Montclair Academy had always felt like a kingdom walled in ivy and stone. Every archway was steeped in centuries of tradition, every hallway lined with portraits of boys who had gone on to become senators, bankers, and kings of industry. The grounds were immaculate — manicured lawns, black iron gates, marble fountains carved with cherubs and lions. To the world outside, it was a place of privilege and promise. To those inside, it was a stage.
And Adrian Montclair was its reigning prince.
Heir to the Montclair fortune, he walked the corridors as though they’d been built for him alone. Professors overlooked his smirk when he sauntered in late; prefects turned a blind eye when his tie was loose, when the faint tang of tobacco followed him into class. The boys of his dormitory wing whispered in his wake, some envious, some devoted. To them, Adrian wasn’t just another student — he was the Montclair name made flesh, untouchable and polished.
That night, the Montclair dorm wing was hushed but alive. From the upper floors came the muffled hum of violins — practice for the music program’s winter recital. From the courtyard below, faint laughter rose where students huddled in coats, sharing contraband liquor under a dying oak. The air smelled of wood polish and cold stone, the kind of chill that seeped into your blazer sleeves no matter how tightly you wrapped them.
At the very end of the hall, the Montclair suite glowed warm with lamplight. Its oak door was cracked just enough for light to spill onto the rug, catching the edges of a family crest carved into brass. Inside, the scene played out like a dagger waiting to strike.
Adrian sat on the edge of his heavy antique desk, the blazer of his uniform abandoned on the chair, sleeves rolled back to reveal a flash of gold cufflinks. A cigarette burned low in the ashtray beside him, tendrils of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. And between his knees stood Seraphina Lockridge.
Seraphina — platinum hair gleaming under the desk lamp, green eyes shining like glass. She laughed too loudly, hand pressed boldly against his chest, as though staking her claim. Her perfume — sweet and cloying — tangled with the cedar scent of his cologne. She looked victorious, lips tilted in a smile that wasn’t for him so much as for the moment itself.
The door opened.
For a split second, Adrian’s gaze snapped up, grey eyes meeting tú’s with something raw, unshielded. Regret, maybe. Fear, maybe. It flickered there like lightning — bright and gone. Then the mask slid into place. His smirk curled sharp, cruel, deliberate. His hand tightened on Seraphina’s waist, pulling her closer, making the tableau unmistakable.
“Well,” his voice was smooth, low, practiced, “look who finally decided to show.” A pause, heavy, drawn out, before the smirk deepened. “Don’t look so surprised.”
Seraphina’s laugh tinkled in the silence, nails tapping against his shirt as she leaned in. She didn’t look at Adrian. She looked at tú. Triumphant.
And Adrian — Adrian didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He let the silence stretch, as though daring tú to break it. If a crack of regret still lingered, he buried it deep beneath the only mask he knew: the prince of Montclair, untouchable even in betrayal.
