The curtains at Galtrow Academy didn't just fall..they swept, draped, cloaked, and whispered secrets in the dust. Thick, burgundy velvet stitched with gold tassels, like royalty guarding something sacred or something shameful.
Vivienne Loire stared at them now from the back row of the auditorium, fingers curled around the cracked leather of her sketchbook. Her charcoal pencil tapped absently against the cover, the rhythm masking the storm she couldn't seem to quiet inside her chest.Transfer students weren't uncommon at Galtrow Academy for the Artistically Gifted, but they were rarely welcomed. Especially not mid-semester. Especially not when they looked like Vivienne...half-starved for rebellion, mascara smudged, and too bold for her own good.
She didn't belong here. And that was exactly the point.
Vivienne had auditioned for Galtrow with a mixed media piece titled The Anatomy of Silence. It featured wire, broken glass, and splashes of red blood, they thought. Paint, actually. She never corrected the rumor. Let them wonder.
She didn't come to Galtrow to be safe.
She came to be seen.
But now, seated in the cavernous dark of the school's historic theatre, she wondered if maybe she'd aimed too high. The students on stage performed a Shakespeare except with the polish of trained actors and the arrogance of children born with silver monograms. Their voices carried like spells. Their movements were flawless. Sterile. Controlled and Vivienne hated it.
It wasn't art. It was performance. A costume stitched too tight. She exhaled slowly, reaching for her pencil, just as a low voice whispered beside her.
"If you keep looking like that you'll get eaten here."
Vivienne turned. The girl who'd spoken had hair like wildfire and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Her voice was sardonic, her eyes watching observantly.
"And you are?" Vivienne asked, not bothering to whisper.
"Lola Saint. Dancer. Drama department's black sheep. You're the new girl. Vivienne, right?"
Vivienne tilted her head.
"And you know that because…?"
"Because this place runs on whispers. You walk in wearing combat boots and red lipstick, you might as well set off a siren."
Vivienne almost smiled.
Almost.
She knew lipstick wasn't allowed in the school for some reason, but she wore it anyway. She hadn't worn the lipstick for attention. Not exactly. It was war paint. Rebellion in a tube. The only thing she still had from her mother, who once said, "You don't have to scream to be heard. Just wear the right shade of red."
Lola leaned in.
"Word of advice? Don't look at the elite too long. They don't like being studied. Especially not Claire."
"Claire?"
"Claire Marquette. Head of the elite squad. Debater. Strategist. Looks like she walked out of a Paris editorial and eats egos for breakfast. Her boyfriend Matteo is Galtrow's unofficial prince cocky, rich, and allergic to shirts that fit."
Vivienne looked toward the center row. Claire sat like a statue, flanked by two students who looked more bodyguard than peer. Her eyes flicked to the stage, then to Vivienne. Their gazes met andClaire's lips curled not a smile. A warning. Vivienne turned back to Lola.
"I don't scare easy."
"You should."
But Vivienne didn't. Not really. She'd already survived worse than rich kids with fragile egos.Still, something in Claire's eyes made her stomach tighten.After rehearsal, Vivienne wandered the east wing. It was quieter there, filled with old boring sculptures and abandoned props. The kind of place people forgot existed until it was time to clean up someone else's mess. She stopped in front of a cracked mirror propped against a wall. Her reflection stared back, unapologetic, tired, determined.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "Nice shade of red. Hope you don't bleed it too soon".
Her heart skipped.
Another message."Careful, new girl. Some stages aren't meant for rebels".
Vivienne looked up in the mirror behind her movement. She spun, but the hallway was empty and just like that, Galtrow Academy stopped feeling like a school.
It started feeling like a stage.
And someone had already written her lines.