared. Or passive. He hadn't looked like someone who'd spent his whole life waiting for permission to exist.
He looked like someone who knew exactly what every word would do.
The pause before he spoke. The look in his eyes when he did. It wasn't courage. Not the kind you're born with.
It was authority.
And Lucas was not supposed to have that.
He wasn't supposed to know how to hurt with words. He wasn't supposed to look like someone who could carry the weight of a title. He was supposed to be a product. Pretty. Silent. Easily handled.
That's what Misty had raised.
That's what Ophelia had refined.
The doll they all worked on in quiet rooms and silk-draped parlors. The boy they trained not to take up space unless invited.
Now he was sitting beside Trevor Fitzgeralt like he belonged there.
Now he was speaking in front of Serathine as if the duchess was a guest, not a handler.
Misty was furious. Still telling anyone who'd listen that Serathine had sunk her claws in. That Lucas had been seduced by power, twisted by the promise of status.
But Misty wasn't angry about betrayal. She was angry about the loss of a product she already sold.
"Miss Kilmer?" Professor Mettler's voice sharpened from the front. "If you'd like to join the rest of us—"
"I would," Ophelia interrupted sweetly, smiling without warmth. "But I already understand the lesson."
She said it calmly. Casually. With just enough venom to keep the others quiet. Professor Mettler blinked twice, adjusted his cravat, and moved on. The professors here had no real power, but the students with lots of money did.
Christian could freeze accounts. He could slap holds on assets and pretend it was strategy. But money didn't live in numbers for families like hers. It lived in safehouses and overseas art, in cash kept quiet, and in debts owed by people too powerful to say the word "no" out loud.
So yes, Misty was under scrutiny.
But Ophelia was still sitting here.
With her tuition paid in full, her uniform dry-cleaned weekly, and the staff trained to smile through their discomfort.
And for now, that was enough.
She looked back toward the board, or rather, past it—already calculating.
A knock drew the attention of the class. The director's secretary stepped in, crisp blouse, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the room until they landed on her.
"Ophelia Kilmer," the woman said, her voice neutral but edged with politeness. "There is someone who wants to see you."
Ophelia's brow lifted.
She wasn't expecting anyone. Which meant this wasn't casual. If the secretary came during class—and not an attendant—it was someone who didn't want to wait. Someone important.
"Professor," she said, turning with practiced grace, "may I go?"
She smiled softly, sweetly, and practiced. The kind of smile that looked harmless unless you'd ever seen it break skin.
Professor Mettler waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes. Do return if time allows."
She wouldn't.
Ophelia rose without a rush. Let the other girls watch. She adjusted her blazer sleeve as she passed the desk, the glint of her ring catching in the sunlight—subtle, tasteful, sharp.
The hallway outside was silent.
The secretary didn't speak again, just walked.
Ophelia followed, unbothered. It wasn't often people came to her. They usually went through Misty or through the school's buried channels of influence.
If someone wanted to speak to her directly, in broad daylight, then either they wanted something from Misty through her or it was Lucas.
She hoped for the latter.
They passed the row of stained-glass windows, down the staircase reserved for faculty, and stopped in front of the side parlors—a space usually reserved for court sponsors, retired governors, and the occasional over-dressed alumna pretending to be important.
The secretary knocked once and opened the door.
Ophelia stepped through.
And stopped.
Not Lucas.
Lucius Thorne of Palatine. The second prince.