A few days later. The rooftop terrace of Asteridge Academy's library.
Ivy Frost had discovered this quiet spot by accident—a place where she could overlook half the campus and escape the constant scrutiny. She leaned against the railing at the edge of the rooftop, enjoying a rare moment of peace while she planned her next move.
She needed to get into the core of the Asteridge Circle. It wasn't just a social club—it was a rehearsal space for the city's future power brokers. If she wanted to escape her father's control and protect her mother, she had to become a participant in the game, not just a piece on the board.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her.
Ivy turned. The person approaching surprised her.
Julian Blackwood. One hand was in his pocket, the other held two cans of iced coffee. His dark hair moved slightly in the breeze. He walked to her side, said nothing, and simply placed one can on the railing in front of her.
"For you." His voice was still cool, but the complete distance from before had lessened. There was something else now… curiosity.
Ivy glanced at the coffee, then at him. This was their first private encounter since that brief eye contact in the glass conservatory.
She took the can. The chill seeped into her fingertips. She didn't look at him—just popped the tab with a soft click and took a sip. The bitter liquid slid down her throat.
"Thanks for the coffee," she said flatly.
She paused, her gaze still fixed on the campus in the distance. Her tone was calm, as if she were discussing the weather.
"As for them? I don't care."
Her stance drew a clear line: she accepted the coffee, but she rejected his probe. She didn't care about those people, and right now, she had no interest in engaging with him either. If they were both just pawns, why bother with fake pleasantries?
Julian watched her profile. Her complete detachment didn't seem to annoy him—instead, the glint of amusement in his eyes deepened. He didn't press further. He simply leaned against the railing beside her and drank his own coffee in silence.
The two stood side by side. Neither spoke.
The air carried a strange atmosphere—not friendship, not enmity, but something else. Two people who had each found a brief moment of calm in the eye of a storm, sharing a wordless understanding.
After a few minutes, Julian spoke again, his voice lower than before.
"That day—you were bold." He was referring to the way she had publicly humiliated Sierra Vance and walked out without a backward glance. "You're not afraid of making enemies of both the Vances and the Sterlings?"
Ivy laughed inwardly. Afraid? Would fear help? In this place, showing weakness only got you devoured.
She turned her head and looked at him directly for the first time, a faint smile curving her lips.
"Julian Blackwood," she said. "Do you care?"
She threw the question back at him, her gaze sharp against his.
"A bastard like you—don't you also maneuver through this circle every day?"
This was the first time she had openly thrown his identity in his face. She wanted to see how this distant, cold boy would react to such a direct attack.
Julian's eyes froze for a fraction of a second—then steadied. He didn't get angry. Instead, he let out a soft, self-mocking laugh.
"You're right." He set his coffee can gently on the railing. "Neither of us is free."
He paused, looking at her. His dark eyes were deep.
"But sometimes—the ones who aren't free see more clearly than anyone else."
Ivy felt something shift inside her. What did he mean by that? Was he hinting at something, or just stating a fact?
She didn't ask. She just turned her gaze back to the horizon.
Another few minutes of silence. Then Julian straightened up.
"The coffee was on me," he said flatly. "Next time we meet, you're buying."
He turned and walked away without hesitation.
Ivy watched his back disappear into the stairwell. The chill from the coffee can seeped through her fingertips and spread into her chest.
This person—was more complicated than she had expected.
---
Weekend. The Frost Mansion. Ivy's study.
Ivy sat at her desk. The laptop screen cast a cold white light over her face. She was reviewing the project assignment email from Ethan Sterling.
The email was professionally written. Clear divisions of labor. Everyone's responsibilities neatly outlined.
But Ivy saw through it in an instant—all the core decision-making roles had been assigned to Ethan, Julian, and Justin. She had been relegated to the margins: data collection and organization.
A calculated move. Ethan's revenge. A "reasonable" way to exclude her from the core decision-making and keep her from having any real influence on the project.
She smiled coldly, her fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard. She had seen these tricks before.
Her phone buzzed.
An encrypted message from the sanatorium.
「Miss. Madam is stable. But this month's bill includes three new 'special care fees.' Total: 120,000 won. Source unknown. Do you need confirmation?」
Ivy stared at the words. Her fingers tightened.
Always the same.
Her father always knew exactly how to grip her by the throat. Those "special care fees" didn't exist. They were just a reminder: Your mother's life is in my hands.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.
Then she made a decision.
She had to establish herself in the Asteridge Circle. She had to build her own power base. Otherwise, she would always be her father's puppet—without even the right to protect her own mother.
---
One week later. The Asteridge Circle's private club.
The building was nestled in the woods behind the school—low-profile, gray stone walls blending with the surrounding trees. To an outsider, it was invisible.
Ivy stood before the heavy oak doors.
She knew that demanding entry outright was a losing strategy. In this hierarchy, every ticket in came with a price.
But she also knew something else—Celeste Sterling needed her.
A few days ago, through some old connections her mother had left behind, Ivy had uncovered evidence of Justin Vance's latest affair. Room 1218 at Harbor Hotel. A no-name model. The Vance family had paid a fortune to bury it—but Celeste had to know.
The problem was, she probably lacked concrete proof.
Ivy pulled out her phone. She found Celeste's encrypted channel and typed a short message.
「The 'souvenirs' from Justin Vance's room 1218 at Harbor Hotel. I have the complete video files. My price: get me into the club. Now. Ten minutes. Front door.」
She hit send.
She was gambling. Gambling that Celeste was done with this marriage. Gambling that she needed that evidence for her future plans. Gambling that she would set aside her hostility for the sake of her own interests.
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak door opened silently.
Celeste Sterling stood in the doorway.
Her uniform was immaculate. A tailored cashmere cardigan was draped over her shoulders. Her expression was as composed as ever.
