The Frost mansion's dining room was cavernously empty.
The long table could seat twenty, but tonight it held only two people—Ivy Frost and her father, Dominic Frost.
Crystal chandeliers cast an overly bright light, reflecting off polished silverware with a cold gleam. The air smelled of truffles and prime steak, but beneath it all lurked a suffocating oppression.
Dominic cut his steak slowly, precisely, like a surgeon dissecting a specimen. Nearly fifty, impeccably preserved, his hair was slicked back to reveal a high forehead and a pair of overly shrewd eyes. Those eyes were fixed on his plate, as if the meat deserved more attention than his daughter.
The clink of knife against porcelain was faint but grating.
Ivy sat quietly. Her steak remained untouched.
"First day, and you've already provoked the Vance daughter and the Sterling heir."
Dominic finally spoke. His voice was hard as iron. He still didn't look up. There was no anger in his tone, no warmth—only thick, viscous calculation.
"Ivy, I sent you to Asteridge, not to throw tantrums."
He cut a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, chewed slowly—agonizingly slowly.
Then he raised his eyes.
There was no warmth in them. Only pure evaluation—like a merchant appraising goods.
"Remember your place." He enunciated each word. "You're my only daughter. And my most useful 'asset.' Until you've accumulated enough 'value,' you'd better learn patience."
He set down his knife and fork, dabbed his lips with a napkin.
Elegant. And dripping with absolute control.
"Don't think a few years abroad have made you strong." His gaze pierced Ivy like a cold probe. "Your mother is still waiting for 'better' medical care. You know—one word from me…"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Mother.
Ivy's mind flashed to that gentle, increasingly pale face. Six years ago, her mother had been diagnosed with a "severe mental disorder" and placed in a remote, high-end sanatorium under Dominic's arrangement. Officially, it was "rest and recuperation." But Ivy knew—it was imprisonment. Her mother was Dominic's most effective lever over her. The sword hanging over her head.
Ivy's fingers tightened beneath the table. Nails dug into her palms. The pain was nothing compared to the suffocating grip around her heart.
She lowered her eyes, staring at the cooling steak on her plate.
Bloody juices spread across white porcelain like an ill omen.
"I understand, Father."
Her voice was soft. Obedient. Like a puppet without a soul.
*But beneath her lowered lashes, a flame flickered in her eyes—stubborn, furious, rebellious. A voice screamed inside her: You will cause a storm. You will prove you are not his asset to command. *
Dominic seemed satisfied with her compliance. He picked up his utensils again.
"Next week, the Blackwood family will come to finalize the engagement arrangements." His tone was as flat as if he were scheduling a business meeting. "Be prepared. Julian Blackwood is… of questionable status, but his abilities are solid. The Blackwoods need our capital. We need their political connections."
The Blackwoods—traditional manufacturing giants, recently expanding into finance and tech. Julian was the old man's illegitimate son, an open secret in elite circles, and the soft spot everyone used against him. But rumors said he'd risen fast on sheer business instinct.
Ivy said nothing.
She just nodded slightly.
Her mind flashed to that handsome, distant boy in the glass conservatory. A bastard? A pawn? Like her—a poor soul trapped in a gilded cage.
The meal ended in dead silence.
Ivy returned to her room. The door closed. Her back pressed against the cold wood.
The room was enormous, lavishly decorated—expensive Persian rugs, antique furniture, abstract paintings by unknown artists. Top of everything. And still, a prison.
She walked to the window and stared out at the black night.
The city's distant lights glittered like scattered stars.
But none of that light could reach this house.
Her phone buzzed.
An encrypted message. From the private caretaker she'd placed at her mother's sanatorium—the only person she could trust, her mother's last line of defense:
「Miss. Madam is stable today. But three new 'special care fees' appeared on the ledger. Source unknown.」
Ivy stared at the words. Her fingers went cold.
Again.
Her father always knew exactly how to remind her who held the leash. Those "special care fees" were just a cover. The real message was: Your mother's well-being depends on your performance.
She took a breath. Typed back:
「Keep watching. Don't alert anyone.」
She put the phone down and walked to her desk. Opened her laptop.
