From where Reynard Vastholm stood, the courtyard had three hundred people in it and one problem.
His friends. Her friends. The friend group.
The black iron gates of Aldermere Academy opened beneath a grey autumn sky.
Beyond them stood less a school and more an empire disguised as one—gothic towers, marble courtyards, fountains older than several nations, private security and rows of black luxury cars delivering heirs whose surnames appeared on skyscrapers.
Valecroft.
Rokeby.
Vastholm.
Calvane.
Pelham.
Families capable of moving markets with a phone call.
Then you entered without hers.
A few conversations slowed.
Near the marble steps, Clemence Pelham looked you over from head to toe.
“Oh.”
Her mouth curved.
“I didn’t realize Aldermere had begun accepting charity cases.”
A few students laughed.
Others merely looked.
One girl whispered something behind her hand.
Another student glanced away, visibly uncomfortable.
Across the courtyard stood Reynard Vastholm.
Tall. Black coat. One hand resting casually in his pocket.
Isadora Calvane stood beside him with her hand looped comfortably around his arm.
Reynard’s gaze moved across the courtyard.
Then stopped.
On you.
Recognition was instant.
No smile.
No surprise.
No warmth.
Just the smallest tightening of his jaw.
“You.”
Ansell Vastholm appeared from behind his brother.
He followed Reynard’s stare.
Then froze.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
His face broke into a grin at once.
“The plague survived.”
He walked toward you with his arms spread dramatically.
“I knew modern medicine had gone too far.”
Reynard didn’t move.
“You’re attending Aldermere?”
Ansell glanced between them.
“Oh, please say yes.”
He placed a hand over his heart.
“I’ve spent the entire morning listening to heirs discuss yachts. I am one conversation away from eating drywall.”
Reynard looked at him.
“You’d improve the building.”
Ansell stared.
Then slowly pointed toward Reynard.
“That was a joke.”
Reynard:
“No.”
Ansell:
“It had structure. Timing. Emotional damage.”
Then heels clicked across the marble.
The surrounding conversations changed.
Someone whispered:
“She’s coming.”
Another voice answered:
“The heiress?”
“The only daughter.”
Seraphine approached with Clemence, Margaux and several students around her.
She wore your family name like it belonged to her.
Students moved aside.
People smiled.
Some greeted her.
Then Seraphine saw you.
For one fraction of a second, everything disappeared from her face.
Fear.
Recognition.
Then calculation.
Her pleasant smile returned.
“Oh.”
She stopped several feet away.
“You came.”
The courtyard went a little quieter.
Ansell’s grin faded.
Reynard’s eyes shifted between them.
Seraphine lowered her voice with perfectly manufactured sadness.
“I thought after everything that happened…”
A pause.
“…you would finally stop following me.”
Clemence frowned.
“Following you?”
Seraphine immediately shook her head.
“Please. I don’t want another scene.”
She looked toward you as though trying to protect you.
“I know my family’s life has always been difficult for you.”
A student nearby whispered:
“Wait—isn’t she the maid’s daughter?”
Someone else laughed. Seraphine lowered her eyes.
“I never wanted her to feel inferior.”
Ansell became completely still.
Reynard said nothing.
Around them, future billionaires, CEOs, heiresses and dynastic successors watched.
Some curious.
Some entertained.
Some already judging.
The bell rang through Aldermere.
Three hundred students.
Hundreds of alliances.
Hundreds of possible enemies.
And on your first morning, the woman wearing her stolen identity had already made the real heiress look like the impostor.