Isabelle's POV
I woke up that morning feeling like I had a terrible hangover. Memories of the weekend crawl back into my mind. Julien and I had stopped talking to each other. We passed each other in the hallways and didn't even slow down. He looked like he was dying to apologize, but I wasn't having it. I was just tired.
He stopped showing up at the Music Hall. Good. The place was basically a gossip factory anyway. I was trying to tune my violin when I heard the cello girls gossiping. They weren't even trying to hide it.
"He shouldn't even be in the club," one girl said, messing with her cello. "Buying your way in? It's pathetic. He doesn't deserve the chair."
The "King's Gambit" thing had spread like a virus. Over the weekend it was just rumors, but by Monday morning, it was basically school legend.
The school was split right down the middle, and I was the crack in the floor.
Half the kids felt bad for Julien, like he was some martyr the Volkovs screwed over. The other half, the darker and meaner ones were all over Dmitri because he'd flexed his power so hard.
Then there was me. Everyone blamed me for the mess. They called me the "Siren" who turned the two princes against each other. Usually, they would've shredded me for that. Vandalized my locker, cornered me in the bathroom, whatever.
But nobody touched me.
Dmitri made sure of that. He didn't say a word, but he sat next to me in every class. He stared down anyone who breathed in my direction. I was basically his dog now and everyone knew he didn't share his toys.
Dmitri's POV
The school was falling apart and I loved every second of it. I sat in the back of the lecture hall. Julien looked like a pile of laundry three rows down. Shoulders slumped, head hanging. The "Golden Boy" was officially a corpse.
I ignored him. I was busy watching the red-haired girl by the window.
Isabelle looked pale. She was staring outside like she was looking for a way out. She looked pissed off and independent, even though she was stuck in the cage I'd built for her.
The bell rang for lunch. A black car with diplomatic plates had pulled up outside.
"The patrons are here early," Adrien whispered. "Meeting about the Exhibition."
Baron Von Hardt stepped out. The guy was a walking fossil, ancient family, sharp as a razor. We were walking past the foyer when Isabelle came through the other side. She looked like hell. Hair a mess, clutching her violin case like a weapon.
The Baron stopped dead.
He didn't just look at her; he looked through her. The color left his face. He grabbed the Director's arm, his finger shaking as he pointed at her.
"Who the hell is that?" he rasped.
The Director started sweating. "That's Isabelle Duval. Scholarship kid. Just some... girl."
"Duval?" The Baron's eyes were narrowed to slits. "I don't care about the name. Look at her move. Look at the face. She's a dead ringer for—"
He shut up. Looked around at the students' ears-deep in the gossip. He lowered his voice, but I heard him. "Tell me she isn't that girl's kid. From 2005."
"She's an orphan, Baron. No records."
The Baron looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Records don't mean jack. If she is who I think, this whole place is a powder keg."
I touched the photo in my pocket. My dad and a girl with silver eyes.
The rumors hit the lunchroom before the food did. By noon, "scholarship girl" was old news. Now, everyone wanted to know whose blood was in her veins. She wasn't a distraction anymore. She was a threat.
Isabelle's POV
I felt the eyes. They weren't just staring anymore; they were dissecting me.
I was in the library trying to read when I heard them behind the shelves.
"Did you hear the Baron?"
"They're saying she's the 'Lost Heir' of the Valois line."
"Don't be stupid. That family was wiped out."
"Look at her. Same eyes as the portrait in the Great Hall."
I froze. The portrait.
I got up, my heart slamming against my ribs. I walked to the Great Hall. It was empty, sunlight hitting the glass in long, red streaks. I went to the end, past the deans, to a portrait kept in the shadows.
It was a woman on a balcony. Violin in her hand. A crown of silver lilies. She had my eyes. My hair. My face.
The plate read: Elena Valois-Duval. Class of 2005. Disgraced.
"She was the pride of this school," a voice said.
I almost jumped out of my skin. Dmitri was there, hands in his pockets, looking at me. I didn't even hear his footsteps.
"She was a queen here," he said, walking up to the painting. "Until she fell for the wrong person. Someone she wasn't supposed to. The school didn't just kick her out, they erased her."
I looked at the painting, then at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," he said. He stepped in close and lifted my chin to face the portrait. His rings felt like cold on my skin. "The Baron's right. You aren't a scholarship kid, Isabelle. You're a legacy. You're built from the same people who built these walls."
He leaned in, his voice low and possessive. "And that means you don't belong to the school. You don't belong to Julien. You belong to the history I'm gonna rewrite."
I felt a chill. His words felt like a death sentence. In this place, being a "disgraced legacy" was worse than being nobody. I was a target for everyone who helped kill her twenty years ago.
"I'm just Isabelle," I whispered. I didn't believe it.
Dmitri smiled. It was sharp and terrifying. "Not anymore. You're the ghost of St. Aurelia. And I'm the only one who knows how to keep you from getting buried again."