Dmitri's POV
The shift began on a Monday morning. It was subtle at first, but nothing involving Isabelle Duval stayed small for long.
She was like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water; eventually, the entire thing changed color. I noticed the difference the moment I stepped into the courtyard.
Usually, students parted for me out of habit, moving like schools of fish avoiding a shark. Silence followed me like a trained, obedient shadow. But today, the silence was not directed at me. It was a vacuum created around someone else.
Her.
Isabelle was standing near the central fountain, clutching her violin case as if it were a shield. She looked out of place in her oversized cardigan, yet she was commanding the attention of every soul in the square. Jean-Marc Dupont, a second-year pianist, was standing directly in her path.
His cheeks were flushed a humiliated shade of pink, and he was stammering. Behind him, three of his friends were elbowing each other, whispering like idiots.
Around them, a ring of observers had formed. Boys were lingering, pretending to check phones just to catch a scent of her lavender soap. And the girls... God, the girls. The glares they were shooting at her back could have cut through titanium.
The social hierarchy of St. Aurelia was built on a specific type of currency, and Isabelle had just caused massive inflation. My jaw began to tighten without my permission.
Annoying.
She was not even doing anything extraordinary. Her red hair was pulled into a messy, lopsided braid, with copper strands falling loose against her pale cheek. Her cardigan was slipping off one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone.
She looked tired.
Small.
Completely unaware that she had become the center of gravity for the courtyard. And then I saw it. Jean-Marc was holding a rose. A deep, blood-red rose. I stopped walking entirely. The world narrowed down to that single flower.
"What exactly am I looking at?" I muttered, my voice a low growl.
Adrien appeared beside me, leaning against a stone pillar. He followed my gaze and let out a whistle. "Word travels fast," he said.
"Apparently, after yesterday's performance in the music hall..." "That was not a performance," I snapped. "She was practicing." Adrien raised an eyebrow. "Whatever it was, the boys are calling it the song that could haunt a man. They are calling her the Enigma of the West Wing."
I did not laugh. I could not. Because Jean-Marc had finally found his courage and extended the rose toward her. Isabelle looked like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole. Her hands hovered awkwardly in the air, her silver eyes wide and darting around like a trapped bird.
She looked afraid. Not of Jean-Marc, but of the weight of the attention. My heart did something sharp and irritating in my chest. A localized surge of adrenaline made my fingers itch to grab something.
Adrien nudged me. "You are staring, Dmitri." "I am observing," I corrected, though the words felt like a lie. "Observing," he echoed. "Right. You are observing the way a wolf observes a sheep that someone else is trying to pet." Jean-Marc tried again, thrusting the rose closer.
Isabelle shook her head, her face turning a soft rose-petal pink. She murmured an apology and bowed politely. She turned and hurried toward the music building, her head ducked low, her violin case clutched so tightly her knuckles were white.
Jean-Marc stood there, holding the rose like a statue of a fool. But it was not his rejection that made the bile rise in my throat. It was the energy of the courtyard. The whispering. The sudden, shallow fascination with her. Why her? Why now? Why did everyone suddenly see what I had been seeing for weeks? The balance was shifting.
The Demon Prince was no longer the only person the school was watching. And I did not like it. Not one bit.
By midday, the whispers had transformed into a wildfire. It was a contagion, spreading through the library and the private lounges.
My name and hers, tethered together in the mouths of the elite. It was disgusting. Infuriating. Unacceptable. During the afternoon break, I walked past the East Hallway. A group of third-year boys were crowded near a window. One of them, Noah, a talented but arrogant sketch artist, was drawing furiously in a leather-bound notebook.
I did not care about Noah until I heard her name fall from his lips. "Her profile is perfect," Noah was saying. "The way the light hits her jawline... it is ethereal. I swear, the girl is unreal." My spine straightened. I felt a cold, jagged spike of possessiveness surge through me. I moved before rational thought could intervene, snatching the notebook from his hands.
"H-hey! Dmitri! What the hell?" he stammered.
I flipped the page. It was an immaculate drawing. He had captured the exact way her hair fell across her forehead, the slight, hesitant curve of her lips, and the depth in her eyes that always looked like they were mourning something. He had drawn her beautifully. And I hated him for it. I slammed the notebook shut with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.
