The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, mingled with hushed chatter.
The classroom of Class 1, Grade 10 at Asteridge Academy was excessively spacious. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched a meticulously manicured lawn. Sunlight streamed through the glass, falling upon brand-new desks and reflecting a cold gleam. Everyone seated in this room was impeccably dressed, and even the casual flick of a pen carried an ingrained refinement—or perhaps, a carefully crafted facade.
Ivy Frost sat quietly by the fourth window seat.
She wore a tailored, high-end uniform. The deep blue skirt was perfectly smooth, without a single wrinkle. Her face was stunningly beautiful—pure, delicate, and unforgettable. Yet deep within her eyes lurked a hint of melancholy, incongruous with her age, like a layer of mist that refused to dissipate.
Her arrival had already sparked whispers.
Not only because she was a new face.
But because of the name attached to her: Dominic Frost's only daughter.
The gazes in the room fell upon her like searchlights—curious, scrutinizing, envious—and from the far corner, the cold, assessing looks of the "Asteridge Circle" core members. That was a different caliber of appraisal, carrying the precision of evaluating an asset.
Sierra Vance sat nearby with her two followers. Seeing Ivy enter, she curled her lips into a knowing, ambiguous smile, her eyes seeming to say, You've finally returned.
Ivy acted as if she hadn't noticed.
Her gaze fell upon her deskmate.
She was a somewhat gloomy, taciturn girl, head bowed, completely absorbed in a book unrelated to their studies. The cover bore three characters: The Stranger. She was so engrossed she seemed utterly isolated from the surrounding noise. Her uniform badge indicated she wasn't from one of the top-tier families.
Ivy watched her for a moment.
Then she looked away, pulled out her own book, and said nothing.
She simply gave a slight nod.
The other girl looked up from her pages, her eyes calm and devoid of curiosity or warmth. She returned the nod almost imperceptibly, then buried herself back in The Stranger.
This silence became a wordless barrier, temporarily shielding Ivy from those probing glances.
The first class soon began.
The teacher introduced the new semester's schedule, pushed up his glasses, and let his gaze fall on Ivy. "This is Ivy Frost. She'll be studying with us from today."
Silence fell.
All eyes focused again.
Sierra Vance's playful, contemptuous stare, Ethan Sterling's warm but calculating gaze, and the other students' curious or wary looks—all of it pricked at her skin like countless fine needles.
Ethan Sterling. The eldest grandson of the Sterling family. A political and business dynasty. He was top of his class, gentle in manner, and widely recognized as the "perfect gentleman" of the Asteridge Circle—and the strongest contender for the next president of the club.
Ivy accepted all of this with a calm expression.
Inside, however, she felt a flicker of disgust for the attention that came with being "Dominic Frost's only daughter." She hated being the center of focus. She hated being evaluated. She hated being treated like a piece of merchandise.
But she also knew—here, weakness was death.
---
Lunch break.
Ivy walked alone toward Asteridge Academy's famous glass garden conservatory.
Sunlight poured through the glass dome, casting dappled shadows on the polished marble floors. The air smelled of fresh greenery and expensive candles. This was a popular spot for students, one of the few places where one could briefly escape the crowd.
She wandered, trying to sort through the chaos in her head.
This school. These people. Her father, always calculating.
All of it felt like a weight pressing down on her.
Just as she rounded a corner, she heard the sound of an argument ahead.
Not loud. But clear enough.
"…Julian Blackwood, don't think just because Father favors you, you actually belong here." A male voice, dripping with mockery. "A bastard is still a bastard."
The response was low and calm, carrying a detached indifference.
"None of your business."
Ivy stopped in her tracks.
Julian Blackwood.
And Justin Vance—Sierra's older brother, heir to the Vance family fortune. Famous for his playboy ways, engaged for five years but never faithful.
She instinctively stepped back half a pace, hiding behind a thick Roman column.
A third voice cut in, hot as gunpowder:
"Justin, all you ever do is bring up family background! If you've got any real skill, prove it on a project!"
Casper Hawthorne. The Hawthorne family was in tech—not quite top-tier, but rising. Casper himself was a sports prodigy, hot-tempered and blunt. He was the only one in the Asteridge Circle who openly disdained its hypocrisy. His friendship with Julian Blackwood was… complicated.
"Tch. Brute." Justin scoffed.
