The following weeks at St. Jude's felt less like an academic term and more like a tightrope walk over an abyss. For Mild, the stakes had never been higher. He was no longer just fighting for his dignity; he was fighting for his survival.
The Weight of the "Cross and Crown"
Mild's education was entirely dependent on the St. Jude's Covenant Foundation, a prestigious Christian philanthropic organization. Their sponsorship was the gold standard of academic funding, but it came with a "Morality and Excellence Clause" that was notoriously rigid.
To maintain the scholarship, a student had to meet two unwavering criteria:
Academic Absolute: A minimum GPA of 3.95. Any dip below this was considered a "breach of contract."
The Pillar of Character: A spotless disciplinary record. The foundation held a zero-tolerance policy for "moral turpitude," which included any involvement in scandals, public disturbances, or "unseemly associations."
Mild was summoned to the office of Mr. Henderson, the Lead Proctor. The air in the room was sterile, smelling of old paper and judgment.
"Mild, your latest midterm in Advanced Macroeconomics was a 92%," Henderson said, sliding a paper across the desk. "In any other school, that is an 'A.' Here, it is a warning. Your focus is wavering. The Foundation has been asking questions about the 'theatricality' surrounding the recent Summit. If your name appears in one more school forum rumor, they will pull your funding before the semester ends."
Mild felt the blood drain from his face. "I understand, sir. I'll fix it."
"See that you do," Henderson replied. "Distractions are for those who can afford them. You cannot."
With the threat of being sent back to a life of poverty looming, Mild made a cold, calculated decision. He would play the part Arm wanted. He would be the perfect secretary, the silent shadow, the loyal dog. He couldn't afford to be "real" if being real meant being ruined.
While Mild struggled to stay afloat, Arm was facing a different kind of imprisonment. His parents, rarely seen together, arrived at the Armitage estate in a motorcade that signaled a state-level event.
Standing between his father's cold authority and his mother's practiced elegance was a girl who looked like she had been sculpted from marble and moonlight.
"This is Style," his father announced, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Her family's holdings in the northern territories are essential to our next expansion. She is your fiancée. You will take care of her."
"I wasn't aware I was living in the nineteenth century," Arm said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where did you find her? A catalog for political mergers?"
His father stepped forward, his eyes turning into shards of ice. "Do not test me, Arm. You enjoy the power I give you at St. Jude's because I allow it. If you fail to integrate Style into your life and the school's social fabric, I will make you life miserable. You will be just another boy with a famous last name and an empty bank account."
Style remained silent, her expression unreadable. She was breathtaking—sharp features, eyes that seemed to see through the walls, and a poise that rivaled Arm's own.
The following Monday, the social hierarchy of St. Jude's was set ablaze. Style's entrance into the school was orchestrated with the precision of a royal coronation. As the "President's Fiancée," she was immediately granted a seat on the High Council.
The "Pearl Petals" and the "Arm-y" were torn. They admired her beauty but feared her proximity to the throne. For Mild, her arrival was a new complication. He was now expected to manage the schedules of both the President and his future wife.
Arm's behavior shifted. He used Style to provoke Mild, demanding that Mild personally oversee Style's orientation. He watched with a predatory intensity, waiting to see if Mild would break under the pressure of serving the woman who represented Arm's "perfect" future.
One afternoon, while Style was reviewing files in the council room, she looked up at Mild. "You're very good at this," she said, her voice like silk. "But I can see the math running in your head, Mild. You're calculating how much more you can take before you disappear."
Mild didn't look up from his tablet. "I'm just doing my job, Miss Style."
"Is that what we're calling it?" she whispered.
Before Mild could answer, the door swung open. Arm stood there, his gaze darting between the two of them. The air grew heavy. The game had changed; the board was crowded, and Mild was running out of moves.
***
The pressure on Mild was no longer a metaphor; it was a physical weight that made his lungs ache. Between the Foundation's cold scrutiny and the arrival of Style, he was living in a state of high-alert exhaustion.
Three days before the final submission for the Covenant Honors Thesis, Mild opened his cloud storage to find it empty. His 50-page research paper—the cornerstone of his academic standing—had been wiped. Even his physical backups in his locker were gone.
Panic, cold and oily, flooded his chest. Without that thesis, his GPA would plummet to a 3.2, triggering an automatic termination of his scholarship by the St. Jude's Foundation.