But Ivy caught it—deep in her eyes, a cold light flickered.
"You're punctual." Celeste stepped aside.
"I'm always reliable." Ivy stepped inside.
The interior was more lavish than she had imagined—dark walnut walls, leather sofas, a crystal chandelier, a full wall of a wine cabinet displaying rare vintages. The air smelled of cigars and expensive candles. Soft jazz played in the background.
Near the bar area, seven or eight young men and women were gathered in small groups.
The moment Ivy crossed the threshold, every head turned.
Justin Vance was mid-drink, mid-flirt, with some girl Ivy didn't recognize. His smile froze when he saw her.
Ethan Sterling stood behind the bar, a whiskey glass in hand. His warm smile was still in place, but something cold flickered behind his eyes.
Julian Blackwood sat alone in a corner armchair, legs crossed, reading a financial journal. From the moment Ivy entered, he hadn't even lifted his gaze. His entire presence radiated cold distance.
Casper Hawthorne leaned against a window. He frowned when he saw Ivy—then looked away.
And Sierra Vance—sitting on the sofa beside her brother—her face twisted with hatred for an instant, then settled into an expression that mixed satisfaction with nervous anticipation.
Celeste ignored everyone. She led Ivy to a quiet corner. A small round table. Two high-backed chairs. A negotiation space.
"The files." Celeste held out her hand. No preamble.
Ivy didn't move. She just looked at her. Her voice was low.
"Celeste. I'm not here for one visit. I want a position."
Celeste stared at her. Then she smiled—faintly.
"You're more ambitious than I expected." Her voice was soft, meant only for Ivy. "What makes you think I can give you that—or that I would?"
Ivy leaned forward slightly. Her voice dropped lower. Calm—and threatening.
"If I'm not satisfied—"
She paused, savoring the crack in Celeste's composed mask.
"This little gift from Harbor Hotel room 1218 could end up in every Vance family board member's private inbox by the end of the day. Which loss is greater?"
Her gaze swept across Justin—still laughing with his girl, completely unaware—then back to Celeste.
"Letting an outsider have a meaningless 'position'? Or losing years of carefully gathered ammunition—the key to your whole plan—right before you can use it?"
This wasn't a deal.
It was a showdown.
Celeste's breath caught—just for an instant. Her calm eyes flickered with shock, anger, and something else. A grudging recalculation. Her elegant mask cracked.
A few seconds of dead silence.
Then—through gritted teeth—
"You're ruthless, Ivy Frost."
Not praise.
A statement.
Celeste took a breath. Recovered her composure. But her eyes were different now. She turned without another word and walked toward the bar.
Ivy followed at a distance.
All eyes tracked them.
Celeste reached the bar. Ignored Justin's questioning look. Spoke directly to Ethan—loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
"Ethan. I propose that Ivy Frost be admitted to the Asteridge Circle."
Conversation died.
Justin straightened abruptly, disbelief and fury on his face. "Celeste! Do you know what you're saying?!"
Ethan's warm smile vanished. He looked at Celeste, his gaze sharp. "Celeste, this is against protocol. The Asteridge Circle isn't open to just anyone." His eyes swept over Ivy—evaluating, rejecting.
Julian's journal pages stopped turning for just a moment.
Casper looked over, brow furrowed.
Celeste met Ethan's gaze. Her voice carried the calm of someone burning bridges.
"Protocols are made by people. She has ability. She has the qualifications. I vouch for her with my reputation."
"Your reputation?" Justin nearly laughed. "Celeste, you're saying this for a transfer student?"
The air grew thick.
Then—a low, amused voice.
"I think it's interesting."
Everyone turned.
Julian Blackwood set down his journal. His dark eyes found Ivy. His lips curved into a cold, faint smile.
"This place could use some fresh air." A pause. "I agree."
The room shifted.
Ethan's frown deepened. Justin's face turned ugly.
Casper crossed his arms. Looked at Julian. Looked at Ivy. Finally—a gruff, reluctant—
"I agree too. Rules are made by people."
Now—all pressure on Ethan.
As the de facto leader of the Asteridge Circle, he had to decide. Refuse—and publicly humiliate Celeste and Julian. Accept—and let this unpredictable "variable" into the core.
Ivy watched him. Face blank. Waiting.
But inside—a strange satisfaction rose in her chest. This feeling of pushing someone high and mighty into a corner—it reminded her of her father. Maybe she and her father were the same kind of people after all. Both loved control. Both loved watching others squirm under their calculations.
Ethan was silent for a moment.
Then he inhaled. Put his warm smile back in place.
"Since Celeste and Julian both insist…" He looked at Ivy, something unreadable in his eyes. "Per protocol, we need a vote. Majority passes."
His gaze swept the room—fifteen or so core members.
"Those in favor of admitting Ivy Frost to the Asteridge Circle—raise your hands."
Celeste raised hers immediately. Steady.
Julian raised his—lazily, but without hesitation. His eyes never left Ivy.
Casper scoffed—but raised his hand.
Justin and Sierra were rigid with fury. Their hands stayed down.
Ethan didn't vote.
The swing voters were the ones who mattered.
A bespectacled boy—some tech founder's son, Ivy recalled—glanced nervously at Ethan, then at Julian. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand.
Another girl raised hers.
The count: six in favor. Five against.
Exactly half.
Ethan's face went rigid for just a moment. Then he smoothed it over.
"…Approved." His voice was flat. "Ivy Frost. Effective immediately. You are a member of the Asteridge Circle."
Justin swore under his breath, shot Ivy a venomous glare, and stormed out. Sierra followed, red-eyed.
Ivy slowly turned her gaze back to Ethan. Her face was still blank. She gave a slight nod.
"Thank you."
The words sounded less like gratitude—and more like a victor's declaration.