Vicious Royalty

CHAPTER 2: THE TRAP IN THE PRIVATE WING

The problem with kicking the hornets' nest at St. Jude’s isn't the initial sting. It’s waiting for the rest of the swarm to figure out where you live. By noon, my name was trending on the school’s private message board. The scholarship ghost who threw Chloe Sinclair’s phone into a trash can. Half the student body thought I was an absolute i***t walking toward my own execution; the other half were taking bets on whether I’d be expelled before or after midterms. I didn't care about the gossip. What I cared about was my access badge. When I arrived at my work-study shift at the registrar’s office, Mr. Harrison didn't dock my stipend. Instead, he handed me a revised duty log with a nervous, hurried glance over his shoulder. "New orders from the board, Elena," he said, keeping his eyes glued to his desktop monitor. "You’ve been reassigned from cataloging physical archives to night maintenance for the West Wing study lounge. Starting tonight. 8:00 PM to midnight." I stared at the slip of paper. The West Wing was restricted territory. It housed the private suites, the high-speed intelligence servers, and the executive lounge reserved exclusively for the founder families. In other words, Julian Vance’s personal domain. Chloe didn't get me expelled. She got me isolated. At 8:15 PM, the halls of St. Jude’s were dead silent. The polished marble floors reflected the dim emergency lights, and the distant sound of heavy rain slapped against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. I pushed my cleaning cart past the biometric security doors—which had conveniently been left unlocked for my shift—and stepped into the lounge. The space was ridiculous. Dark mahogany paneling, leather armchairs, a fully stocked bar, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the storm-drenched courtyard below. "You're late." The voice came from the shadowed alcove near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Low, smooth, and completely unbothered. Julian Vance stepped out of the dark. He had discarded his school blazer, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and black trousers. He looked infuriatingly relaxed, a heavy glass of amber liquid held loosely in one hand. "My shift started at eight," I said, keeping my hands on the handle of the cleaning cart. "It took fifteen minutes to clear the security checkpoints." "The checkpoints were cleared the second I put your name on the access roster," Julian said, taking a slow step toward me. His dark eyes locked onto mine, tracking every breath I took. "Chloe wanted you scrubbed from the system by sunset. She begged her father to call the headmaster." "And let me guess," I said, tilting my head slightly. "You told him no." A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of Julian’s mouth. "I told him that if he touched your transcript, I’d pull my family’s funding from his firm's private defense contract. It’s amazing how fast a CEO shuts up when his bottom line is threatened." I didn't smile. I didn't thank him. "Why?" I asked, my voice flat. "You don't know me, Vance. And I don't owe you anything." Julian closed the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing less than two feet away. The scent of rain, cedarwood, and expensive bourbon hit me instantly. He was taller than I realized, broad-shouldered, carrying the kind of quiet, predatory presence that made people instinctively back away. I stayed right where I was. "Because watching you drop a five-thousand-dollar phone into rotten coffee grounds was the most entertaining thing that’s happened in this dump for three years," he said, lowering his head slightly so his voice was a quiet, intimate murmur. "And because nobody gets to destroy things in this school unless I give them permission." "I don't need your permission," I replied, holding his gaze without blinking. "I just need to finish my shift and go home." "Is that right?" Julian reached out, his long fingers brushing against the collar of my navy blazer. The contact was brief, but the heat of his skin burned through the thin fabric. "You think you’re going back to your quiet, invisible little life, Elena?" Hearing my name on his lips sent a cold, sharp shiver straight down my spine. "My name is on the registrar list," I said, taking a half-step back to break the physical contact. "It’s not hard to read." "I didn't read it off the registrar list," Julian said quietly, his dark eyes darkening further as he watched my reaction. "I read it off your housing grant application. The one your mother signed three years ago. The one for the small apartment on 4th Street with the late rent notices." My pulse spiked instantly, a rush of cold adrenaline flooding my veins. My hands tightened on the metal handle of the cart until my knuckles turned white. "You went through my personal files," I said, my voice dropping an octave, razor-sharp. "I go through everything that enters my house," Julian corrected smoothly, taking another step forward, forcing me back until my shoulder blades hit the cool glass window overlooking the courtyard. He placed one hand on the glass right beside my head, trapping me in his space. "And this school is my house." The rain rattled violently against the pane behind me. Julian leaned in closer, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to trap my eyes. "Chloe thinks she’s going to make your life hell tomorrow," he whispered, his breath warm against my cheek. "She orchestrated a little surprise for you in the athletic locker rooms during morning prep. She wants you on your knees, crying for mercy." "I don't cry," I said, staring straight into his dark, unhinged eyes. "And I don't beg." "I know," Julian murmured, a dark, possessive spark lighting up his face. "That’s why I’m not going to stop her. I want to see how dirty you fight when you're cornered." He reached past my shoulder, his fingers brushing against my neck as he unlocked the private exit door behind me with a quiet click. "Get some sleep, scholarship," Julian whispered, stepping back just enough to let me pass, though his eyes never left mine. "Tomorrow, the game actually starts."