Julien's POV
I had always believed myself to be calm, composed, and capable of thinking through any situation with the measured precision of a grandmaster on a chessboard. My father had raised me to be the steady hand, the diplomatic voice, the one who never let the seams of his composure show. But Isabelle Duval had a way of unraveling everything I thought I knew about my own foundations.
That morning, as I walked through the sunlit corridors toward the Music Club, the subtle weight of her absence from the breakfast hall pressed heavily on my chest. It was a physical ache, a phantom pressure that made the air in the high-vaulted ceilings feel thin.
I remembered the sight of her yesterday,a vision that had replayed behind my eyelids every time I tried to sleep. I saw the way she'd cradled her violin like a wounded child, clutching her bag like it was a shield against the world.
I saw her running from Arabella and her group, those predatory girls who smelled weakness like sharks smell blood. I saw the tears she tried to hide and the quiet, stubborn dignity that burned beneath her fear.
She hadn't asked for my help. In fact, every time I stepped in, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes,not just gratitude, but a piercing sort of shame. She didn't want to be the girl who needed saving.
And yet, I had followed. I had carried her burdens because the alternative,letting her shoulder them alone,was a thought I couldn't survive.
I exhaled slowly, the sound echoing in the empty hall. I opened the door to the Music Club, and the familiar scent of lemon-polished wood, old parchment, and rosin greeted me. Usually, this was my sanctuary.
Today, it felt like a waiting room. Isabelle wasn't here yet. My hands itched to pick up a bow, to play a cello suite that would resonate through the floorboards and call her in,something that would make her smile despite the malice waiting for her outside these doors.
But that was selfish. She didn't need my music; she was struggling to find the strength to play her own.
The door creaked again, and the air in the room seemed to shift, turning electric.
There she was.
She moved with a quiet, heartbreaking grace. Her steps were deliberate, almost floating, as though she were afraid the floor might give way beneath her. Her uniform was crisp, though her eyes told a story of a sleepless night. Her hair cascaded loosely down her back, a river of copper that caught the morning light. She looked focused on a point miles away.
"Good morning, Isabelle," I said softly, stepping aside. I tried to keep my voice neutral, but I could hear the tremor of relief in it.
Her lips curved into a faint smile. It was polite, the kind of smile you give a stranger on a train, and it stung more than a frown would have.
"Good morning, Julien."
I watched her set down her bag and her violin case. In these quiet moments, she seemed so dangerously fragile, like a piece of heirloom glass. And yet, there was a gravity to her, a storm wrapped in silk. She was untouchable even when I was standing right next to her.
"I didn't mean to… you know, yesterday," I started, my voice trailing off as I searched for the right frequency. "I hope I didn't embarrass you. With the letters. With Arabella."
Isabelle looked up at me, a mix of surprise and weary curiosity in her grey eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but I found myself talking faster, driven by a sudden, desperate need to justify my presence in her life.
"I just… I don't want you to think I'm overstepping," I said, my hands shoved into my pockets to hide their restlessness. "I just don't want anyone hurting you. Not because of me, or because of some senseless hierarchy. You deserve to just... be."
She met my gaze, and for a second, the distance between us vanished. "It's fine," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper against the hum of the air conditioning. "You helped. That's… appreciated, Julien. More than I say."
Appreciated. The word felt like a participation trophy. It was kind, but it lacked the fire I felt burning in my own blood. I nodded, pretending to accept the casual dismissal, while inside, a flurry of conflicting feelings churned. I wanted to be more than "appreciated." I wanted to be the reason she felt safe enough to stop looking over her shoulder.
We moved through the next hour in a comfortable, agonizing silence. Isabelle began her scales, the notes rising and falling in perfect, mechanical arcs. I organized sheet music, my mind spiraling. I wanted to tell her how her name sounded in my head,like a chord that never quite resolved.
I wanted to tell her that I saw the way the other boys looked at her now,the "Enigma of the West Wing",and how it made me want to close the doors to this room and never let anyone else in.
But I couldn't. She needed peace, not the complication of the Golden Boy's heart.
I glanced toward the small glass panes in the door. I saw students pausing, whispering, pointing. The "Isabelle Duval" phenomenon was growing. She was no longer just a charity case; she was a symbol. To the boys, a mystery to be solved; to the girls, a threat to be neutralized.
And then, I saw the shadow.
Dmitri Volkov passed the door. He didn't stop, but he slowed down. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to let me know he was aware of exactly where she was.
I hated him. I hated the way he measured the world. Most of all, I hated the way he looked at Isabelle,not with the clumsy lust of Jean-Marc or Theo, but with a cold, terrifyingly focused interest. Dmitri didn't just watch; he analyzed her vulnerabilities. And I feared, deep in my marrow, that he saw the same things I did.
"Julien," Isabelle said, breaking the spell. Her bow was held mid-air, a slight tremor in her fingers. "Are you okay? You're staring at the door like you're expecting an assassin."
I forced a laugh, running a hand through my hair. "I'm fine," I said, the second lie of the morning. "Just thinking about the midterm schedules."
She studied me, her head tilted. "You're a terrible liar, Julien Rousseau. You're tense."
"Maybe I am," I admitted, leaning against a music stand. "It's hard not to be, given the climate of this school lately."
"You don't have to protect me from everyone," she murmured, her eyes piercing mine. "I know you want to. I see you standing there like a sentry. But I have to learn how to stand on my own, or I'll never survive St. Aurelia."
The truth in her words was a bitter pill. I was trying to own her pain, to fix a world that was fundamentally broken. I settled into the role I had carved for myself: the silent guardian. I moved around her, making small, unnecessary adjustments,moving her music stand three inches to the left so the light hit the page better, offering her a rosin she already had.
It was a dance of proximity and restraint.
Every note she drew from that violin was a confession of her resilience. I was captivated, tethered to the spot by the sheer force of her talent.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly. She had stopped playing, and the silence that followed was heavy.
"Nothing," I said. The third lie.
"Liar." She stepped closer, her violin tucked under her arm. "You notice everything, Julien. You notice when I flinch at loud noises.
You notice when I haven't eaten. It's… unnerving. But it's also the only thing that makes me feel human here."
Considerate. That's how she saw me. A kind, attentive friend.
It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. But I would take it. I would be her anchor if it meant she wouldn't drift away into the dark waters Dmitri was stirring.
I saw him again through the window. Dmitri was standing further down the hall now, talking to his entourage, but his eyes were fixed on the Music Club door. There was a flicker of irritation in his expression,an unpredictability that I had never seen in him before Isabelle arrived. He was unsteady. She was the only person who could make the Demon Prince lose his footing.
I felt a surge of jagged jealousy. Even his hatred of her was a form of intimacy I envied.
"Julien," she said again, her voice gentle but firm. "I'm going to practice the Bach piece now. You look like you need to go take a walk."
I forced a relaxed smile, though my jaw ached from clenching. "I'm fine, Isabelle. I'll just be here if you need anything."
She gave me a small, sad smile and returned to her music. The bow dipped, and the room filled with a melody that felt like a secret.
I stood there, arms crossed, the "Golden Boy" trapped in his own cage of expectations. I realized, with a sinking heart, that I was destined to stay in this position,hovering on the edge of her life, intervening in the shadows, feeling everything and saying nothing.
I was Julien Rousseau. I was the protector. I was the one who didn't cross lines.
And as I watched her, I wondered how much longer I could stand the heat in my chest before I burned the whole script down and told her the truth. But for now, for her sake, I would stay silent.
I would be the shield she didn't want, but desperately needed.
Even if it tore me apart.