Ariana Ross
The humiliation is not a single event. It is a campaign. A slow, steady drip of acid designed to dissolve my presence at Blackwood.
In the dining hall, a tray of tomato soup finds its way onto my lap. Isabella’s friend, Chloe, offers a saccharine apology about her “clumsy shoes” while Isabella watches from a nearby table, a flicker of triumph in her dark eyes.
My literature textbook vanishes from my locker the day before a major essay is due. I find it later in a trash can behind the gymnasium, its pages waterlogged and ruined.
Whispers follow me down the hallways. Scholarship case. Charity girl. Damaged goods. The words are like little paper cuts, insignificant on their own, but collectively, they leave me bleeding.
I endure it. I show nothing. My face remains a mask of calm indifference. Inside, I am a tightly coiled spring. Rick taught me to absorb punishment, to wait for the moment to strike back. But here, I have no leverage. I am a ghost, and they are the gilded walls of the castle.
For a week, I watch. I listen. And I learn.
I learn that the name whispered with the most reverence, the most fear, is Carter Vance. He is not loud or flashy like the other boys who drive sports cars and brag about their fathers’ yachts. He is quiet. He moves through the school with an unnerving stillness, a predator conserving its energy.
He has a core group. A tall, serious looking boy with watchful eyes named Leo, who always walks a half step behind him. A girl with sharp, intelligent features and perpetually ink stained fingers named Seraphina, who is always typing on a laptop that looks far too adRossd for schoolwork.
They are The Syndicate. Everyone knows it, but no one says it aloud.
They do not run the school’s social scene. They are above it. They are the school’s shadow government. A quiet word from Carter can get a professor to change a grade. A nod from Leo can end a rivalry between two warring cliques. Seraphina, they say, can access any secret on campus with a few keystrokes.
They are power. The absolute, undeniable kind. The kind I need.
Isabella and her friends orbit Carter, but they are not in his circle. They are moths drawn to a flame they cannot touch. I see the way Isabella looks at him when she thinks no one is watching. It is not adoration. It is hunger. She wants his power, his status. She wants to be his queen.
My decision solidifies on a Tuesday afternoon. I am in the library, trying to rewrite my ruined essay notes from memory. Isabella and her clique take the table next to mine, their conversation loud and pointedly exclusionary.
“My father is flying me to Paris for the weekend,” Chloe announces. “Just for a little shopping.”
“How lovely,” Isabella says, not looking up from her phone. “Carter’s family has a place in Monaco. He told me I should visit sometime.”
A lie. I can see it in the way she grips her phone, her knuckles white. She is testing the name, trying it on for size. Claiming a proximity she does not possess.
That is when I know I cannot just survive this place. I have to conquer it. And the only way to topple a queen is with a king.
My plan is simple. Audacious. Possibly suicidal.
Carter holds court in the library’s east wing, in a private study room with a heavy oak door. No one enters without an invitation.
I do not have an invitation.
I wait until the library begins to thin out, as students leave for dinner. I watch Leo and Seraphina pack their bags and leave the study room, leaving Carter alone.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My palms are damp. I wipe them on my skirt and stand up. My legs feel unsteady, but I force them forward, one step after another, across the marble floor.
I do not knock. I simply turn the heavy brass handle and push the door open.
He is sitting in a worn leather armchair, a thick, ancient looking book open on his lap. The room smells of old paper and something else, something clean and masculine, like expensive soap and cold steel. He does not look up immediately. He finishes his page, his focus absolute. The deliberate pause is a power move. A dismissal.
Finally, he closes the book, the sound a soft thud in the silence. He raises his head. His eyes are dark, darker than Isabella’s, and unnervingly perceptive. They see everything. I feel stripped bare, my secondhand uniform, my frayed nerves, my desperate ambition, all laid out for his inspection.
“The door is closed for a reason,” he says. His voice is a low rumble, calm and laced with authority.
“I know,” I say. My own voice sounds surprisingly steady.
He raises an eyebrow. A small, elegant movement. He is waiting. He is used to people explaining themselves, begging for his time. I will not.
“I want in,” I say.
Amusement flickers in his eyes. “In where?”
“The Syndicate.”
