The Grand Ballroom of Eastwood Academy was a sea of gold leaf and velvet, a stark contrast to the hollow silence of my bedroom. Rehearsals for the Victory Gala were in full swing. As a member of the coordination committee, I had traded my mourning clothes for a sharp, charcoal-colored wool dress that screamed professional detachment. The high vaulted ceilings, usually so grand, felt like they were pressing down on me, demanding a performance I was not sure I could give.
I stood near the long buffet tables, my Ice Queen armor polished to a lethal shine. To the rest of the school, I was the girl who had nobly ended things with Richard. They saw strength. Only I knew that under my designer exterior, I was still picking the shards of my heart out of my chest.
Richard was gone. The win at the Blackwood Reserve, the hand-holding, and the promises were all buried under the shadows of the equestrian stables. I was the person he needed to heal from, or so he claimed. The words still stung like salt in a fresh wound.
"You are standing directly in the light, Sadie. It makes your glare look slightly less intimidating than usual."
I did not turn around. I did not need to. I knew that bored, aristocratic drawl anywhere. Carl was leaning against a gilded pillar a few feet away. Instead of his usual leather bound book, he held a sleek digital tablet. He did not look at me with the smug satisfaction I had expected. After all, he had been the silent sentinel who watched my world catch fire in the woods. He had seen me at my most broken, sobbing against his chest while the boy I loved betrayed me with Eva.
"I did not realize the coordination committee required the presence of the elite upper crust today, Carl," I replied. My voice clipped every word like a pair of garden shears. "Do you not have a private jet to catch or a legacy to uphold in some far-off boardroom?"
"The flowers are entirely wrong," Carl said, completely ignoring my jab. He finally looked at me, his sharp eyes scanning my face for a fleeting second before darting back to the floral arrangements. There was no mockery in his expression today. Instead, there was a strange, dark gravity to his posture. "White lilies? They look like they are for a funeral. Or perhaps a surrender. You should have insisted on orchids. They are far more resilient. They thrive on neglect."
"I will be sure to inform the florist that your delicate sensibilities have been offended," I snapped. My armor held firm, though a small part of me wondered why he was bothering to talk about flowers at all.
"I am simply saying," Carl countered. His sarcasm remained, but it lacked its usual lethal bite. It felt hollow, almost like a shield he was holding up between us. "If you are going to play the part of the untouchable coordinator, you should at least have the right scenery. It would be a shame for all this effort to go to waste."
He stopped then, looking as if he had realized he was dangerously close to sounding like he cared about my reputation. He tapped his stylus against the tablet with a sharp, rhythmic sound and walked toward the stage without another word. He did not mention Richard. He did not mention the stables. He simply left me standing there, wondering why his sarcasm felt more like a distraction than an insult.
I knew I had created a soft spot in him when I stood up to his father, but I had not expected him to respect my grief. It was an uncomfortable realization. I pushed it aside, smoothing the front of my dress. I was an Ice Queen. I did not have room for complicated feelings about Carl.
I moved toward the seating charts, but a flash of deep red caught my eye on the velvet runner. A single, crushed rose lay directly in my path. Tucked into the mangled petals was a small, white card with that singular, sharp letter. L.
I did not jump. I simply reached down and picked up the ruined rose. A half-finished glass of Cabernet sat on a side table, left behind by the catering director who had been arguing with the florist minutes earlier. I dropped the rose into the dark liquid. I watched as the petals soaked up the dregs, turning the bright red into a dark, bruised purple.
"Is there a problem, Sadie?, you look like you are contemplating a murder."
Luke was there. He appeared from the crowd as if the shadows themselves had given birth to him. He was smiling that perfect student smile, the one that made every teacher in Eastwood trust him implicitly. But I saw it. The moment his gaze landed on the wine glass, his mask flickered. His jaw tightened and his pupils dilated into black pits. It was the glitch. A silent, simmering rage flashed across his features because I had dared to drown his token in filth.
"No problem at all, Luke," I said. My voice was as flat and frozen as a winter lake. "I am just cleaning up some trash I found on the floor. I suggest you do the same before the guests arrive. It would be a shame to ruin the aesthetic of the evening."
I walked past him without a second glance. I did not look back to see his reaction. I kept my head held high, my heels clicking a steady, rhythmic beat against the marble floor. The vulture could watch all he wanted. I was still the girl behind the ice, and I was not ready to melt for anyone.