The courtyard was already alive with motion by the time Victoria stepped from the car.
Not noisy. Not chaotic. No, Vermillion never allowed that. But alive—in that particular way a school of prestige always seemed to hum before the first bell. Footsteps arranged like choreography, voices clipped just short of eager, and eyes—so many eyes—subtly pivoting toward the vehicle the moment its doors hissed open.
Victoria Langley stepped out first.
The heels of her boots clicked once, then landed in perfect silence against the paved path. Her blazer was fitted, her skirt crisp, her hair in a smooth twist that framed her cheekbones like it had been shaped by light itself. Her lips were a soft berry shade—not too bold, not too timid. Calculated. As always.
