Saint Margaret's Academy wasn't just a school; it was a monument to privilege, a cathedral of wealth where every brick seemed to glisten with the sheen of affluence. The building itself was a masterpiece of architecture, with towering columns that reached skyward like the arms of giants, their bases carved with intricate patterns that whispered of old-world opulence. The sprawling gardens that surrounded the school were a tapestry of manicured lawns, vibrant flowerbeds, and fountains that danced with crystalline water. Inside, the marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, their light reflecting off the polished surfaces and casting a golden hue over everything. It was a place where the air itself seemed to carry the weight of expectation, where every student was a star in their own right, but none shone brighter than Allison Beaumont.
She was more than just a student; she was a force of nature, a living embodiment of the power and prestige that the academy represented. Her presence was magnetic, her every move calculated to command attention. When she walked down the hallways, it was as if the world slowed down to watch her, to bend around her. Her designer heels custom-made, of course clicked with a sharp, deliberate rhythm that echoed like a metronome of authority. Her pale blonde hair, perfectly styled in loose waves, bounced with each step, catching the sunlight that streamed through the tall, arched windows. She wore a crisp white blouse, its fabric so immaculate it seemed to glow, tucked into a high-waisted skirt that hugged her figure in all the right places. Both pieces were from the latest collection of Joselyn, a brand so exclusive that its price tag could sustain a family of ten for a year a fact that only added to her allure.
A subtle smirk played on her lips as she absorbed the attention, her piercing blue eyes scanning the room with a mix of amusement and disdain. She knew she was the envy of every girl in the school, and she reveled in it.
Behind her trailed her loyal entourage, a trio of girls who were almost as formidable as she was. There was Eden, the sharp-tongued gossip queen whose words could cut deeper than a knife. She was the one who knew everyone's secrets and wasn't afraid to use them to her advantage. Then there was Claire, the doe-eyed beauty with a voice as soft as silk and a smile that could melt hearts. And finally, Vanessa, the athletic powerhouse whose competitive streak was matched only by her loyalty to the group. Together, they formed an impenetrable clique, a social hierarchy that no one dared to challenge.
As Allison approached her locker, she noticed a group of freshmen huddled together, their laughter high-pitched and nervous. They were whispering and giggling, their voices barely audible over the hum of the hallway. Allison's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a faint sneer. Freshmen always had a way of getting on her nerves. It wasn't their fault, really, It was a personal ick, as she called it, an irrational annoyance that she couldn't quite explain. but something about their wide-eyed innocence and eagerness to please grated on her. They were like puppies, all enthusiasm and no substance, and she had no patience for it.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice calm but laced with an edge that made the freshmen freeze in their tracks. She leaned casually against her locker, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture that was both relaxed and intimidating.
One of the freshmen, a petite girl with curly hair and a nervous smile, took a hesitant step forward. "We were just trying to—"
"Just what?" Allison interrupted, her eyebrow arching in a silent challenge. "Staring at me? Don't you know how creepy that is?"
The girl's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she stammered an apology before scurrying away with her friends in tow. Allison rolled her eyes, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she turned back to her locker.
"Ooooh...You scared them off good," Eden remarked with a grin, clearly enjoying the show.
Allison shrugged, her expression indifferent. "They'll learn soon enough."
As she opened her locker, the corner of a brightly colored flyer caught her eye. She pulled it out and examined it, her brow furrowing slightly. The flyer advertised a charity event at the local community center, a place Allison knew all too well—though not in the way her friends might have guessed.
"Ugh, It's another one of those lame charity events," Claire said, peering over Allison's shoulder. "I don't know why they even bother putting these up. Seriously, nobody cares."
"If I was hosting something, it definitely wouldn't be a charity event," Eden added with a laugh, as if the very idea was absurd.
Allison forced a smile, her lips curling into a cold, calculated expression that masked the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface. "Yep, totally lame," she agreed, crumpling up the flyer and tossing it into the nearest trash can. But deep down, she felt a twinge of guilt. Her friends had no idea how often she attended those types of events, or how much time she spent volunteering at the community center. It was her secret, the one thing in her life that felt real and meaningful.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a text from her father. Dinner at 7. Don't be late. The message was short and to the point, devoid of any warmth or affection
She sighed, her mood darkening. Dinner with her father was always a quiet, formal affair, filled with polite conversation and strained smiles. She knew the routine: he would sit at the head of the long, polished table, a glass of red wine in hand, and they would talk about her future, her responsibilities, and the Beaumont legacy. Her mother would be absent, as usual, lost in her own world of social engagements and charity galas. Shoving her phone back into her pocket, she pushed those thoughts aside. There was no point in dwelling on it. The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes, gossip, and more interactions that left her feeling both powerful and empty. By the time the final bell rang, she was ready to escape the confines of the school and retreat to the comfort of her chauffeur-driven car.
