It wasn’t just the whispers behind my back or the way students gave me lingering glances before quickly looking away.
It was the unspoken weight of something brewing beneath the surface, something dark and waiting to explode.
I had felt it ever since I accepted Damien’s sponsorship, ever since I started using my rank to push back against the system instead of just playing along. The game didn’t like people who refused to follow its rules. And neither did the people who benefited from it.
But Sophie? Sophie seemed completely oblivious to all of it.
She had been practically glowing for the past few days, walking around with a smile so wide it was almost unnatural. There was a lightness in her step, a dreaminess in her voice, and I had noticed—she hadn’t spent the night in our dorm two days ago.
I hadn’t pushed her on it, but something didn’t sit right. And the second I saw it, my stomach dropped.
A red tie.
Neatly tied around the strap of Sophie’s bag, bold and deliberate, the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about—unless you knew exactly what it meant. Unless you knew exactly whose mark it was.
Liam Sinclair’s.
A slow, ice-cold dread curled through my chest, twisting tight.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring, hoping I was imagining it, that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t what I thought it was. But I knew better. And I couldn’t stop the words before they lashed out like a whip.
"Sophie."
She froze mid-step, her back stiffening. Slowly, too slowly, she turned to face me. "Yeah?"
I pointed at the tie. "Tell me that’s not what I think it is."
Sophie’s jaw locked, and for a split second, I swore I saw guilt flicker across her face before she rolled her eyes. "Andrea, seriously?"
My pulse pounded in my ears. "Just answer the question."
"Yeah, okay?” She exhaled heavily, crossing her arms. “It is what you think it is. So what?"
"You have to be kidding me," I said, shaking my head, my voice low and sharp. "Please tell me you’re not actually stupid enough to—"
Sophie’s entire face hardened. "Excuse me?" Her voice was dangerously quiet.
"You know who he is. You know what he does." My breath came fast, my hands curling into tight, trembling fists. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I don’t care!" she snapped, eyes flashing with something fierce and wounded. "You suddenly care so much about who I sleep with? Why? Because it’s Liam?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The sharpness of her words hit exactly where they were meant to. And I hated it. Because she was right.
Because it did bother me.
I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t deny the way my chest tightened painfully, the way a sour taste crept into my mouth at the thought of Liam with Sophie.
And I didn’t know if it was because I had chosen his brother instead, or because a part of me had started to hope for something else entirely.
My stomach twisted harder. I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but before I could stop myself, the words slipped out, cruel and ugly.
"God, Sophie, are you really that desperate?"
The second I said it, I wanted to take it back. But the damage was already done.
Sophie went completely still. Her hands trembled at her sides, her eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall.
I barely had time to move before she pushed past me, her shoulder knocking into mine as she stormed out of the room.
Stomach twisting so tightly it hurt. Because the second the door slammed behind her, I realized—I wasn’t just mad at Sophie. I was mad at myself.
The entire day felt like I was trapped inside my own head, drowning in thoughts I didn’t want to have.
It was too much. And suddenly, it was all suffocating.
The whispers, the rumors, the weight of this damn game pressing down on me from all sides. I couldn’t afford to break. Not in front of them.
So I walked, fast, my hands clenched, my breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The moment I reached the bathroom, I yanked the door open and stepped inside, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
Empty. Thank god.
I locked myself in a stall, my fingers trembling slightly as I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, my breath finally shuddering out of me.
I just needed a second—just a goddamn second—to get it together.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to cry. But I felt it building, the sharp burn behind my eyelids, the tightness in my throat that wouldn’t go away.
I opened my eyes, forcing myself to breathe—and that’s when I saw it.
Bright red lipstick. Scrawled across the inside of the door in thick, messy letters: "Short live the Queen, bitch."
I barely had time to react before an avalanche of ice-cold, filthy water crashed over my head.
I gasped, the shock stealing the breath from my lungs, the freezing liquid soaking me instantly, my hair plastered to my face, my uniform dripping.
Laughter—sharp, cruel, distant. I spun around, slamming the stall door open.
Empty. They were already gone.
I bit down on my lip, forcing back the humiliation, and turned on my heel, bolting out of the bathroom and down the hall, ignoring the way people stared as I passed, the snickers barely concealed behind hands.
Screw them. Screw all of them!
I just needed to get back to my dorm, change, breathe, fix this. But the second I pushed open the door— I froze.
Sophie. On the floor.
Her body was convulsing violently, her limbs jerking in horrific, uncontrollable spasms. Her fingers clawed at the ground, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps.
"Sophie!" The scream ripped from my throat before I could think.
No, no, no—
I dropped to my knees beside her, my hands hovering uselessly over her thrashing body, panic choking me.
"Help!" My voice cracked, wild and desperate.
The door burst open, feet rushing in, voices blurring together—but all I could hear was the gurgled, choked sound of Sophie struggling to breathe.
Then someone was pulling me back, yanking me away as another body took my place, hands trying to steady her, someone shouting for an ambulance.
Everything felt too fast, too loud, too wrong. And all I could do was watch.
The news spread like wildfire, tearing through Blackthorn Academy like a storm, twisting, morphing, growing teeth with every whispered retelling. Someone had drugged Sophie.
Not just any drug—a cocktail of chemicals strong enough to stop her heart if she’d had just a little more.
This wasn’t a cruel prank, some elite student’s twisted idea of a joke.
This was an attack. A warning. A silencing. And I had a damn good idea who was behind it.
Victoria had been lurking near our dorm that day, her presence as deliberate as the way she always made sure I saw her smirking whenever something bad happened.
I didn’t wait. I hunted her down.
I found her in the courtyard, surrounded by her usual flock of followers, but when I stormed up to her, fury boiling just beneath my skin, even they backed off.
Victoria turned, one perfectly arched brow raised, as if she were already bored of the confrontation.
"You," I spat. "What the hell did you do to Sophie?"
Victoria blinked once, then—laughed. Not nervous, not guilty—amused.
"Do you seriously think I’d be stupid enough to attack the Jack?" Her voice was smooth, mocking, but her eyes were sharp, calculating.
My nails bit into my palms. "You sure as hell weren’t smart enough to cover your ass."
She tilted her head slightly, like I was a particularly slow child. "I might be a bitch, Riley," she mused, stepping closer, voice dropping lower, "but even I know that crossing that line in the Royal Draw isn’t worth it."
My mind raced, piecing together the fragments of a puzzle I didn’t yet understand. Someone was orchestrating this—manipulating them like pawns on a chessboard.
But for what purpose?
The answer actually came that same evening. When I returned to my room, instantly stopped cold at the sight of my bed. A complete deck of cards lay arranged in a perfect circle atop the quilt.
At the center, the Queen of Hearts card had been torn neatly in half, the jagged edges a cruel contrast to the precise arrangement.
Beside the cards lay a single note, written in elegant calligraphy that made the words even more chilling:
"The next Royal Draw will be your last."