RUMORS Secrets, Lies & Alibis

The public bus wheezed to a stop at the wrought-iron gates of Ashwick Academy, and I stepped off into what could only be described as absolute chaos. Helicopters circled overhead like mechanical vultures, their rotors drowning out the shouts of paparazzi pressed against the security barriers. Limousines stretched down the winding drive like a parade of black beetles, each one more ostentatious than the last. Students emerged from them in designer everything, their arrival choreographed for maximum drama. I adjusted my thrift store blazer and shouldered my worn leather bag, savoring the irony. Here I was, worth more than half these trust fund babies combined, and I’d arrived on public transportation that cost me exactly three dollars and fifty cents. “Izzy!” A familiar voice cut through the noise. Veronica Kingsley waved from beside a powder-blue Bentley, her platinum hair catching the late afternoon sun. Even from fifty feet away, I could see her perfectly applied makeup and the way she positioned herself for the cameras. I made my way through the crowd, dodging reporters and avoiding eye contact with the security guards who looked like they wanted to ask if I was lost. The whole scene was a masterclass in performance art—everyone playing their part in the theater of elite privilege. A black motorcade pulled through the gates with the kind of authority that made the crowd part like the Red Sea. The door opened, and Alexander Calloway stepped out, immediately swarmed by students and photographers. His platinum hair was perfectly styled despite the helicopter wind, and his gray eyes swept the crowd with calculating precision. “The prince returns,” someone whispered nearby. I watched as Alex moved through the chaos with practiced ease, shaking hands with the right people, ignoring the cameras while somehow managing to look perfect in every shot. He had this way of commanding attention without seeming to try, like gravity bent around him. Our eyes met across the courtyard for exactly two seconds. His gaze lingered, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned back to whatever alumnus was kissing up to him. “Drama already?” Roni appeared at my elbow, following my line of sight. “Please tell me you’re not going to spend sophomore year pining after Alexander Calloway.” “I don’t pine.” I shifted my bag to my other shoulder. “And definitely not after him.” “Good, because—oh my God.” Roni grabbed my arm. “Look.” Prince Julian d’Aubigny had claimed the academy’s front steps like they were his personal throne. He lounged against the marble balustrade, sipping champagne from an actual china teacup, wearing sunglasses shaped like tiny golden crowns. The audacity was breathtaking. “Only Julian would bring fine china to move-in day,” I muttered. “Only Julian would make it look effortless.” Roni was already pulling out her phone. “This is going straight to my story.” Julian caught sight of us and raised his teacup in a mock toast, that trademark smirk playing at his lips. Everything about him screamed ‘royal chaos agent,’ and somehow that made him more magnetic, not less. “Isabella Virelli.” I turned to find Cassandra Royce approaching, her auburn hair swept into a perfect chignon, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. She was flanked by her usual crew of admirers, all of them watching our interaction like it was appointment television. “Cassandra.” I kept my voice neutral. “How was your summer?” “Enlightening.” Her green eyes glittered with something that made my stomach tighten. “I spent some time with alumni families. Fascinating conversations about current students.” The way she emphasized ‘current students’ felt loaded with meaning I couldn’t quite decipher. “Sounds riveting,” I said dryly. “Oh, it was. Especially the discussions about a certain mysterious new heiress enrolled here.” Cassandra’s smile widened. “Someone with connections that run deeper than anyone realizes.” My blood chilled, but I kept my expression bored. “The rumor mill never stops churning, does it?” “The best rumors,” Cassandra said, stepping closer, “are the ones that turn out to be true.” She glided away with her entourage, leaving me standing there with the distinct feeling that sophomore year was about to be a battlefield.