The thing about St. Austin's assembly hall is that before you even see the place, you smell it from a mile away. Polished teak that's been buffed within an inch of its life. Lilies arranged exactly by the edge in perfect even bouquets. And underneath it all, that unmistakable scent of money. Old money. New money and the rising upper middle class are trying to built connectios. Privilege that's been marinating for decades and refuses to air out.
The students sat in neat, obedient rows, navy blazers lined up like a living family crest. The left side belonged to legacies-the surnames that got nodded at in boardrooms. The middle was ambition dressed as confidence. And the front? Reserved seating, of course. VIPs. The kind of kids whose last names mattered more than the school's gold-etched motto ever would.
At the podium stood Principal Mehta. Calm and Composed. Her voice flowed through the hall, smooth and practised, the voice of a woman who had spent half her life managing the egos of billionaire teenagers and somehow surviving it.
"Welcome back," she said, hands resting lightly on the lectern. "Another year begins. Another chance to uphold what St. Austin's stands for-not merely academic success, but tradition, leadership, and understanding one's place in the larger....picture."
She paused there. Let that sink in.
A ripple of applause followed. The kids were bored and waiting for the assembly to end.
"And this year," she continued, her smile stretching just a little wider than before, "we are welcoming a new member into our senior class. A student admitted on merit. Exceptional promise. Please welcome-Sachi Gowda."
Silence. Brief, sharp, uncomfortable.
Then came the murmurs.
Another charity seat?
They really let anyone in now.
She won't last. They never do.
Is that uniform... brand new or borrowed?
Sachi didn't flinch. She walked straight down the center aisle, steps even, chin lifted, not timid, just steady. Her blazer fit her like it had been tailored for this moment, tie crisp, hair pulled back clean and simple.No sign of shrinking away. She climbed the steps, stood beside the principal, hands folded behind her back like she belonged there. Because, apparently, she did.
Principal Mehta rested a hand on her shoulder. "Sachi will say a few words."
Sachi leaned toward the mic. Cleared her throat once.
"Good morning. I'm honored to-"
The doors slammed. Every head snapped around.
Kabir Malhotra walked in like the hall had been waiting for him all along. Tie loose. Blazer slung over one shoulder. Hair damp, like he'd just ran a marathon. He didn't apologize and why would he? Didn't bother hurrying up. Just strolled down the aisle, past juniors pretending not to stare, straight to the front row.
Myra Kulkarni leaned forward, instantly camera-ready, even at eight in the morning. No one would guess she was partying late last night.
"Where the hell were you?" she whispered, eyes darting to the empty seat nearby. "And where's Eva?"
Kabir dropped into the chair, stretching his legs. "No clue. Haven't heard from her all summer."
Myra's glossy lips tightened. She glanced at the vacant seat beside her, then back at him. "She just... vanished?"
"Looks that way."
Across the aisle, Nivaansh Kulkarni stared at that same empty space. His posture was flawless, hands folded neatly, like he'd been trained for public eye since birth. But his jaw? Rigid. Summer had been quiet without Her. Messages unanswered. Calls ignored. Not even a half-hearted story view. And now this chair sat there like a bad joke, reminding him of everything that didn't make sense. His girlfriend, Mrunmayi, sat there holding his hand, unable to read his expression, but could feel the unease with his gaze lingering too long on the empty seat.
Onstage, Sachi finished.
"...and I look forward to learning with all of you. Thank you."
No applause. Someone coughed. Someone else checked their phone. The whispers crept back in.
Principal Mehta reclaimed the mic, her smile thin now. "Thank you, Sachi. Let us all commit to growth, discipline, and-"
A chair scraped.
Nivaansh stood up.
Not loud. Nor dramatic. Just...done. He adjusted his blazer and walked toward the exit, movements precise, the way people move when they're used to rooms rearranging themselves around them. Mrunmay followed him.
The front row followed. Myra first, already typing furiously. Then others-political heirs, startup royalty, kids who always knew when to leave. Kabir lingered for a moment, watching Nivaansh go, expression unreadable. Amused? Irritated? Hard to say. Then he stood too, blazer back over his shoulder.
The doors shut behind them. Soft click.
Sachi stepped down from the stage, face unreadable. Principal Mehta cleared her throat and launched into reminders-punctuality, decorum, cultural fest deadlines.
But it didn't matter.
Something had shifted. You could feel it. Like the air before a storm.
Why is the Golden Girl missing? Where is she?