The Target Was Mine.

The first thing I learned about Sterling Academy was that its golden gates opened just as easily for monsters as they did for kings. The second thing I learned was that tonight, I was supposed to die. The gala was supposed to be a celebration — the gathering of the Five Families under a temporary ceasefire, hosted in the academy's gilded ballroom. I wasn’t meant to be anything more than a shadow here — the forgotten daughter of a minor house, unseen and unwanted. But death had a funny way of finding the forgotten. The gunshot rang out like the breaking of the world. One second, champagne flutes glittered in the air, laughter spun in dizzying circles — The next, the man standing three feet from me collapsed with a bullet through his skull. Panic detonated like a bomb. Screams. Stampedes. The rich and powerful turned feral, trampling over each other to escape. I froze. Not because I was scared — not exactly. Because I recognized the pattern. Assassination. Public. Planned. Someone was sending a message. And messages in this world were always written in blood. I turned to run — too slow. Another man spotted me — wrong place, wrong time — and in his cold eyes, I saw my death sentence. The barrel of his gun rose. A breath. A heartbeat. And then he was gone. Dragged backward into the shadows by a figure moving faster than anything human. I stumbled back, heart hammering against cracked ribs. The figure straightened — a boy, though that word felt wrong for what he was. Cassian Moretti. The name hit me harder than the scene itself. The heir to the Moretti empire — a dynasty of blood and broken oaths. The boy born with a crown of knives. The one you never crossed. The one who never saved. Yet here he was — standing between me and death, his pistol still smoking, his expression unreadable. "You’re not supposed to be here," he said, his voice low, rough like gravel under boots. "I—I didn't—" My voice cracked. Damn it. "I wasn't—" His eyes — cold steel — flicked over me once, calculating, reading. Not pity. Not mercy. Just... confusion. As if he couldn’t understand why he had moved at all. Gunfire cracked again, closer now. Cassian cursed under his breath and grabbed my wrist. "Move," he snapped. He dragged me down a servants' corridor, away from the m******e unfolding in the ballroom. I stumbled after him, blood pounding in my ears. "This way," he muttered, shoving open a hidden door behind a tapestry. Inside: darkness. Dust. The smell of old stone and secrecy. He pressed me against the wall with one arm, his body shielding mine from view. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the violence simmering under his skin. Close enough that I could smell the blood on him — and know it wasn’t his. I looked up at him. He looked... furious. Not at me. At himself. "You should be dead," he said roughly. I swallowed. "You saved me." "I don't save people." Then why did you? I didn’t say it aloud. Didn’t dare. From down the corridor, shouts echoed. Footsteps. Men hunting. Cassian’s gaze sharpened. Decision flared behind his eyes — violent, reckless. Without warning, he yanked me closer, pressing a pistol into my hand. "If you want to live," he said darkly, "you'll follow my lead." "I don't know how to shoot—" "You will," he said, and the certainty in his voice was chilling. "Or you’ll die." The first choice Sterling Academy offered me: fight or die. I curled my fingers around the cold metal. Somewhere deep inside, the ghost of a girl who had once believed in safety whimpered. I buried her. "Good girl," Cassian murmured, almost too low to hear. He pulled back slightly, assessing me again — not like a fragile thing. Like a weapon being weighed. Then he smiled — a dark, dangerous thing. "Looks like you just became my problem, Ghost Girl."