Celia Everwyn did not storm out of Vermillion Private School.
She did not run.
She did not cry.
She walked.
Her every step was controlled, measured, precise. Her sapphire-blue hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves, her emerald-green eyes were cold, distant, unreadable.
She heard the whispers.
Felt the glances.
Knew that everyone was watching her, dissecting every detail of what had just happened. Some were sympathetic, others amused. Some pitied her, others envied her. And then there were those like Iris—those who relished in it.
Celia ignored them all.
She moved through the grand entrance, descended the academy's pristine marble steps, and stepped into the waiting black car without a word. The driver, sensing the weight in the air, said nothing.
The moment the door shut, the silence inside the car was deafening.