The amusement vanishes. His face becomes a mask of stone. He leans forward slightly, the leather of the chair groaning in protest.
“Who are you?” he asks. It is not a question. It is a demand for data.
“Ariana Ross.”
“The scholarship girl,” he says. It is a statement of fact, not an insult. He already knew. Of course he knew.
“Yes.”
“You have been here for two weeks,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “And in that time, you have managed to become Isabella Rossi’s favorite charity project. And now you walk into my room and make demands. You have courage, Ariana Ross. Or you are a fool.”
“Maybe both,” I admit. “But I am also useful.”
“Are you?” He leans back, steepling his fingers under his chin. He is analyzing me, the way Rick taught me to analyze poker opponents. Looking for the tell. “What use could I possibly have for a girl who cannot even afford a new blazer?”
He is testing me. Pushing the bruise to see if I flinch.
I do not flinch.
“You see a charity case,” I say, taking a step closer. “I see an advantage. No one looks at me and sees a threat. They see a victim. They underestimate me. And people who are underestimated can get close. They can see things. Hear things. Everyone has a tell, Carter. You just have to know how to look for it.”
His expression does not change, but I see it. A flicker of something in his eyes. The subtle stillness that precedes a predator’s interest. He recognized the language I was speaking. The language of power, of weakness, of observation.
“And what is it you want from me?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft.
“The same thing everyone else in this school wants from you. Protection,” I say, the honesty of it raw and sharp. “And a seat at the table.”
“Protection from Isabella?” He almost smiles. “She is an annoyance. Not a threat.”
“Her family is the Rossi family, is it not?” I counter, playing the only card I have. It is a long shot, a guess based on whispers and the way people talk about the old families. “And your name is Vance. I may be new here, but I know those names mean something. They mean more than just buildings with plaques on them. This school is a battlefield for people like you. Isabella is just a soldier in that war. A spoiled, arrogant one, but a soldier nonetheless.”
The silence in the room stretches, becoming heavy, suffocating.
Carter stares at me for a long time. I feel like a butterfly pinned to a board. He could crush me with a word. Destroy my entire future at this school.
“The Syndicate is not a club you join,” he says finally. “It is not a shield for frightened little girls. It is a family. And loyalty to that family is absolute. You earn your place. You prove your worth.”
“Then let me prove it,” I say, my voice a breath of sound. “Give me a task. An initiation.”
He looks down at the book in his lap, then back at me. “An initiation is not a game. It can be dangerous. It can get you expelled. Or worse.”
“My whole life has been worse,” I say, and the words are truer than anything I have ever said. “I am not afraid of danger. I am afraid of being powerless. Let me prove I belong.”
A long moment passes. Then another.
He gives a slow, single nod. “Fine.”
My breath catches in my throat. Relief floods through me, so potent it makes me dizzy.
“You will have your chance,” he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You will be given one task. If you succeed, you are in. If you fail, I never want to see your face or hear your name again. You will pack your bags and disappear from Blackwood. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I say, my voice firm.
“Good. Leo will be in touch with the details.” He looks away from me, back toward his book. A clear dismissal.
The audience is over.
I turn and walk toward the door, my legs shaking now that the adrenaline is fading. I pull the door open and step out into the hallway.
Standing there, as if she was waiting, is Isabella Rossi. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Behind her, Chloe and her other friend look on, their expressions a mixture of shock and fear.
Isabella’s eyes are locked on me. They burn with a hatred so intense it feels like a physical force.
“What were you doing in there?” she hisses, her voice low and venomous.
“Just having a conversation,” I say, my newfound confidence making me bold.
“You do not speak to him,” she snarls, taking a step toward me. “You do not even look at him. Who do you think you are?”
From inside the study room, Carter’s voice cuts through the tension, calm and cold as ice.
“She is with me, Isabella.”
Isabella freezes. The color drains from her face. She looks past me, into the room where Carter sits, still not looking at her. He does not need to. His words are enough. They are a shield around me. A declaration.
She looks back at me. If looks could kill, I would be a pile of ash on the marble floor.
“This is not over,” she whispers, her voice shaking with rage.
I meet her gaze without flinching.
“No,” I say, a small smile touching my lips for the first time since I arrived at this school. “It’s just beginning.”
