After that day in the courtyard, my life became a living hell. For three weeks, St. Aurelia completely turned its back on me. It treated me like a glitch in its perfect machine. I had disrupted their 'natural order of things' and now the entire school was resetting itself to push me out.
For the first week, everywhere I went, I felt their eyes, a thousand tiny needles pricking at my skin. Their whispers trailed me like a physical shadow, something heavy and dark that I was forced to drag behind me through every corridor.
By the second week, my locker had become a dumpster for their cruelty, stuffed so full of threat letters that they spilled out like autumn leaves every time I opened it.
For the third week, each morning, my desk was a fresh battlefield. Spilled ink ruined my notes and the smell of spoiled milk curdled in the heat. I missed most of my morning classes cleaning off my desk, scrubbing the surface hard to get rid of the ink.
Church rat. Dirty orphan. Slut. Charity Case. The names bounced off the walls, moving from hissed secrets to open mockery. Even the cafeteria was a gauntlet. A girl dumped her own food tray over while I was eating. Julien was in a meeting with the director. She laughed with her friends as I froze, stunned and humiliated. I just sat there, watching the soup from her leftover lunch drip off my roasted chicken while they laughed.
The Music Club was my safe space. My violin in my hands, warm smiles of the other members, Julien's calm presence right beside make me believe there's still hope. But even that was complicated. Julien was always there, a constant shield but his protection was starting to feel like a cage. I hated it. I hated the feeling of my own independence slipping away, replaced by a nauseating sense of incompetence. I wasn't a student anymore. I was a charity case Julien was determined to save.
This is the fourth week and I couldn't take it anymore. One morning, the weight felt heavier than usual. I sank to my knees beside my bed, my forehead pressed against the cool mattress. Lord, give me courage. Just let me survive today without shame.
I washed my face with ice-cold water, forcing a mask of confidence as I stared at my exhausted reflection in the bathroom mirror. I counted to three, exhaled and opened the door.
That's when I saw the box.
It was small, brown, and plain. "For Isabelle" was scrawled on the top in a neat, clinical black ink.
My stomach dropped. I felt a sickening jolt of deja vu so strong it made my head swim. It was the same grey-paper energy, the same quiet "gift" left where I was most vulnerable. I stood there, frozen, staring at the box as the memory of those silver violin strings and the hidden threat in the Polaroid flashed behind my eyes. This was the ritual starting all over again.
I carried it inside with leaden arms. The moment I sliced through the tape, a stench hit me. Rotten, metallic, and acrid. It was the smell of something that had been dead a long time.
I opened it fully and the air left my lungs in a silent gasp.
Inside was a dead rat, bloated and grey. Beside it sat a voodoo doll, my initials, in red ink, pinned through the heart. It wasn't just bullying anymore. This was a message. Whoever had sent this wasn't just watching me, they were obsessed with the idea of my "execution."
I fell to the floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, desperate to keep the scream from clawing its way out of my throat. I couldn't let them see me broken, I couldn't give them that satisfaction.
Moving like a machine, I disposed of the box and the contents in it. I grabbed a rag and a bottle of disinfectant. I scrubbed the floor and the desk until my knuckles were raw and the skin on my palms stung, trying to wash away the memory of the smell and the sight of that bloated, grey thing.
The room looked normal when I was finally done but I knew the floor I stood on was stained in a way that bleach couldn't reach. As I set the cleaning supplies down, the 'fake' strength I'd been holding onto simply vanished. The silence of the room suddenly felt like a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I couldn't breathe.
I collapsed back onto the floor, the tiles still cold and damp beneath me. Then the tears came, a quiet, rhythmic sobbing that felt like it was being pulled out of my lungs. My shoulders shuddered with every breath as I tried to muffle the sound into my knees. I sat there in the middle of my "clean" room, crying quietly into the empty air, feeling more alone than I ever had in the orphanage.
My phone buzzed. Julien.
"Isabelle, where are you? Why aren't you in class?"
I stared at the screen. If I told him, he'd turn it into a war. He'd play the hero again and I'd be the girl behind him. I ignored it, smeared on enough moisturizer to hide the tear tracks and left.
The walk to the lab was a gauntlet of sneers. I reached my locker for my lab coat and as expected, letters spilled out. I shoved them into the trash bin with a frustrated hiss and made my way to the lab.
When I finally walked into the classroom, forty-five minutes late, the silence was absolute. I felt every eye but only one pair mattered: Dmitri's. He wasn't sneering. He was dissecting me with a gaze that made me feel exposed. I tore my eyes away as Dr. Rowan's voice cut through the tension.