The screen lit up, reflecting her pale face.
She opened Asteridge Academy's internal network and started searching for information on the "Asteridge Circle"—member lists, activity records, past projects. Everything publicly available.
Her gaze lingered on Julian Blackwood's profile.
The photo showed a dark-haired boy with distant eyes, handsome to the point of sharpness. The file noted he was the Blackwood family's illegitimate son, brought back three years ago, rising quickly on sharp business instincts and cold efficiency.
A bastard.
A "potential asset" used by his family.
A person—trapped in the same gilded cage as her.
Ivy closed the page.
She leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes.
The day's scenes flashed through her mind—Sierra's provocation, Ethan's calculation, Julian's cold stare, and her father's words: You're just my asset.
Every frame like a shard of glass piercing her skin.
But the pain kept her awake.
Kept her remembering.
She would not be an asset forever.
She would become the one holding the chess pieces.
Even if the first step was learning to wear a better mask.
---
The next day. Asteridge Academy.
Ivy felt the shift in atmosphere the moment she walked into the classroom.
The curious or wary looks from yesterday had acquired a new layer—scrutiny, evaluation, even a hint of schadenfreude. Word of her confrontation with Sierra and Ethan's intervention had clearly spread through certain circles.
Sierra saw her enter, snorted, and looked away.
Ethan gave her a warm, flawless smile and nodded.
Ivy walked to her seat without expression.
Her deskmate was still reading. Still The Stranger. Still utterly oblivious to the currents swirling around her. Ivy glanced at the cover—Camus's The Stranger. A book about a man out of step with society. Fitting.
The morning passed quietly.
Lunch break. Ivy walked toward the glass conservatory again.
She needed quiet. She needed to think about her next move.
Just as she reached the entrance, she heard familiar voices inside—light, mocking, casually arrogant.
Justin Vance.
He was flirting with some girl. Not quiet enough.
"…last night's party was so boring. If Ethan hadn't asked me to go, I wouldn't have bothered."
"Justin, you're so hard to please." The girl's voice was syrupy.
"Not hard to please. Just used to better." Justin laughed. "Hey, I heard my dear sister caused trouble again yesterday?"
"Sierra? Apparently she went head-to-head with the new transfer student."
"Ivy Frost?" Justin's tone turned curious. "Dominic Frost's only daughter… Interesting. My sister's been spoiled too long. Maybe someone should knock her down a peg."
"Aren't you going to help her?"
"Help her with what?" Justin scoffed. "Kids playing house. Not my problem. But…"
He paused. His voice dropped.
"Ivy Frost is pretty good-looking. Better than my fiancée, honestly."
Ivy stopped in her tracks.
She didn't go forward. Didn't retreat. Just stood there, listening.
Then she turned and took another path.
Her face was blank.
But her eyes were colder than before.
---
Afternoon. Economics class.
The teacher announced a group project—a simulated business investment. Asteridge's curriculum always tied back to real-world wealth games. These students would inherit their families' empires someday.
Ethan Sterling, as class president, helped the teacher form groups.
He stood at the podium, his warm gaze sweeping the room before landing on Ivy.
"Ivy just transferred and doesn't know everyone well yet," he said with a smile. "Why don't you join our group?"
His group included himself, Julian Blackwood, and—coincidence or calculation—Sierra Vance.
A nest of vipers.
Ethan's control. Julian's opacity. Sierra's open hostility.
Sierra immediately made a dissatisfied noise.
Ethan silenced her with a look.
Julian sat by the window. At the mention, he barely lifted his eyelids. His dark eyes were indifferent, as if none of this concerned him.
Everyone's gaze locked onto Ivy.
Waiting.
Ivy didn't wait for Ethan's response. She didn't care about anyone's gaze. She walked straight to their table, sat down gracefully across from Sierra, and only then slowly raised her eyes.
Her gaze fell on Sierra like a cold scalpel. Her voice wasn't loud—but it carried an unmistakable pressure.
"Sierra."
She said her name. Slowly.
"You should know your place."
She leaned forward slightly. A beautiful, almost cruel smile curved her lips.
