Nicolette POV
There is a specific kind of silence that falls when something unwanted enters a beautiful room.
I am that unwanted thing.
My name is Nicolette Valderama, though the world often reduces me to simpler, sharper labels: Scholar. Charity case. The girl who doesn't belong. I am a creature of plain cotton in a world of silk and cashmere. I learned long ago to keep my head down; invisibility is the only armor a girl like me can afford, especially after the torment of high school. I thought university would be different a blank page.
I was wrong.
Saint Caelus University isn't just a school; it is a fortress of wealth carved from marble and ego. It is the playground of the country's elite, and today, I am the intruder pedaling a rusted bicycle through gates meant for limousines.
The morning air should have been crisp, promising new beginnings. Instead, it felt heavy, carrying the whispers that started the moment I parked my bike among the polished luxury cars.
"Who is that?"
"God, you can smell the poverty from here."
"Does she even know she's breathing our air?"
Their voices were like paper cuts—small, stinging, and relentless. The students here possess a specific kind of cruelty, the casual malice of people who have never been told "no." They look at me and see a stain on their pristine canvas. I kept walking, clutching my backpack straps until my knuckles turned white, forcing myself to be deaf to their insults. Just keep moving, Nic. You are here to learn, not to be liked.
Needing a moment to compose myself before the onslaught of orientation, I ducked into the nearest restroom. It was vast, smelling of lavender and expensive secrets. But I wasn't alone.
Found near the sinks, a girl was weeping.
Even in her ruin, she was terrifyingly beautiful. Her makeup was smudged, mascara running in dark rivets down her cheeks, but her posture remained regal, like a queen sitting on a broken throne. She caught my reflection in the mirror and spun around, her eyes flashing with a dangerous combination of sorrow and rage.
"Who are you?" she demanded. Her voice wasn't shaky; it was a blade.
I froze, stunned by the sheer force of her presence. "I... I'm sorry. I just needed to use the restroom."
She scoffed, wiping a tear with an aggressive elegance. She looked me up and down, dissecting my worth in a single glance. "Don't you know who I am?"
"No," I stammered. "I'm a freshman. I'm sorry."
The girl this devastating stranger let out a sharp, incredulous breath. For a moment, I thought she might slap me. Instead, she stepped closer, her perfume suffocatingly sweet.
"Fine. I'll let you live," she said, her tone dripping with ice. "But listen closely, Freshman. If you see a restroom with a Gold door, that is my sanctuary. Do not cross the threshold again. If the door is Pink, Glacier Blue, or Violet... stay out. Those belong to The Ivory. Do you understand?"
I nodded quickly, desperate to escape. "Thank you. I won't forget. I apologize for the intrusion."
She rolled her eyes, already bored of my existence. "Just go."
As I scrambled out of the bathroom, leaving her alone with her demons, I realized my hands were trembling. But the hallway outside offered no safety. The students passing by stared at me with wide, horrified eyes.
"Did she just come out of Seraphina's restroom?"
"Is she insane?"
"How is she still walking?"
Seraphina. The name tasted expensive. So, that was the crying girl. The Queen. Why was someone so powerful crying in a bathroom? And why did everyone look at me like I had just walked out of a lion's den with my limbs intact?
The university auditorium was a cavernous space designed to make you feel small. I found a seat in the back, trying to shrink into the upholstery as the orientation began. The gossip, however, had followed me.
"That's the girl who trespassed."
"The beggar has some nerve."
"I thought they screened the trash at the gates."
I stared at my shoes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
"Hey."
The voice was low, smooth, and notably kind. I looked up to find someone sliding into the empty seat beside me. The newcomer was striking androgynous features, a varsity jacket draped casually over one shoulder, and an air of effortless cool.
"I'm Maxine. People call me Max." She extended a hand. "You look like you need a human shield."
I hesitated, then shook her hand. "I'm Nicolette. Nic."
"Nice to meet you, Nic." Max smiled, and for the first time today, I didn't feel like garbage.
"Call me Jo," said another girl, leaning over from the row behind us. She had bright eyes and a mischievous grin. "Ignore the vultures. They smell fear. You're the scholar, right? The one who survived the Gold Room?"
"Is that what they're calling it?" I asked, managing a weak smile.
"Ignore her," a third girl chimed in. She was quieter, radiating a calm, observant energy. "I'm Genevieve. Or Gen. Whichever."
"Nice to meet you all," I whispered. But the whispers around us grew louder, shifting tone.
"Why is The Onyx sitting with the pauper?"
"Maxine Reus is talking to her?"
"First Seraphina, now The Onyx? Is she casting spells on them?"
I shrank back. The Onyx. Even my new acquaintances were royalty here. I was sitting among gods, and the mortals were getting restless.
"Good morning, students."
The microphone feedback cut through the gossip. The Dean, Krizel Lopez, gave a generic welcome speech, but the atmosphere shifted instantly when the next speaker approached the podium.
"I am Luis Sterling," the man announced.
The owner.
The air in the room grew cold. Luis Sterling didn't speak; he commanded. He spoke of discipline, of image, of severe punishments for those who tarnished the Sterling legacy. He threatened public humiliation for dirty classrooms, turning professors into wardens.
"The old man gets scarier every year," Max muttered under her breath.
"He has to be," Jo whispered back, leaning in. "His daughter is out of control. Rumor has it Seraphina is spiraling. He's tightening the leash on the school because he can't control her."
Seraphina. The crying girl.
"Is she really that bad?" I asked quietly.
Gen sighed, adjusting her glasses. "Seraphina Yves Sterling isn't just 'bad,' Nic. She's the storm center. Hardheaded, cruel, and untouchable."
As if summoned by her name, the stage lights shifted. The student council officers were being introduced. The elites. The ruling class.
They called them THE IVORY.
First came Amara Kate Ortega, the model, possessing a smile that could launch a thousand ships.
Then Anastasia Santos, looking like a living doll wrapped in designer pink.
Next was Sierra Salazar, bubbling with energy but eyes sharp as tacks.
And finally, the center of gravity.
Seraphina "Sera" Yves Sterling.
She walked onto the stage with a gait that suggested she owned the very ground beneath her heels. Her face was composed, the tears I had seen earlier wiped away and replaced with a mask of porcelain perfection. She looked like an angel—ethereal, glowing, divine.
But as she scanned the crowd, her eyes locked onto the back of the room. For a split second, I swore she was looking right at me.
The crowd cheered for their Queen, but I felt a chill run down my spine.
They called her royalty.
They called her a nightmare.
Looking at her now, standing high above us all, I wondered which version of her was the lie: the crying girl in the bathroom, or the ice queen on the stage?
And more terrifyingly... why couldn't I look away?