He found a small, handwritten note in his locker: "A lesson in distractions. — A."
Mild didn't cry. He didn't have the energy. He went to the library, fueled by black coffee and the terror of returning to the slums. He began to rewrite from memory, his fingers flying across the keys. He stayed until the lights dimmed, his vision blurring.
Near midnight, a shadow fell over his desk. It wasn't Arm. It was Style.
"He wants to see if you'll crawl to him and beg for the files back," Style said, leaning against the mahogany bookshelf. She looked at his trembling hands. "He thinks that by breaking your spirit, he can finally own the pieces."
"I don't beg," Mild rasped, not looking up.
"Then you'll fail," she countered. "Unless you realize that the enemy of your enemy can be a very useful shadow." She slid a sleek, silver flash drive across the table. "I found these in the trash bin of the council's server. Arm is brilliant, but he's arrogant. He forgot that I know how to navigate a network better than he does."
Mild stared at the drive. "Why help me? You're his fiancée."
Style's smile was razor-thin. "I'm his 'investment,' Mild. And I prefer my investments to have a little more... chaos. Consider this a down payment on a future favor."
The following afternoon, the tension moved from the library to the courtyard. Georgia had been waiting for Mild near the gates, her denim jacket a stark contrast to the sea of silk and wool. She hadn't seen him in days, and the rumors of a "fiancée" had finally reached her ears.
Style was exiting the main hall, flanked by two members of the "Pearl Petals," when she spotted Georgia. Style signaled her entourage to wait and walked toward the girl at the gate.
"You must be Georgia," Style said, her voice melodic but carrying the chill of a winter morning.
Georgia stood her ground, sensing the predatory grace of the girl in front of her. "And you're the president's rumored 'fiancee'. Congratulations on being a business transaction."
The Pearl Petals gasped, but Style only laughed—a low, genuine sound. "Sharp. I see why Mild likes you. You represent the 'real' world he's so afraid of losing."
"He's not losing it," Georgia snapped. "He's just being choked by people like you and Arm. Why are you even here? To mark your territory?"
"I don't need to mark territory I already legally occupy," Style replied, stepping closer until she was inches from Georgia's face. "But here is a truth you should hear: Mild is a porcelain doll in a room full of hammers. You are a reminder of everything that makes him 'immoral' in the eyes of his scholarship foundation. If you truly loved him, you'd stay away. Every time he looks at you, his future cracks just a little more."
"You don't know anything about him," Georgia whispered, her eyes stinging.
"I know that I am the only one who can stand next to him in this 'golden cage' without being crushed," Style said, her expression softening into something almost like pity. "You're the sun, Georgia. But Mild is deep underwater. If he tries to reach for you now, he'll only drown faster."
Style turned and walked away, leaving Georgia standing alone at the gate, the weight of the "golden world" finally feeling too heavy to fight.
That evening, Mild returned to the council room to find Arm waiting. The President was sipping tea, looking perfectly composed.
"I heard you recovered your files, Mild," Arm said, his voice a smooth purr. "Impressive. You're more resourceful than I gave you credit for."
Mild stood at the door, the silver flash drive heavy in his pocket. He didn't mention Style. He didn't mention the fever or the soup. He simply walked to his desk and began organizing Arm's schedule for the following week.
"I'm here to work, Mr. President," Mild said, his voice flat and professional.
Arm's eyes flickered with a mix of frustration and dark admiration. He stood up, walking behind Mild, his hand hovering just inches from Mild's shoulder.
"The Foundation is watching, the girl is waiting, and the school is talking," Arm whispered. "You're playing the game perfectly, Secretariat. But remember... even in a game of chess, the King and the Pawn end up in the same box at the end of the night."
Mild didn't flinch. He just kept typing. He was a ghost, a scholar, and a survivor. But as he looked at the reflection of Style watching them from the doorway, he realized the box was getting smaller for everyone.
***
The St. Jude's Covenant Foundation held its annual "Patrons and Scholars Dinner" in the Grand Atrium, a cavernous space where wealth and piety mingled. For the scholarship recipients, it was an annual inquisition disguised as a feast. Mild was forced to attend at Arm's side, playing the role of the diligently reformed aide.
The climax of the evening was the address by Dr. Elias Thorne, the Foundation's CEO—a man whose face was etched with sanctimonious disapproval.
