Chapter 1: Welcome to Blackthorne

Morgana's View

"So, to be clear: I'm supposed to apologize for something that wasn't my fault, to people who already thought I was guilty?"

The director's smile twitched as if I had slapped him in the face with a wet towel.

“Miss Vale, I simply want to give you a fresh start here in Blackthorne.”

"Good. Then perhaps you should lower the blinds first, because your students are currently commenting on me live through the window."

I was right. Three girls stood in front of their office window, their cell phones at the ready like paparazzi, whispering behind their manicured hands.

"That's the girl from the video."

"Wasn't she expelled from school?"

"She looks totally crazy."

I turned my head just enough to catch their gaze, waved to them slowly and kindly, and then turned back to the director as if nothing had happened.

“Wow,” I said. “I’ve only been here for four minutes and I already have a fan club.”

He cleared his throat, clearly unfazed by my comedic timing, which was frankly rude. "No drama is tolerated at Blackthorne Academy, Miss Vale."

I almost laughed. A school full of rich parents, hockey trophies, and gossip pages probably had more drama than a soap opera marathon, but okay. Let's pretend.

"Understood," I said. "No drama. I'll try to keep a low profile, like a houseplant."

He didn't find that funny either. Difficult audience. He pressed a folder into my hand and informed me that a student named Brielle would be accompanying me for the day. In other words: someone who was forced to look after the new scandal girl and loathed every second of it.

Brielle confirmed this as soon as she saw me. Her smile was so forced, as if it had been laminated.

"Hello," she said, the word drawing out, as if she would rather be anywhere else. "I'm supposed to show you everything."

“Lucky you,” I said. “Try to tone down your enthusiasm a little.”

She didn't laugh. She simply walked on quickly, as if her presence might be contagious.

The hallway was a museum of perfection. Marble floors. Crystal display cases. Portraits of old, rich men who probably only built this school to feel important after their deaths. Everywhere I looked, someone was already looking at me. Whispering. Raising their phones only slightly, as if I didn't notice they were filming.

I kept my expression calm. Even bored. Inside, my stomach was doing slow, disgusting somersaults, the kind of somersaults you feel just before you want to disappear into the ground. But disappearing wasn't an option anymore. Not after what had happened last time.

So instead I smiled, radiant and carefree. That smile that said, "Yes, I see you whispering, and I really don't care." It was a lie, but a convincing one.

Then the hallway changed.

It happened in a flash, like a crowd moving when a thunderstorm is approaching. Conversations ceased. People moved aside as if the ground itself commanded it. Even Brielle stood up beside me, suddenly very interested in her shoes.

The hockey team came in from the entrance of the ice rink, sports bags slung over their shoulders, hair damp, jackets open despite the cold. And right in the middle of them, as if gravity had gripped him, stood a boy who looked as if he had been sculpted from a storm.

Tall, his ankles covered in bruises, as if he'd made it a habit to hit things he shouldn't. His jaw was tense, his eyes empty and unreadable, he scanned the hallway as if he knew everyone in it and trusted no one.

The girls straightened up and smoothed their hair. I stared at him as if he were a saint.

I just stared at the bruises on his hand and thought: Great, the school seems to have its own emotionally uptight bodyguard.

He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He hadn't done anything to justify this sudden commotion in the hallway. That annoyed me more than anything else today.

A girl next to me was staring so intently that she walked right into my shoulder. My books fell from my arms, the pages swirling across the marble floor as if I'd staged a parade.

No one moved to help. A dozen people watched, and no one bent down. They just kept staring at him, as if my entire existence had become irrelevant the moment he entered the building.

He even walked so close to me that I could feel the cold air still clinging to his jacket. For a moment, stupidly enough, I actually thought he might stop.

He didn't. He simply walked past me as if I were part of the floor design.

So I said it loud enough for the whole hallway to hear.

"A gentleman. How rare."

Behind him, one of his teammates laughed loudly and patted another on the shoulder. "Oh, she has a sense of humor."

The boy stopped.

Not quite. Just a brief pause. His shoulders froze for a moment before he turned his head and looked at me.

It wasn't a dark look. Nor was it a smile. It was something quieter, something that felt like he was studying me rather than looking at me. As if he were trying to figure out why I wasn't hurrying to apologize for being near him.

I met his gaze and didn't blink. For the first time since I'd entered the building, his expression changed. Only slightly. As if something had shifted in his eyes.

I bent down to pick up my documents before the situation became even stranger. My face was burning, even though I didn't want it to be. One sheet of paper slid further than the others and landed right under the tip of his shoe. He squatted down and picked it up before I could.

I expected him to return it without a word. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the sheet of paper. I watched closely the moment his expression changed.

It was the printout my old school counselor had given me. The one I'd never thrown away because a sick part of me had kept it as proof that I'd survived. A pixelated photo of me, months old, was emblazoned next to a headline in bold black letters.

Student accused of destroying the life of a classmate.

He read it slowly, as if each word rearranged something in his mind. Then he lifted his gaze from the paper and looked directly at me.

No mockery. No disgust. Just a long, inscrutable gaze that caused a feeling of oppression in my chest, for which I had no joke prepared.

The hallway around us had become completely silent, every telephone, every whisper fell silent, in anticipation of what would happen next.

And all I could think was: Of course. Four minutes in this hallway, and of all people, the one I was trying to escape from.

Having refused to bow to me, he held the worst night of my life in his hands.