The shadow of Dmitri Volkov followed me back to the orphanage, cold and persistent. For three days, I didn't pick up my violin. I couldn't. Every time I looked at the dark wood, I remembered the way his eyes had searched me, predatory, hollow, and filled with a warning I didn't yet understand.
But the world of the elite doesn't wait for orphans to find their courage.
A week later, the silence of Saint Brigitte's was broken by the low hum of a luxury engine. I was tidying the small common room, the dust motes swirling in the shafts of autumn light, when Sister Marianne appeared. She looked as though she hadn't slept in days
.
"Isabelle," she said softly, "a gentleman will be visiting today. He wishes to speak with you about your music."
My heart skipped. A visitor? Who could it be? Perhaps someone from the music school, or… could it be connected to the gala? The thought made my hands fidget as I resumed my chores, trying to steady my breath.
I followed Sister Marianne to the front entrance, my shoes tapping lightly against the wooden floor. Outside, a man in a smart dark suit waited with impeccable posture, a silent nod acknowledging Sister Marianne as he stepped aside to allow me to approach.
"Isabelle," Sister Marianne said, her voice calm but carrying a gentle urgency. "This is Director Rousseau. He's come for you."
I nodded, my throat dry, and offered a polite, if timid, greeting. "Good morning, sir."
I recognized him instantly from the charity night. Director Alexandre Rousseau was a man whose presence commanded attention without effort. His suit was tailored to perfection, dark charcoal with subtle pinstripes, the fabric catching the sunlight in the most understated way. His hair, dark and streaked lightly with silver at the temples, was neatly combed back, giving him a distinguished air. A faint scent of cedar and crisp linen surrounded him, subtle yet deliberate, like the man himself. He extended a hand politely to Sister Marianne, who returned the greeting with a small, respectful bow, before turning her attention back to me.
"Isabelle," he began, his voice calm, measured, and precise, "Do you still remember me from the charity night?" He paused, eyes glancing toward me, assessing, yet unreadable. I nodded softly, my mind flashing back to the night I had played at the gala, the compliment he had given me lingering in memory. "I have watched your performances and heard of your talent. It is rare to see such skill, discipline, and promise in someone your age. It would be a shame for this gift to go unnoticed."
My heart thudded violently, and I pressed my hands together, trying to stop the tremble in my fingers.
"I… thank you, sir," I whispered, words small in comparison to the weight of the moment.
He continued, "It is for this reason I have come on behalf of St. Aurelia Academy. I would like to offer you a scholarship to study with us, to nurture your talent, and to give you the opportunities you deserve. Your journey as a violinist should begin at the finest academy we have."
I could barely breathe. My mind swirled…St. Aurelia Academy? A scholarship? Could this really be happening? I looked toward Sister Marianne, whose eyes glimmered with pride but hid an almost imperceptible flicker of emotion, as if she too sensed the enormity of this moment.
"Isabelle, do you… will you accept this?" Director Rousseau asked, his tone gentle but firm.
I glanced at Sister Marianne, unsure of what to say. Her eyes met mine, warm and steady. She gave me an assuring nod. I will stand by whatever decision you choose for yourself, her gaze seemed to say. Taking a deep breath, I returned my attention to Director Rousseau. "Yes," I breathed, barely able to find my voice. "I… I would be honored."
A small, approving nod from him, and the formalities concluded. There was a brief moment of quiet, the kind that seemed to stretch and fold over itself, filled only with the echoes of a future beginning.
Dmitri's POV
The study at the Volkov estate was a mausoleum of medical journals and cold expectations. I stood in front of my father's desk, my spine a rigid line of steel. Father was seated in his high-backed leather chair, his hands steepled under his chin. He hadn't looked at me once since I sat down.
"The gala, Dmitri," Viktor began, his voice like the edge of a scalpel. "Report."
"The Beaumonts were posturing," I said, my voice flat and controlled. "They gathered the primary shareholders to discuss the expansion of the surgical wing. It was a play for influence, nothing more."
Viktor's eyes finally snapped to mine. They were piercing, searching for the lie he was certain I was hiding. "And the performance?
Genevieve Beaumont claimed she found a prodigy. A girl."
I felt a sudden, violent jolt in my chest. I remembered the red hair, the silver eyes, and the way she had looked at me, brave and terrified all at once. I remembered the scent of her fear.
"She was… adequate," I said, the lie tasting like ash. "A scholarship stunt to soften the board's image. Nothing worth your time, Father."
I almost mentioned her name. I almost told him about the haunting resemblance that had kept me awake for three nights. But a dark, instinctive protectiveness flared in my gut. If my father knew she existed, if he knew she carried that face, he would erase her. And for some reason, the thought of her disappearing before I could break her myself was intolerable.
"Adequate," Viktor repeated, his lip curling. "Good. I have no patience for Beaumont's sentimentalities."
The phone on his desk buzzed. It was an internal line from the academy. Father answered with a curt bark, listening in silence for several long minutes. I watched his face turn from ivory to a sickly, pale gray.
"A scholarship?" Viktor's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Isabelle… Duval?"
My blood turned to ice. Rousseau. The Director had bypassed me and gone straight to the source.
"I don't care about her talent!" Viktor snapped into the receiver. "I care about the optics. If she is who you think she is… if she looks like …"
Viktor slammed the phone down. He looked at me, but he didn't see me. He was looking at a ghost. "It seems your 'adequate' violinist has been admitted to St. Aurelia, Dmitri. You will watch her. Every breath she takes, every person she speaks to. If she is a threat to this family, you will deal with her."
"I understand," I said, my voice a dark promise.
I walked out of the study, my heart hammering a rhythm of war. She was coming to my world. She was walking straight into the lion's den, thinking she had been saved.
Stay in the shadows, little ghost, I thought, a ruthless smile tugging at my lips. Because now, there is nowhere left to hide.
Isabelle's POV
The spires of St. Aurelia's Academy emerged from the autumn mist like the teeth of a great beast.
As the black car carried me through the gates, I stared at the ivy-covered stone and the students moving with effortless grace across the cobblestones. They were vibrant, expensive, and perfectly polished. I clutched my old violin case, feeling the weight of my thin, orphanage-issued coat.
I was taken to the Girls' Hostel, a place of winding spiral staircases and hallways that smelled of lavender and old paper. A prefect named Claire showed me to my room.
When she opened the door, I gasped. It was larger than the entire dormitory at Saint Brigitte's. A wide window overlooked the dark gardens, and a private bathroom gleamed with marble. On the bed lay my new uniform: a charcoal skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a blazer embroidered with the academy's gold crest.
I ran my hand over the fabric. It felt like a shroud.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling. The gratitude I felt was heavy, a suffocating blanket of debt. I was here because of a name I didn't own and a past I couldn't remember.
"Thank you, Lord," I whispered into the silence.
But as the sun began to set, casting long, jagged shadows across the room, the memory of Dmitri Volkov's eyes returned to me.
I looked at my new uniform and realized I wasn't a student here. I was a target. And tomorrow, the hunt will officially begin.