Noah flinched backward. I held the book between two fingers as if it were contaminated. "Does she know you are drawing her?" I asked. My voice was low, vibrating with a lethal intensity.
Noah swallowed hard. "Well, no, but it is just a study. I just thought she was beautiful."
"Burn it." My tone dropped to a whisper that scraped like ice on bone. "Now."
"But it is my best work!" "Burn. The. Sketch." I repeated.
The silence was absolute. Noah took the notebook back with trembling fingers. With a shaky hand, he ripped the page out. He shredded it into a dozen pieces and dropped them into the trash can.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"For what?" I asked, stepping closer. "For... for drawing her." I held his gaze for another long, agonizing second, letting the fear sink in. Then I turned and walked away.
Adrien was at my side two seconds later. "You humiliated him, Dmitri. His father is on the board." "I corrected him," I muttered.
"That is one word for it. Another word would be territorial." I ignored him. But inside, I was not calm. I was a mess of raw nerves and a strange heaviness in my chest.
Whatever this Isabelle situation was, it was spiraling out of my control. The hierarchy I had spent years mastering was being dismantled by a girl who did not even know she was doing it.
By afternoon, the school had officially fractured into two factions. The boys were openly enchanted. The girls, led by the Four Snakes, were sharpening metaphorical knives, preparing to excise the charity case that was stealing their spotlight.
In Music Theory, I sat three rows behind her. I found myself watching her out of the corner of my eye. She sat by the window, her pen moving across the paper in neat lines. She was unaware of the wars being waged across the room.
Two boys in the front row were whispering, their eyes darting back to her. Four girls near the door were huddled together, shooting daggers into her spine.
And Julien... Julien kept turning around, checking on her like an anxious bodyguard. Every time she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the whispering increased. Every time she glanced at the chalkboard, someone scribbled her name in the margins of their notes.
By the time the bell rang, my patience had evaporated. I stood up so abruptly that my chair legs screeched against the floor, making several students jump. Isabelle jolted, her head snapping toward me. I looked away before our gazes could meet. I could not look at her. Not when I felt like this.
Walking into the cafeteria for dinner felt like stepping into a hornet's nest.
I was halfway across the room when I heard the sentence that finally broke me. "I would totally date her. She looks like she would be gentle."
My footsteps halted. Ahead of us sat Theo Laurent, an overconfident loudmouth. He was leaning back in his chair, waving a fork around. "She is the perfect type," Theo continued. "Quiet. Pretty. Probably grateful for any attention she gets."
I did not let him finish. I moved toward the table, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring. The fork Theo had been holding slipped from his fingers. His smug smile died.
"D-Dmitri. Hey."
"About?" I asked. I leaned down, invading his personal space.
Theo hesitated, then made the mistake of trying to be brave. "Isabelle Duval. She is cute. Nothing wrong with saying that, right?"
"Cute?" I repeated, my voice a slow, cold drawl. "Aren't you the one who failed his adjudication last year because you could not follow a simple tempo, Theo? And did not your last girlfriend leave you because you were a pathetic mess?" The table went silent. Theo's face went from pale to a deep purple.
"And now," I continued, "you are sitting here rating girls as if you are worthy of someone like her? You will apologize. To me. For wasting my time. And to her... silently... by keeping her name out of your mouth."
I leaned in closer. "One more word about her, Theo, and I will make sure you never get a solo again. I will erase you from the music program."
Theo swallowed hard. "...Sorry.
I did not respond. I walked out of the cafeteria. Adrien followed me.
"You are acting like a jealous lover, Dmitri. And for what? She did not even hear him."
"That is the point," I muttered. "She should not have to hear it. No one should be speaking her name."
By evening, the damage was done. Isabelle Duval had become a myth. Some said she had bewitched the music club. Some said she was my secret weakness. Weakness. The word coiled around my ribs like barbed wire. I stood by the library windows.
Below, I could see her walking with Julien. He was hovering over her, his hand near the small of her back. I watched from the shadows, my chest burning with a feeling I refused to name.
This was not fascination. It was danger. She was making me act on impulse. And if the whispers were right... if she really was the one who would unravel me...
Then I had only one choice. Either I would find a way to control the chaos she brought... or I would have to destroy the source of it before it destroyed me.