RUMORS Secrets, Lies & Alibis

Part 2: The Stallion Spectacle

The dining hall at lunch was its usual exercise in social hierarchy. The elite tables commanded the center of the room, while scholarship students and international kids clustered around the edges. I’d claimed a small table near the windows, grateful for the natural light and the ability to observe without being observed.

My turkey sandwich was nothing special, but the bread was fresh and the turkey was actually decent quality. Small mercies in the world of institutional food. I was halfway through when Roni appeared with her usual dramatic flair.

“You will not believe what happened in European History,” she announced, sliding into the seat across from me. “Professor Blackwood actually called on Julian for an answer, and he responded entirely in French. Really fast French. Show-off French.”

“Did he know the answer?”

“Of course he knew the answer. That’s what makes it so annoying.” Roni stabbed her salad with unnecessary force. “He’s infuriating and brilliant and completely aware of both facts.”

I was about to respond when a commotion near the main entrance caught my attention. Students were pointing and gasping, their voices rising in excitement and confusion.

That’s when I saw it.

A white stallion—an actual, living, breathing horse—trotted into the dining hall like it owned the place. Its coat gleamed under the chandelier light, and it wore a saddle that sparkled with what looked like real jewels. Attached to the saddle was an elaborate note written in calligraphy on cream-colored paper.

Chaos erupted immediately. Girls screamed. Guys fumbled for their phones. Teachers rushed toward the horse, looking completely out of their depth. The poor animal seemed surprisingly calm for something that had just walked into a dining room full of panicking teenagers.

“Oh my God,” Roni breathed. “Only at Ashwick.”

I kept eating my sandwich.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the spectacle—whoever had arranged this had serious commitment to drama. But something about the whole scene felt calculated, like performance art designed to get a specific reaction. The horse was too calm, too well-trained. This wasn’t chaos; it was choreography.

Across the dining hall, I spotted Julian leaning against a pillar, watching the mayhem with obvious satisfaction. His detention from this morning’s assembly incident had apparently ended just in time for lunch theater.

Alexander sat at his usual table, but instead of watching the horse, he was watching me. His gray eyes were fixed on my face with laser focus, like he was studying my reaction to the whole ridiculous situation.

I took another bite of my sandwich and gave him a little wave.

His eyebrows shot up, and something that might have been admiration flickered across his features. Around us, the chaos continued. Professor Hargrove was trying to coax the horse toward the exit with a dinner roll, while Dean Whitman shouted instructions that no one could hear over the screaming.

“Are you seriously just going to keep eating?” Roni demanded.

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s a horse, not a natural disaster.”

“It’s a horse in the dining hall!”

“And it’s beautiful.” I gestured toward the stallion, which was now being led toward the exit by what looked like a professional handler who had appeared from nowhere. “Look at that saddle work. Those jewels are probably real. Someone spent serious money on this prank.”

The note attached to the saddle fluttered as the horse passed our table. In elegant script, it read: “For the fairest maiden.”

Classic fairy tale nonsense with a theatrical twist. Definitely Julian’s style.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Julian appeared beside our table. He’d somehow materialized out of the crowd without me noticing, which was impressive given the ongoing horse situation.

“Enjoying the show?” His voice carried that familiar note of amusement.

“It’s certainly memorable.”

“I thought you might appreciate the artistry.” He glanced around the dining hall, where students were still buzzing with excitement despite the horse being safely removed. “Most people see chaos. You see the orchestration behind it.”

“Is that a compliment or an observation?”

“Both.” Julian’s grin was sharp as broken glass. “You’re more interesting than you pretend to be, Isabella Virelli.”

Before I could respond, he tipped an invisible crown at me—the gesture so smooth and practiced it was obviously a signature move. His lips formed words without sound, but I could read them clearly: Your move, darling.

Then he melted back into the crowd, leaving me sitting there with my half-eaten sandwich and the distinct feeling that I’d just been issued a challenge.

Roni was staring at me with wide eyes. “Did Prince Julian just flirt with you?”

“I think he just declared war.”

“Same thing, really.” She leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “What are you going to do?”

I finished my sandwich and stood up, brushing crumbs from my skirt. Across the dining hall, Alexander was still watching, his expression unreadable. Julian had disappeared entirely, probably already planning his next dramatic gesture.

“I’m going to class,” I said. “But first, I’m going to figure out exactly what game they think they’re playing.”

Because one thing was crystal clear: the bet Julian had mentioned wasn’t just about getting my attention. It was about winning it. And if there was one thing I’d learned from watching my parents navigate the pharmaceutical industry, it was that the only way to survive a game was to play it better than everyone else.