"Put away your dissatisfaction. And those petty little thoughts of yours."
A pause.
"Don't let me see them. Understand?"
Another pause.
"If you understand… nod."
Sierra's face went white. Her pupils dilated with shock and humiliation. She had probably never been spoken to like this in her life. She looked instinctively toward Ethan—his warm smile was gone, his brow furrowed. He clearly hadn't expected Ivy to be so extreme, so direct.
Then Sierra's gaze snapped to Julian.
Julian still looked indifferent. But this time, he didn't look away. Instead, his dark eyes flickered with something—interest. A faint, almost playful gleam.
Under Ivy's quiet, crushing stare, Sierra's body trembled.
Finally—almost imperceptibly—she nodded.
"Good."
Ivy leaned back, as if nothing had happened. She turned to Ethan, her tone casual now, but with a new undertone of authority.
"So, Ethan… what's our project topic?"
Ethan looked at her for a long moment. His expression was complex.
But he quickly recovered his warm smile.
"Emerging tech markets. Investment simulation. I'll send details later."
Before he could finish, the classroom door opened.
Justin Vance walked in, hands in his pockets, face dark. He'd clearly heard what happened to his sister. He ignored everyone else—his gaze locked onto Ivy like a blade.
"Ivy Frost," his voice was tight with suppressed anger. "Do you have a problem with my sister?"
Before Ivy could answer—
A cool, calm female voice came from behind him.
"Justin, the teacher is looking for us. Something about the festival committee."
Celeste Sterling. She appeared in the doorway. Her uniform was immaculate. Her expression was elegant, composed. Her gaze swept over Ivy, then settled on Justin—as if she were merely reminding him of a trivial matter.
But Ivy caught it. The flash of irritation on Justin's face when Celeste appeared.
Celeste Sterling. The Sterlings were a political dynasty—grandfathers who'd held high office. Less wealthy than the industrial giants, but deeply connected. She was Justin's fiancée, the other half of this business arrangement. Rumor said she knew about Justin's affairs. Rumor said she tolerated them—for now.
The room grew tense.
Justin, ready to fight for his sister.
Celeste, playing peacemaker—or maybe protecting her own plans.
Julian, watching.
Ethan, evaluating.
Sierra, trembling with hate and hope.
Everyone's eyes on Ivy.
Ivy stood up slowly.
That beautiful, cruel smile still on her lips.
She looked at Justin. Her voice was light—but every word was clear.
"Justin. I'm helping her."
She tilted her head slightly, glancing at Sierra's pale face.
"At Asteridge, people who don't know the rules get eaten alive."
The smile deepened.
"If I really had a problem with her—"
A pause.
"I wouldn't just 'remind' her. I'd act. Right, Sierra?"
Sierra bit her lip so hard it nearly bled.
Under that crushing smile—she nodded again.
Justin's face went dark.
He stepped forward. Fists clenched.
"Justin."
Celeste's voice was calm—but firm. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm.
Justin tried to shake her off. But her grip, though gentle-looking, was solid.
He glared at her.
Celeste didn't look at him. She looked at Ivy.
For the first time, her cool eyes showed something—appraisal. And maybe… a hint of appreciation?
"Ivy Frost," she said, her tone flat. "You're very good at redefining 'help.'"
Not praise. Not criticism. Just observation.
Ivy looked at her. Thoughts racing. Celeste's stance was subtle. Not an enemy. Not quite a friend. Maybe… they had something in common.
She smiled—just as enigmatic.
"I only told the truth."
Then she made a small, dismissive sound. A soft laugh, barely audible. As if the anger and scheming before her were just mud beneath her heels.
She picked up her books and bag. Turned. Walked past Justin without hesitation.
Her wake was cold.
At the door, she paused. Didn't look back.
"Project details by email, Ethan."
Then she was gone.
The tension, the calculations, the humiliation—all of it left behind.
The hallway was quiet.
Ivy walked toward the stairwell. Steady steps.
But only she knew—her palms were marked with deep crescents from her nails.
Every step like walking on glass.
She didn't look back.
She couldn't.