THE SERPENT'S EMBRACE
JODY'S POV
The black envelope felt heavier in my hands than paper should.
Three days had passed since it appeared under my door, three days of staring at that elegant script spelling out my name while Alex's explanations about "academic societies" echoed in my mind. The wax seal—that serpent coiled around an ancient key—matched his watch perfectly. Too perfectly to be coincidence.
"You're overthinking this," I whispered to my reflection in the cracked mirror above my dresser. But my grandmother's voice whispered back: When something seems too good to be true, honey, it usually is.
The phone number on the invitation had led to a brief conversation with a woman whose voice dripped with the kind of refinement that came from private schools and trust funds. "Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock sharp. Enter through the library's east entrance. Someone will be waiting."
Now I stood outside that entrance, watching my breath fog in the October air while students hurried past with their designer backpacks and expensive coffee. None of them seemed to notice the man in the expensive suit who'd been standing near the stone lions for the past ten minutes, checking his watch with the precision of someone accustomed to punctuality.
"Miss Hopkins?" He approached with the smooth confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world. Mid-thirties, perfectly styled hair, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. "I'm James Morrison. The Circle is delighted you accepted our invitation."
His handshake lingered a moment too long, and I caught him studying my face with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Like he was cataloging details for later reference.
"Thank you for having me," I managed, trying to match his polished tone while my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Follow me." He led me through corridors I'd never seen before, past restricted doors marked with symbols I didn't recognize. Our footsteps echoed against marble floors that seemed to extend deeper into the building than should be possible. "The Circle has been observing your academic performance with great interest."
Observing. The word made my stomach clench. "How did you know about my grades?"
"Excellence rarely goes unnoticed at Ashford." James's smile remained perfectly calibrated. "Especially when it emerges from... challenging circumstances."
We descended a spiral staircase hidden behind what looked like a maintenance door. The air grew cooler with each step, carrying scents of old stone and expensive cologne. Emergency lighting cast long shadows on walls carved with Latin phrases I couldn't translate and symbols that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them.
"Here we are." James pushed open heavy wooden doors, and warm light spilled out along with the sound of cultured voices and classical music.
The chamber beyond took my breath away. Vaulted stone ceilings soared overhead, supported by carved pillars that belonged in a cathedral rather than a university basement. Persian rugs covered polished floors, and oil paintings in heavy gilt frames depicted scenes I couldn't quite interpret—figures in robes, symbols that hurt to look at directly, landscapes that seemed familiar yet wrong.
About thirty students mingled in small groups, all of them radiating the effortless sophistication that came with generational wealth. Designer clothes that fit perfectly, jewelry that caught the light from crystal chandeliers, voices pitched at the perfect volume for intimate conversation. I felt like a fraud in my thrift store dress and secondhand shoes.
"Jody!" Alex materialized beside me, looking devastating in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my semester's textbooks. His smile was warm, genuine, and for a moment the knot in my chest loosened. "You came."
"You knew I'd be here?"
Something flickered across his expression—too quick to interpret. "I hoped. The Circle doesn't extend many invitations to underclassmen." His hand found the small of my back, warm and possessive. "Come on, I want you to meet everyone."
The next hour passed in a blur of introductions and conversations that felt choreographed. Everyone seemed to know exactly who I was before Alex introduced me, and their questions felt less like polite curiosity and more like interviews. How was I adjusting to campus life? Did I find the academic workload challenging? What were my plans after graduation?
"She's brilliant," Alex told a girl named Charlotte whose grandmother had apparently donated an entire wing to the library. "Completely transformed her chemistry grades in just a few weeks."
"How wonderful." Charlotte's smile was perfect, practiced. "Academic improvement can be so... rewarding. Especially when one has the right motivation."
There it was again—that clinical way of speaking about scholarship students, as if we were specimens being studied rather than people being welcomed.
I excused myself to find the restroom, needing space to breathe and think. But instead of following James's directions, I found myself drawn down a side corridor lined with doors marked with numbers rather than names. Most were locked, but one stood slightly ajar, spilling yellow light into the hallway.
I shouldn't have looked. Should have turned around and rejoined the party and pretended everything was normal. But the voices inside were familiar, and my name drifted through the crack like smoke.
"—Hopkins is responding exactly as predicted," Dr. Powell's voice, calm and analytical. "Financial desperation combined with intellectual validation creates optimal conditions for behavioral modification."
My blood turned to ice water.
"The surveillance footage confirms it," another voice replied. "She's forming the expected emotional attachment to her handler. Classic Stockholm syndrome development."
"Excellent. Phase two can proceed on schedule. Has Gallagher been briefed on the intimacy protocols?"
"He understands his role. Though there are concerns about his... emotional investment in the subject."
"That's actually advantageous. Genuine affection will make the eventual betrayal more devastating and the conditioning more permanent."
I pressed my back against the wall, fighting nausea. Handler. Subject. Conditioning. The words spun through my mind like poison, recontextualizing every moment of warmth between Alex and me as calculation and manipulation.
Through the crack, I could see a wall covered with photographs. Pictures of students I recognized from campus, each tagged with psychological profiles and behavioral assessments. My breath caught when I spotted myself—not one photo, but dozens, taken over weeks from angles that suggested professional surveillance. Me walking to class, studying in the library, eating alone in the cafeteria. All of them timestamped before I'd ever spoken to Alex.
Below my photos, a clinical assessment in Dr. Powell's handwriting: Subject exhibits textbook vulnerability markers. Isolated, financially desperate, high achievement orientation combined with low self-esteem. Recommended approach: academic validation through romantic manipulation. Handler assignment: A. Gallagher.
The folder was thick with similar assessments of other scholarship students. Some marked with red stamps reading "COMPLETED" or "TERMINATED." Others, like mine, marked "IN PROGRESS."
"Miss Hopkins?"
I spun around to find Dr. Powell standing behind me, his expression unreadable. How long had he been watching me read my own psychological profile?
"I was looking for the restroom," I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
"Of course you were." His smile was indulgent, paternal. "Come, let's have a conversation about your future here at Ashford. I have a research opportunity that might interest a student of your... particular background."
He guided me back toward the main chamber with a firm hand on my elbow, his grip just tight enough to make resistance impossible. The party continued around us, beautiful people sipping expensive wine and discussing intellectual topics, but now I saw it clearly for what it was—a stage set, a carefully constructed illusion designed to make people like me feel special while we walked willingly into traps.
"The research involves psychological assessment of your fellow students," Dr. Powell explained as we settled into leather chairs near a fireplace that shouldn't exist three stories underground. "Particularly those from similar socioeconomic backgrounds. You'd be compensated generously, of course."
"What kind of assessments?"
"Nothing invasive. Simply observing behavioral patterns, noting psychological vulnerabilities, documenting social adaptation strategies." His eyes never left my face, cataloging every micro-expression. "Think of it as anthropological fieldwork. You'd be helping us understand how to better support students from disadvantaged backgrounds."
The words sounded reasonable, even altruistic. But I'd seen those files upstairs, seen my own face staring back from surveillance photos. Whatever they were studying, it had nothing to do with support and everything to do with control.
"I'd need to think about it," I said carefully.
"Of course. Though opportunities like this are rare for someone in your position." Dr. Powell stood, straightening his expensive suit. "Take your time. But not too much time. The research begins next week."
As he walked away, I noticed something that made my throat close with terror. A manila envelope on the side table next to my chair, my name written across the front in that same elegant script. Inside, visible through the slight opening, were more photographs. But these weren't surveillance shots of me on campus.
These were pictures of my grandmother.