"Justin, Ethan is looking for us to discuss something." A gentle voice inserted itself at exactly the right moment, diffusing the tension.
Ethan Sterling.
Footsteps faded. The argument seemed to end.
Ivy stepped out from behind the pillar—
And nearly walked straight into someone.
He stood not far from where she'd been hiding. Dark hair fell over his eyes, which were as cold as a frozen lake—deep, sharp, and faintly appraising. His face matched every rumor she'd heard about Julian Blackwood at Asteridge Academy.
Handsome. Wild. Distant.
Julian Blackwood. The Blackwood family's illegitimate son. The Blackwoods were traditional manufacturing giants, recently expanding into finance and tech. Julian had been brought back into the family three years ago, after his grandfather acknowledged him. Rumors said he'd risen quickly on the strength of his sharp business instincts and cold efficiency. He was a useful pawn for the old man. But his "bastard" status was always the weapon others used against him.
He'd been standing here the whole time, silently watching everything.
Now, he stood less than a meter away.
Their eyes met.
The air seemed to freeze.
Ivy could see every detail of his face—the thick lashes, the straight nose, the deep, unreadable eyes. No anger. No embarrassment. Just pure, cold scrutiny.
He was assessing her.
Like a new object worth noting.
Ivy gave him the slightest nod—barely a movement, more reflex than greeting.
Then she calmly looked away, kept walking, and passed him without breaking stride.
She didn't look back.
But she could feel his gaze on her back for just a moment longer.
Cold.
Thoughtful.
As if he was filing her away for future reference.
---
The lunch hour passed without further incident.
---
The final bell rang.
Ivy packed her bag and headed for the exit. As she stepped out of the school building and walked toward the private car waiting area, a sweet but razor-sharp voice called out behind her:
"Ivy! Long time no see. You show up and don't even say hello?"
The voice was deliberately friendly, but the aggression beneath it was unmistakable.
Ivy turned.
Sierra Vance stood behind her with her two hangers-on, smiling sweetly—but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze pinned Ivy like needles.
"What, a few years abroad and you've forgotten all your old friends?" Sierra looked her up and down, her tone dripping with fake innocence. "Or is it that now that you're the sole heir of the Frost family, you're too good for us?"
The words were poison wrapped in candy.
And they'd drawn the attention of nearly every student lingering after school.
This was a provocation. A test of Ivy's limits. A public power play.
Everyone watched.
Waiting for the show.
Ivy turned slowly to face her.
No embarrassment. No panic.
Instead, a beautiful smile bloomed on her lips—dazzling, but laced with undisguised contempt.
She looked at Sierra, and her voice was cool and clear, loud enough for every straining ear to hear:
"Are we that close?"
She tilted her head slightly, a perfect expression of feigned confusion.
Then she gave a soft, dismissive laugh.
"Ah… I remember now. We met a few times when we were kids."
She paused, her smile deepening.
"But Sierra, your memory seems much better than mine."
Silence.
Dead silence.
Sierra's sweet smile froze. The mask cracked. Anger flickered behind her eyes.
"You—!"
She couldn't form a reply. Her face flushed with rage.
Then, a warm voice cut in:
"Sierra, Ivy just got back. She might still be settling in. Don't be so intense."
Ethan Sterling had appeared out of nowhere, his signature gentle smile fixed in place. He stepped between Ivy and Sierra like the perfect mediator.
"Ivy, welcome back." He greeted her warmly, as if the previous confrontation had never happened. "Sierra's just sentimental. She speaks a little bluntly sometimes. Don't take it to heart."
He'd given Sierra an out. And he'd reframed the conflict as simple "sentimentality" and "directness."
A classic Ethan move—always on the right side, always in control, always making everyone owe him one.
Ivy looked at him. Then her gaze slid past him and landed back on Sierra.
Her beautiful, contemptuous smile was still fixed in place.
She spoke clearly, each word deliberate:
"It seems you still have a lot to learn."
A pause.
"Goodbye."
Then she ignored Ethan's outstretched hand and frozen smile, turned on her heel, and walked toward the black sedan waiting at the curb.
She opened the door.
She got in.
The door closed.
Behind her: dead silence. Sierra's trembling, furious figure. And the flicker of cold calculation behind Ethan Sterling's warm eyes.
The car pulled away smoothly from Asteridge Academy.
Ivy leaned back into the leather seat and closed her eyes.
Sunset streamed through the window, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across her face.