The shadow of Dmitri Volkov followed me back to the orphanage, cold and persistent. For three days, I did not pick up my violin. I could not. Every time I looked at the dark wood, I remembered the way his eyes had searched me, predatory, hollow, and filled with a warning I did not yet understand. But the world of the elite does not wait for orphans to find their courage.
The atmosphere at Saint Brigitte's had turned toxic. News of my performance at the gala had spread through the dormitories like a fever, and the jealousy was a physical weight.
"Look at the little star," Claire spat, cornering me in the dim hallway as I tried to carry a bucket of coal to the common room. She kicked the bucket, sending the black stones clattering across the floor. "You think you are one of them now? You think because you played a few notes for the rich that you are not still a gutter rat?"
"Leave me alone, Claire," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"Or what?" she hissed, stepping closer. She grabbed a handful of my red hair, yanking my head back until I gasped. "You are still ours, Isabelle. You are still trash. They only invited you for the novelty, like a dog that can do a trick. Once they are bored, they will throw you back here, and I will be waiting."
I shoved her away, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was a girl possessed by a single thought: escape.
A week later, the hum of a luxury engine vibrated through the limestone walls. I was tidying the common room when Sister Marianne appeared. She looked as though she had not slept in days, her face a mask of pale anxiety.
"Isabelle," she said softly, "Director Rousseau is here. He has come for you."
I followed her to the front entrance, my shoes tapping a frantic rhythm against the wooden floor. Outside, a man in a charcoal pinstripe suit waited with impeccable posture. This was Director Alexandre Rousseau, the man whose presence had commanded the gala. He did not look at the peeling paint of the orphanage; he looked only at me.
"Isabelle," he began, his voice calm and precise. "Your gift is a rarity. It belongs in the halls of history, not in the shadows of an orphanage. I am here on behalf of St. Aurelia's Academy to offer you a full scholarship. We will provide your education, your housing, and your future."
I did not hesitate. I did not look back at the gray walls or the girls watching from the upstairs windows. The memory of Claire's nails in my skin was too fresh.
"Yes," I breathed, the word a desperate plea for a new life. "I accept."
But as I walked back to my room to pack my meager belongings, the girls were waiting for me. They lined the hallway, their faces twisted with a bitterness that felt like a curse.
"Go on then, ghost!" one girl shouted as I carried my violin case toward the door.
"Don't forget to look over your shoulder," Claire sneered, her voice echoing off the stone. "People like us don't belong in palaces. They are going to break you, Isabelle. And when you come crawling back, we won't open the door."
I stepped into the black car without looking back, but their words felt like a shroud being draped over my shoulders. I thought I was escaping a prison. I did not realize I was walking into a slaughterhouse.
Dmitri's POV
The study at the Volkov estate was a mausoleum of cold expectations. I stood in front of my father's desk, my spine a rigid line of steel. Father was seated in his high-backed leather chair, his hands steepled under his chin.
"The gala, Dmitri," Viktor began, his voice like the edge of a scalpel. "Report."
"The Beaumonts were posturing," I said, my voice flat and controlled. "It was a play for influence. Nothing more."
Viktor's eyes snapped to mine. They were piercing, searching for the lie he was certain I was hiding. "And the performance?
Genevieve Beaumont claimed she found a prodigy. A girl with red hair."
I felt a violent jolt in my chest. I remembered the way she had looked at me, brave and terrified. I remembered the scent of her fear.
"She was adequate," I said, the lie tasting like ash. "A scholarship stunt. Nothing worth your time, Father."
I almost told him about the haunting resemblance to the woman in his locked drawer. But a dark, instinctive protectiveness flared in my gut. If my father knew she existed, he would erase her before I could even learn her name.
The phone on his desk buzzed. It was an internal line from the academy. Father answered with a curt bark, listening in silence. I watched his face turn from ivory to a sickly, pale gray.
"A scholarship?" Viktor's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Isabelle Duval? You admitted her?"
My blood turned to ice. Rousseau had bypassed me.
"I do not care about her talent!" Viktor slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, the sound like a crack of thunder. "If she looks like her... if she is who I think she is... she is a liability we cannot afford."
Viktor looked at me, his eyes twin pits of darkness. "She is coming to St. Aurelia, Dmitri. You will watch her. Every breath she takes, every person she speaks to. If she is a threat to this family, you will deal with her."
"I understand," I said, my voice a dark promise.
I walked out of the study, my heart hammering the rhythm of war. She was coming to my world. She was walking straight into the lion's den, thinking she had been saved.
Stay in the shadows, little ghost, I thought, a ruthless smile tugging at my lips. Because now, there is nowhere left to hide.
Isabelle's POV
The spires of St. Aurelia's Academy emerged from the autumn mist like the teeth of a great beast. As the car carried me through the gates, I stared at the students moving with effortless grace across the cobblestones. They were vibrant, expensive, and perfectly polished. I clutched my old violin case, feeling the weight of my thin, orphanage-issued coat.
I was taken to the Girls' Hostel, a place of winding spiral staircases that smelled of lavender and old paper. A prefect showed me to my room, and when the door opened, I gasped. It was larger than the entire dormitory at Saint Brigitte's. Marble, silk, and a view of the dark gardens.
On the bed lay my new uniform: a navy blue skirt and a blazer embroidered with the gold crest of the academy. I ran my hand over the fabric. It felt like an expensive cage.
I sat on the edge of the bed as the sun began to set, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. I thought of Sister Marianne's tears and Claire's curses. The gratitude I felt was heavy, a suffocating blanket of debt.
I looked at the blazer and realized the truth. I was not a student here. I was a target. And tomorrow, the hunt will officially begin.