Chapter 5: The Cost of Looking Back

By the time dawn dragged itself over St. Valen’s, Althea still hadn’t really slept. She’d done the thing her father hated most: replayed.

Every word in the corridor. Every breath. Every almost.

Noah’s hand braced beside her head—his thumb at her jaw. That quiet, wrecked admission: No. Not even a little.

Her body remembered it in heat. Her mind remembered it in threat assessment.

The text from Manila glared at her from the nightstand where she’d tossed her phone.

R. Sombra:

We hear you’ve made an impression already, anak. Remember the name you carry.

Elegant. Piercing. Claustrophobic.

She hadn’t answered. She also hadn’t deleted it. Coward.

Umbra sprawled across the end of her bed, the Rottweiler bulk a familiar weight. One paw twitched in a dream, his lips moving around a phantom growl, like he was chasing something only he could see.

“Traitor,” she murmured, reaching to scratch between his ears. “You slept.”

He cracked one eye open, huffed, and lifted his massive head onto her stomach like an apology. heavy. Warm. Uncomplicated.

“Morning,” she sighed. “Let’s go disappoint the empire.”

She dressed in all black: leggings, an oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, and combat boots. Pulled her hair up. Sombra ring catching the first thin slice of light.

She hesitated—just a breath—looking at herself in the window. Black in a world of cream and navy. A Sombra in enemy colors.

“Okay,” she told her reflection. “Don’t flirt with anyone you’re not willing to bury.”

Umbra sneezed at her.

“Fine,” she amended. “Don’t let them bury you first.”

The school was quiet at six. The overachievers hid in their rooms pretending they didn’t care about grades; the worst of the rich boys slept off last night’s imported whiskey.

Crossing the courtyard, she heard it again:

“Sombra? The one with the dog?”

“She fenced Laurent.”

“My roommate said he left looking like he saw God.”

“That’s hot.”

“It’s terrifying.”

Gossip: the cheapest form of prophecy.

She entered the refectory. Conversations dipped, shifted, and dragged over her like a tide deciding whether to drown or worship.

She went straight for coffee. Umbra flopped obediently at her heel, tracking every movement with bored menace.

“Miss Sombra.”

His voice did something stupid to her posture.

She didn’t need to turn. She knew the way his presence pressed on the air. Noah stood at the end of the coffee station, blazer immaculate, tie perfect, hair slightly mussed like he’d been pulling at it all morning. He held a mug he didn’t need—the knuckles were just a shade too tight.

“Good morning, Noah,” she said, smooth as glass.

Something subtle eased in his shoulders. And tightened everywhere else.

“I wanted to address yesterday,” he said.

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“That isn’t true.” His voice was strained around the edges. “What happened in the corridor—”

“Inappropriate?”

He flinched.

“A mistake,” he forced out.

The word hit her square in the chest. Not enough to break her, but enough to hollow her out. She didn’t lash out. She didn’t dramatize. That’s not how she was raised. She just inhaled a little too sharply.

He noticed. He always noticed.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, voice unraveling. “Althea…”

“It’s alright.”

“It isn’t,” he said. Immediate. Wrecked quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You said it was a mistake,” she murmured. “I’m just agreeing with you.”

“We both did,” he said. “And I can’t afford…”

He stopped—tortured silence.

“You understand more than I want you to.”

“You’re a Laurent,” she said softly. “I know what that means.”

He closed his eyes like the words hurt.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Well,” she said quietly, “here we are.”

Something inside him cracked. He stepped closer without meaning to. “You didn’t deserve that from me.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“Not from me.”

Her coffee suddenly felt too heavy. Her breath almost broke.

“Noah… Don’t try to fix something you’re going to walk away from.”

That hit him harder than any blade.

His phone buzzed—perfect timing, cruel timing—and the heir came back like a slammed door.

“If you need anything,” he said, voice suddenly formal again, “come to me. Not because of your name. Just because…” He couldn’t finish.

She saved him. “I know.”

He nodded once—tight, miserable—and left.

She didn’t let her hand shake until his back was turned.

By mid-morning, the sky was a bruised blue. St. Valen’s hummed with life; the stone halls felt too full, too narrow.

Classes were easy distractions.

Ethics: She dismantled a boy’s argument with one question.

Markets: She referenced crises they hadn’t taught yet.

Political Systems: She called out colonial euphemisms with a smile sharp enough to cut.

Her lola had said:

Seduction isn’t always desire.

Sometimes it’s making them forget they’re bleeding.