"Isabelle, why are you just coming in? The class started forty-five minutes ago."
"I'm sorry, sir, I—"
"The class will end in a bit," he said, checking his watch. "I've given out the midterm curriculum. You'll need to catch up on your own."
"I'll help her," Julien said instantly, raising his hand.
Dmitri's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked toward Julien with a dark jagged irritation. I sat next to Julien but I could feel Dmitri's gaze burning into the back of my neck the entire hour.
After class, Julien cornered me at my locker. "You look like you haven't slept in days, Isabelle. What happened?"
"Nothing," I lied, shoving a pile of hate mail deeper into my bag. "I just overslept."
"Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."
I didn't even get a chance to answer Julien. A burst of jagged laughter broke the quiet of the hallway. Arabella and her circle were heading our way.
"Well, well," a voice purred. Arabella was standing there, her "snakes" flanking her. "Hope the rat matched your taste, darling. Common, just like you"
Julien stepped in front of me, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "Back off, Arabella."
"Or what, Julien? You'll tell your daddy?" she laughed. "She's a stain and no amount of 'protection' is going to change that."
I couldn't take it. I turned and ran, the sound of her laughter echoing down the hall like a storm. I didn't stop until I reached a quiet corner by the gym. I sank to the floor, my knees to my chest and finally let the tears come.
Julien found me a minute later. He pulled me into a hug but all I could feel was how small I had become. I broke. I told him everything… even the strings Dmitri left on my pillow. I didn't know why I confessed that part.
"I'll handle it," he whispered, his grip tightening. "I promise."
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Julien stayed glued to my side, his jaw tight and eyes scanning the halls as if daring anyone to whisper. By the time we reached the hostel, I was weak and empty. He carried my books and violin all the way to my door, then followed me inside with a worried frown.
"You're ghost-pale, Isabelle," he said firmly. "Sit. I'm finding you something to eat."
He vanished toward the kitchen and returned with snacks and sodas. He sat on the edge of my bed, watching me until I'd finished a granola bar. Then, he moved to my desk and pulled my history textbook toward him.
"I'll read, you take notes," he murmured.
The steady, calming hum of his voice was the last thing I remembered. I didn't even realize I'd drifted off until I jerked awake hours later. The room was dark, except for the desk lamp. Julien was gone.
A heavy wool blanket was draped over my shoulders, tucked in tight. My notebooks were piled neatly, filled with the assignments I'd missed, all written in his clean, beautiful handwriting. On top of my laptop sat a torn scrap of paper:
You were out cold. I finished the math and history homework. Don't worry, I tried to mimic your handwriting. I took your French book to take some notes. Lock the door. Eat the chocolate. See you in the morning.
— J.
A tear hit the paper, then another. Ever since I'd arrived in this dreadful place, I'd been waiting for the world to crush me. Yet here was this boy, quietly fixing the pieces I'd dropped.
The room no longer smelled like that box. It just smelled like him: sandalwood and safety.
Dmitri's POV
The hallway was silent, the kind of stillness that usually comes right before chaos. I leaned against a stone pillar, watching the "Golden Boy" round the corner with Isabelle's notebook in his hand.
He stopped the moment he saw me. He looked tired. Good.
"Dmitri," he said, his voice flat. "I'm not in the mood for this."
I straightened up, a slow, ugly smirk spreading across my face. I stepped into his path, blocking the way. "You're making a mistake, Rousseau. You're coddling a fire that's going to burn this whole school to the ground."
Julien stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "She's a person, not a fire. And if you touch her again, I don't care who your father is—"
I cut him off with a laugh, a sharp, dry sound that echoed in the empty hall. "You think I'm the one you should worry about? Look at her, Julien. She's falling apart. The more you hold her hand, the more they hate her. You aren't saving her. You're marking her for execution."
I stepped closer until I could see my own dark reflection in his eyes. "Stay away from her. For her sake. Or I'll make sure the next time it won't be a rat. It'll be your reputation in pieces."
I saw the flicker of doubt. The same doubt I'd seen in Isabelle. "You're pathetic," he whispered.
"Maybe," I said, stepping aside to let him pass. "But I'm the one who knows how this world works. And in this world, Golden Boys don't win. They just tarnish."
I watched him walk away. My mind was already back on Isabelle, the way she'd looked at me in the lab. The girl is probably crying in her room and for some reason, the thought didn't give me the satisfaction it should have.
The game was no longer about a scholarship. It was about who would break first. And I was going to make sure it wasn't me.