"We invest not just in brains, but in souls," Dr. Thorne boomed into the microphone. "And to test the mettle of character, we sometimes permit small trials. We have heard rumors concerning our exemplary scholar, Mild. Rumors of conflict, emotional volatility, and, most disturbingly, unholy associations."
Mild felt Arm's proprietary hand tighten on the small of his back. Arm leaned in, his voice a low warning. "Smile, Mild. Prove him wrong."
Dr. Thorne then did the unthinkable: he directed the spotlight squarely onto Mild and Georgia, who was seated far away at a table for school volunteers.
"Mild, as a man of great promise and immense academic potential, you face a choice," Dr. Thorne continued, his eyes piercing. "The path of Christ demands sacrifice. We have observed your close relationship with Miss Georgia, a talented girl, but one who has publicly expressed views inconsistent with our foundational values. This relationship presents a distraction and a moral risk to your trajectory."
He paused for dramatic effect. The ballroom was silent.
"Your scholarship requires you to avoid such entanglement. Tonight, you must demonstrate your commitment to your future. Publicly end this association. Choose the crown, or choose the chaos."
Mild's face was pale. The heat of the spotlight was suffocating. He looked at Georgia, whose eyes were wide with a mix of pain and understanding. She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head—a signal telling him to save himself.
Mild knew what he had to do. He stepped forward, his voice strained but clear. "Dr. Thorne, I am deeply grateful to the Foundation. I understand that focus and discipline are paramount. My commitment is absolute. I will... I will dedicate myself solely to my studies and my duties to the Presidency."
He forced his eyes to meet Georgia's. He didn't say the words, but the message was delivered with the cold authority of a public execution: This is over.
Georgia nodded slowly, tears welling in her eyes, but her expression held a strange mix of sorrow and pride. She stood up and walked out of the ballroom, her denim jacket a beacon of defiance against the glittering crowd.
Arm leaned back, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. "Good boy, Mild. You chose wisely."
But Mild felt a profound emptiness. He had saved his scholarship, but he had lost the one real thing he had left.
***
The confrontation in the ballroom had been an open act of betrayal, and Mild expected to be consumed by his grief. Instead, he found himself being quietly stalked by Style.
Two days later, she cornered him in the empty school observatory, a place only accessible by an obscure keycard.
"You look suitably miserable," Style observed, sitting on the railing, looking out over the city lights.
"You got what you wanted," Mild said, his voice flat. "I'm isolated. Arm is happy. Why are you still here?"
Style smiled, but the warmth never reached her eyes. "You think I did this for Arm? Mild, you are a fool. Arm is an heirloom I am being forced to acquire. You, however, are a lever."
She jumped down, her heels clicking on the metal floor. "My family is powerful, but we are new money. Arm's family—the Armitage—they are old money. They control the political and academic narrative. My father wants to merge our companies, but his ultimate goal is to break the Armitage dynasty's financial monopoly."
Mild frowned. "What does that have to do with me?"
"You are the key to Arm's emotional control," Style explained, walking toward a telescope. "He doesn't want to love you; he wants to own you. You are his obsession, the 'Masterpiece.' If I can keep you close, keep you dependent, and keep you the focus of Arm's attention, he remains distracted."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Arm's father demanded he marry me because my family is politically useful. But Arm's father also believes that control over St. Jude's is paramount."
Style spun around, her eyes shining with cold ambition. "I helped you with your thesis not for your heart, Mild, but for your grades. If Arm tries to hurt you, and your grades slip, the Foundation cuts you off. That would cause a scandal that reflects poorly on Arm's leadership."
She walked to the door, placing her hand on the cold steel. "But if you maintain perfect grades—if you become the untouchable, perfect scholar—Arm cannot hurt you without directly defying the Foundation and causing the very scandal his father fears. Your excellence is your armor, Mild. And as long as you are Arm's prized, protected investment, I control Arm's distraction, and my father prepares his move."
Style paused at the door. "You are not a person to me, Mild. You are a golden cage I use to trap the person who is trying to trap me. Now, go be excellent, scholar. My future depends on your obedience."
Mild was left standing in the silent observatory. He wasn't just a pawn in Arm's game anymore. He was a piece in a game being played by three dynasties: the Armitage power, the Covenant piety, and now the Style ambition. He had traded a suffocating crush for a terrifying alliance. His only path to freedom was through absolute, flawless performance.