By lunch, she’d accumulated three study group invitations, two party invites, and one girl nervously asking whether the Sombra clan cursed people.

“Only when asked nicely,” Althea said with a soft smile.

The girl believed her.

Between classes, her phone buzzed.

ODESA:

Heard you’ve been playing with blades again, bunso. Try not to embarrass the family. My engagement ceremony is in three weeks, and Papa is already twitchy.

But if you must start something, make it entertaining. I’m bored.

HIRAYA:

Don’t wear anything that drags on the floor. Water + red again. Call me later. I’ll cover with Mama.

Althea muted the group chat before her mother could fuss about posture or hydration or both.

As she left class, she overheard:

“The gala’s in three weeks.”

“Formal seating.”

“The Sombra table is on the sponsor tier.”

Her stomach tightened.

Yes.

Of course, St. Valen’s would host a gala.

Of course, she would be expected to stand there and be polished, perfect, and placid.

She stepped into the courtyard.

“Mon cœur.”

Her body recognized the voice before her mind did.

Luca leaned on the low stone wall, as if posing for a portrait: a dark sweater, open coat, missing tie, and green eyes glinting like sea glass held over a lantern.

Umbra settled beside her, quietly sizing Luca up for burial.

“You look awake,” she said.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” he countered.

She tried not to show she was startled that he could tell.

He didn’t push. He let the silence sit between them like a warm fog.

“You heard about Founder’s Night,” he said.

“I heard rumors.”

“It’s worse than rumors. Old alliances. New contracts. They call it a gala to make it sound pretty, but it’s a feeding ground.” His gaze slid to her. “You’ll be the main attraction.”

“How reassuring.”

“I’m being honest.”

She sighed. “So what? I’m supposed to be afraid?”

“No,” he said. “But you should be aware. People like us don’t get invited to events like these. We get displayed.”

She didn’t look at him. “Does that bother you?”

“Only when it’s you.”

Her pulse stuttered. She wished he hadn’t said it. She wished she didn’t want him to say it again.

“You called me Mon coeur earlier,” she said. “Again.”

He watched her carefully now. Too carefully.

“Did I?” he asked, pretending lightness. “Bad habit.”

“It doesn’t feel like a habit.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A memory, maybe hers or his, she couldn’t tell.

“You attract endearments,” he said softly.

“No,” she whispered. “I attract trouble.”

He almost smiled. “Same thing.”

Raindrops began tapping the stone around them. The sky thickened. Magic hummed under her ribs, restless.

Luca’s eyes tracked the shift in the air. “Whatever you’re about to face at this gala, mon cher… You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’m not running.”

“I know,” he said. “But if you ever want to leave early, I know every back exit in that ballroom.”

“You expect me to trust you?”

He shrugged. “I expect you to trust yourself.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat.

The rain swallowed him in seconds.

Umbra nudged her knee. She scratched behind his ear.

“What?” she muttered. “You like him now?”

Umbra growled.

Fair.

SUBJECT: Founder’s Night - Attendance & Protocol

FROM: [e-mail]

Hosted by St. Valen’s Academy

Venue: St. Valen’s Academy Main Ballroom

Dress Code: Formal

Sponsors: Laurent Family, Ashford Family, Sombra Family, and others

Her phone buzzed again.

R. Sombra:

The school has sent us the invitation. We will attend. You will be presented. Remember the name you carry, anak.

Nerisa S.:

Your black gown is already with the tailor in London. Do NOT alter it. Do NOT disappear. Smile when spoken to.

Hiraya:

Don’t wear anything that drags. Call me later. I’ll keep Mama occupied.

Her chest tightened.

Then - two more messages.

N. Laurent:

You’ll have seen the gala announcement. The evening can be… Overwhelming for first-time attendees. If you’d prefer not to navigate the entrance alone, I can arrange an alternative arrival. No expectations.

And immediately after—

L. Ashford:

Founder’s night, mon coeur. Wear something sharp. If you decide you don’t want to walk into that ballroom alone, tell me. I know every door worth entering.

She sat on the edge of the bed, Umbra’s warm head pressing into her thigh.

“Wala pa nga,” she whispered. “It hasn’t even started.”

But she could feel the pressure already. Ancestral expectations. School politics. Two boys circling like opposite storms. A gala where she would be dressed, displayed, and dissected.

St. Valen’s wasn’t the prison.

It was the stage.

And Founder’s Night would be the first time they’d try to set her on fire and call it a spotlight.