CHAPTER 3

The Queen Doesn't Beg:

I didn't reply to the messages.

Not because I wasn't scared.

But because whoever was watching already knew too much about me to be fooled by a response.

I turned off my phone, sat on the edge of the bed, and breathed.

Think, Ava. Think.

Someone knew I was coming.

Someone had access to my movements within hours of my arrival.

And someone — maybe the same person, maybe not — wanted me gone.

The question was why.

Scared people don't warn strangers.

They warn threats.

Which meant whoever sent that message thought I was dangerous.

Good.

I barely slept.

When morning came I dressed carefully, tucked my brother Daniel's notebook into the inside pocket of my blazer, and told myself three things.

You are not here to make friends.

You are not here to be afraid.

You are here for him.

Then I walked out the door.

The dining hall at Blackthorn was exactly what I expected.

Beautiful. Cold. Ruled by invisible hierarchies that everyone understood and nobody discussed.

I took a tray and found a seat near the window — a good vantage point. Somewhere I could watch the room without looking like I was watching.

I had been sitting for less than two minutes when the temperature changed.

That was the only way to describe it.

The noise didn't stop this time. It didn't need to. It simply... dimmed. Like someone had turned a dial down just slightly.

Vivienne Moreau entered the dining hall.

She wasn't alone.

Two girls flanked her. One tall and blonde with the kind of practiced smile that never meant anything. One quieter, darker, always scanning the room with careful eyes.

Vivienne herself looked straight ahead.

Unbothered.

Untouchable.

She moved to her table — the centre table, naturally — and sat down with the ease of someone who had never once questioned whether a seat would be saved for her.

I watched her from across the room.

She picked up her coffee.

Black. No sugar.

Exactly like I knew she would.

I had studied this girl for six months.

Every photograph. Every article. Every whispered rumour I could find.

I knew more about Vivienne Moreau than most people who had known her for years.

And yet.

Sitting fifteen metres away from her, watching the sharp elegant line of her jaw, the way her eyes moved across a room like she was cataloguing threats —

I felt completely unprepared.

Focus, I told myself.

She is the reason Daniel is gone.

I repeated it like a prayer.

It helped.

A little.

She noticed me watching.

Of course she did.

People like Vivienne Moreau noticed everything.

Our eyes met across the dining hall.

She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Didn't do anything at all.

She simply held my gaze with an expression so perfectly neutral it felt deliberate.

Then she tilted her head.

The faintest movement.

Come here.

Not a request.

A command.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to stay exactly where I was.

I stood up.

Picked up my tray.

And walked toward her.

Keep your enemies close, I reminded myself.

This is exactly what you wanted.

The table went quiet as I approached.

The blonde girl looked me up and down with polite contempt.

The quieter one simply watched.

Vivienne looked at me like I was a mildly interesting problem she hadn't decided whether to solve yet.

"Ava Sinclair," she said.

"You already know my name."

"I know a great many things." She gestured to the empty seat across from her. "Sit."

I sat.

The blonde girl leaned over. "She doesn't usually invite people to sit."

"Celeste." Vivienne's voice was soft.

Celeste went quiet immediately.

Vivienne set down her coffee and studied me openly. She had the kind of composure that felt almost inhuman. Like whatever emotions lived inside her had been locked behind something very thick and very heavy.

"You're wondering why I called you over," she said.

"I'm wondering a lot of things."

"Such as?"

Who killed my brother. What the cracked crown means. Why the receptionist knew my name before I said it.

"Why everyone here looks terrified of you," I said instead.

Something shifted in her expression.

A crack. Barely there. Gone in an instant.

"Reputation," she said simply.

"Earned or manufactured?"

She was quiet for a moment.

Then the corner of her mouth moved.

Not a smile.

The ghost of one.

"Which answer would make you feel safer?" she asked.

"Neither."

"Good." Her eyes moved across my face with that same careful, cataloguing intensity. "At least you're honest."

I'm not, I thought. I'm the least honest person in this room.

"Why did you come to Blackthorn?" she asked.

"My brother came here. I wanted to understand why he loved it."

Every word a lie.

Delivered perfectly.

Her expression didn't change.

But something behind her eyes sharpened.

"Daniel." She said his name quietly. Almost carefully. "He was clever. Curious." A pause. "He asked too many questions."

My blood turned cold.

"Is that a bad thing?" My voice came out steady. I was proud of that.

Vivienne looked at me for a long moment.

"At Blackthorn?" she said softly. "It can be fatal."

The word landed in the silence between us.

Fatal.

She held my gaze.

Neither of us breathed.

Then Celeste laughed about something on her phone and the moment shattered.

Vivienne looked away, lifted her coffee, and returned to being perfectly unbothered.

As if she hadn't just threatened me with her eyes.

Or warned me.

I still wasn't sure which.

I left the table ten minutes later.

Walked calmly through the dining hall.

Pushed through the doors.

The moment I was outside, alone in the cold corridor, I pressed my back against the wall and closed my eyes.

My heart was hammering.

She's good, I thought. She is very, very good.

The way she watched me. Like she already knew there were layers to me she hadn't peeled back yet. Like she was patient enough to wait.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

My phone vibrated.

Unknown Number again.

I opened it immediately.

You sat with her.

I typed back before I could stop myself.

You're still watching me.

Three seconds passed.

Someone has to.

Then:

She invited you on purpose, Ava. That table is not a privilege. It's a cage.

I stared at the screen.

Who are you? I typed.

The reply came instantly.

Someone who made the same mistake you're making.

And didn't survive it.

To be continued....