Arthur's POV
They told me she'd be trouble.
They didn't say she'd wear it like perfume.
I heard the click of her boot heels before I saw her—sharp, unapologetic. The kind of sound that demanded a spotlight. Isla Durova walked like she owned the floorboards and dared anyone to say otherwise.
She turned the corner with practiced grace. Golden hair pulled back, eyes unreadable. Not looking at anyone—especially not me. Good. Let her pretend.
I watched her without blinking. She moved with purpose, chin high, uniform flawless. Ice, polished and poisonous.
And then—
"Durova, front row. Beside Gray," said Professor Monroe without lifting his head from the register.
I didn't react, but my pulse jumped.
So did hers—I saw it in the moment her gaze flicked toward me.
She walked down the aisle slowly. Too slowly.
A few whispers stirred at the back of the room, muffled laughter. She ignored them all. And when she reached the seat beside me, she paused just long enough to let the silence stretch.
She sat. Smoothed her skirt. Didn't look at me.
I turned slightly, just enough for her to know I was watching.
"Morning, Durova," I said under my breath, low enough that only she could hear.
Her voice came soft, steady. "I don't do mornings."
And still—she didn't look at me.
I smirked. This would be fun….
The rest of the class faded into background noise. Equations, names, historical references—all of it just static.
I didn't take notes. Didn't need to. I'd already mastered this chapter last year.
Monroe's voice droned on while Isla sat beside me like a living contradiction—too composed for someone new, too quiet for someone dangerous.
But she was dangerous.
You don't grow up in the Durova bloodline without learning how to turn silence into a weapon.
At one point, her pen slowed. Just for a second. Her brow barely furrowed—most wouldn't notice. I did. That was a pause. Not confusion… a memory, maybe. A ghost thought crossing her mind.
She recovered instantly.
The bell rang minutes later. Clean and sharp, cutting through the thick silence.
Students shifted, stood, laughed, talked.
She didn't move.
Neither did I.
Then she rose, collected her things in calm, careful movements, and walked out without a single glance my way.
I let her.
But she'd feel it—The weight of being seen.
She could ignore it all she wanted.
This wasn't over. Hell—it hadn't even begun.
The day bled on, hour after hour of controlled chaos disguised as discipline.
Classes. Rules. Smiles with venom behind them. St. Arthelios at its finest.
Every subject twisted toward legacy—power dynamics, historical warfare, economic manipulation. They dressed it all up with gold leaf and Latin, but it was just mafia training with fancier pens.
I didn't speak again—not to her, not to anyone. I didn't need to.
But I felt her.
Every time Isla shifted beside me. Every time her name was called on the roll. Every time her silence scraped against mine like friction waiting to ignite.
By the time the final bell rang, the halls were already murmuring about her. Not by name. Not directly.
"The new girl."
"The one with the walk."
"Gray's seatmate."
Let them talk.
We were dismissed by corridor—as usual. In pairs. To our assigned dorms.
Because nothing says we trust our heirs like locking them in luxury cells and pairing them off like chess pieces.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, headed toward the south dorm tower.
Then I heard it.
"Durova—you're in West Wing. Room 313. You'll be escorted."
She didn't argue. Just nodded once and followed.
Good.
Far side of campus. Far enough to keep the line clear. For now.
But if the day had proven anything…
It wouldn't stay clear for long.