Five

Mirella

The world outside the hospital window looked too bright.

People walked along the sidewalks, holding coffee cups, scrolling their phones, laughing. They didn’t know how lucky they were to exist so easily.

The nurse smiled when she handed me the discharge papers. “You’re all set, sweetheart. The driver’s waiting downstairs.”

Sweetheart.

The word sounded foreign to my ears.

I nodded, murmured a thank you that didn’t sound like my voice, and tucked the papers into my bag.

My mother hadn’t come to pick me up. Of course she hadn’t.

There was an assistant instead—someone faceless and polite, who would drive me to a new prison with prettier walls.

The hallway smelled like disinfectant and something sweeter, like flowers that had died days ago but no one bothered to throw away. Each step felt heavier than the last. By the time I reached the lobby, my chest ached with that familiar pressure.

Gabriel was waiting by the car. He’d worked for my family for years, quiet and gentle, the only person who ever looked me in the eye like I was human. His dark eyes softened when he saw me, but he didn’t say much—just opened the door, helped me inside, and started the engine.

The ride was silent. New York blurred by in streaks of gray and gold. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and watched the city fold itself smaller and smaller behind us.

I didn’t ask where Saint Aurelia was. I already knew.

My mother had shown me a brochure once—white stone towers, iron gates, and a motto written in Latin that translated to Virtue Through Discipline.

Translation: We’ll break you until you fit.

I traced the seam of the seat with my fingertip, staring at my reflection in the tinted glass. My face looked pale, thinner maybe, but not different enough. I’d wanted the pain to erase me, to carve out all the parts that didn’t belong. It hadn’t. I was still here, still me—just emptier.

The car hit the outskirts of the city. The buildings turned into trees, tall and skeletal, their bare branches clawing at the winter sky.

“You’ll like it there,” Gabriel said softly, his first words since we left.

I didn’t respond.

He hesitated before continuing. “It’s quiet. Peaceful. You’ll get a fresh start.”

Fresh start.

That was what people said when they wanted to pretend they weren’t throwing you away.

I forced a smile he couldn’t see. “Sure.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. We both knew it wouldn’t change anything.

When the gates appeared on the horizon, my stomach turned. They rose higher than I’d imagined, black iron twisted into ornate patterns, flanked by two stone angels whose wings had cracked from weather and time. The sign read Saint Aurelia Academy for Young Women, gold letters glinting in the cold light.

Beyond the gates, the main building loomed—white stone, tall windows, ivy crawling up the sides like veins. It was beautiful in the same way a mausoleum is beautiful. Silent. Immaculate. Deceptive.

Gabriel parked near the entrance and stepped out to get my bags. “Do you want me to walk you in?”

I shook my head. “No. I’ll be fine.”

Lie.

He gave me a long look, the kind that felt like a prayer, and nodded. “Take care of yourself, Miss Mirella.”

When he drove away, the sound of the tires on gravel lingered long after the car disappeared.

And then there was nothing. Just me, my suitcase, and the echo of my own heartbeat.

A woman in a charcoal coat appeared on the steps, her heels clicking against the stone. She had a clipboard tucked under her arm and the kind of posture that screamed authority.

“You must be Miss Throne,” she said with a professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Welcome to Saint Aurelia. I’m Ms. Rowan, head of residence. You’re in East Wing, Room 313. You’ll have an orientation tomorrow morning.”

Her gaze swept over me, sharp and assessing, lingering a moment too long on my figure, on the faint scars at my wrist.

Then she smiled again—tighter this time.

“You’ll find our program very… restorative.”

I doubted that.

The inside of Saint Aurelia was colder than the air outside. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, soft footsteps echoing like ghosts. Every detail whispered money and control. Even the air smelled disciplined, like polished wood and old books.

My room was at the end of a long corridor. The walls were lined with portraits of women in stiff uniforms, each smiling faintly, each identical. The kind of perfection my mother worshiped.

When I unlocked the door, the room was empty except for two beds, two desks, and a single window overlooking the courtyard. A small nameplate on one of the desks read Reserved for M. Throne.

The other side was already occupied.

A suitcase half-unpacked.

A scarf tossed over a chair.

A photo pinned above the bed—two girls laughing in the sun.

I stared at it for a long moment before setting my own suitcase down.

A soft voice behind me broke the silence.

“You’re the new one.”

I turned.

A girl stood in the doorway, tall and blonde, eyes the color of honey and something sharp beneath it. Her uniform was perfectly fitted, her smile effortless.

“I’m Iris,” she said, extending a hand. “Welcome to Saint Aurelia.”

Her hand lingered a little too long in mine, her gaze sweeping over me with curious precision. Then, that smile again. Polished. Practiced.

“Don’t worry,” she said, voice light. “You’ll get used to it here. Everyone does.”

I forced a smile back. “Right.”

But as she left, humming softly, I sat on the bed and looked out the window at the iron gates far below.

Everyone gets used to it.

Maybe they did.

But not me.

I’d already been broken once.

And this time, if they tried again—

I’d break back.

— ✦ —

The next morning, the bell rang at six-thirty. I dressed slowly, still sore from the hospital bed. The uniform felt stiff—crisp white shirt, navy skirt, and the Saint Auriel crest embroidered over my heart like a brand.

Iris was already up, tying her hair. “You’re lucky. Breakfast is the only time people are nice. After that, it’s a jungle.”

We walked to the dining hall together. The place buzzed with life—students everywhere, voices echoing off marble floors. Everyone seemed to know where to go, who to sit with. I felt invisible and exposed all at once.

Iris led me to a small table near the back. “Rule one,” she said as we sat. “Don’t stare at anyone too long. Rule two: Don’t let anyone stare at you too long. And rule three: never sit in the center tables unless you like being eaten alive.”

“Who sits there?” I asked quietly.

“The ones who think they run the place. The Legions.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll know them when you see them.”

I picked at my toast. The sound of laughter filled the hall, louder than it needed to be. I followed Iris’s gaze and saw them—the group sitting at the center table.

They didn’t look like normal students. Everything about them drew attention without trying. Three boys, two girls, all wearing the same uniform but somehow making it look like armor. They carried themselves like the world belonged to them.

The one in the middle leaned back in his chair, lazy confidence in every movement. His hair was dark, his smile faint but sharp. People seemed to orbit around him, laughing a little too hard at whatever he said.

“That’s them,” Iris said quietly. “The ones everyone either fears or follows.”

I couldn’t look away. Something about the group felt familiar—not their faces, but the atmosphere around them. Like danger wrapped in silk.

Iris must have noticed my stare because she nudged my arm. “Don’t. They’ll notice.”

“Who are they?”

“Different backgrounds, same arrogance,” she said. “Old money, high scores, last names that open doors. But the one in the center—that’s the one people talk about.”

I glanced again. He was looking in my direction now. Or maybe through me. His expression didn’t change, but something in my stomach tightened.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

Iris’s tone turned low, almost cautious. “Kaelen Durov.”