As she slid into the backseat of the sleek black sedan, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her messages. Most were from her friends, making plans for the weekend, but one message caught her eye. It was from the community center, reminding her of the volunteer shift she had signed up for that evening. She hesitated, her finger hovering over the delete button. She could easily cancel, come up with some excuse about a last-minute family obligation or a sudden illness. But something inside her resisted. Volunteering at the center was the one thing that made her feel truly alive, the one place where she could be herself without the suffocating pressure of her social status.
She quickly typed out a response, confirming her attendance, before leaning back in her seat and staring out the window. The car pulled up to the gates of the Beaumont estate.
The Beaumont estate loomed like a monolith of old-world grandeur, its iron gates parting with a low, mournful creak as Allison's chauffeured car glided up the serpentine driveway. Ancient oaks, their gnarled branches clawing at the twilight sky, cast skeletal shadows over manicured lawns that stretched for acres, pristine and lifeless as a painted backdrop. The house itself was a relic of the Gilded Age a sprawling limestone fortress adorned with gargoyles that leered down with frozen malice, their eroded faces twisted into permanent sneers. As Allison stepped out, the autumn air bit at her cheeks, sharp with the scent of distant woodsmoke and the impending frost of October. Above her, the mansion's windows glowed like amber eyes, watchful and unwelcoming.
The foyer swallowed her whole, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows that even the crystal chandelier a behemoth of teardrop prisms and tarnished gold could not fully pierce. Her footsteps echoed like gunshots on the black-and-white marble floor, each click of her polished Louboutins a metronome marking the passage of another suffocating evening. To her left, a sweeping staircase ascended into gloom, its mahogany banister polished to a liquid sheen by generations of gloved hands. Portraits of dead Beaumonts lined the walls, their oil-painted eyes tracking her with disdain. Great-Grandfather Reginald, his muttonchops framing a mouth set in a merciless line, seemed to sneer at the weakness of his descendant. Aunt Penelope, her pearl choker tight enough to choke, clutched a fan like a weapon. Their stares were a chorus: You don't belong here.
Allison's hand trembled as she gripped the banister, the wood icy beneath her palm. This isn't a home, she thought, it's a mausoleum. The air carried the faintest whiff of beeswax and decay, as if the very walls were slowly petrifying. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked, its rhythm syncopated with the throbbing in her temples.
"Miss Allison," a voice intoned, smooth as poured bourbon. James, the family butler, materialized from the shadows, his posture rigid, his silver hair combed with military precision. His gloved hands held a tray bearing a single envelope cream linen, embossed with the Beaumont crest. "Your mother requested this be delivered upon your return."
Allison took it, her name scripted in her mother's spidery handwriting. The paper smelled of jasmine and ambition. "Thank you, James," she said, though the words tasted like ash. Handing him her bag she headed toward the dining room to meet her father for dinner. She knew what to expect her father seated at the head of the long, polished table, a glass of red wine in hand, and her mother absent, as usual.
As she entered the room, her father looked up from his tablet and gave her a curt nod. "You're on time," he remarked, as if surprised.
"I always am," Allison replied, taking her seat across from him.
Dinner was served in silence, the only sound being the clinking of silverware against fine China. Allison picked at her food, her mind elsewhere. She thought of the community center, the people she had met there, and the sense of fulfillment she felt when she was able to help someone in need. It was a stark contrast to the emptiness she felt in this grand house, surrounded by wealth and privilege.
"Allison," her father's voice broke through her thoughts. "Have you thought about your future?"
She blinked, surprised by the question. "My future?"
"Yes, your future," he repeated, setting down his fork and looking at her intently. "You're going to be graduating soon, and you'll need to start thinking about your career. Your mother and I have high expectations for you."
Her heart sank. She knew what he meant by the so called "high expectations" a prestigious college, followed by a career in the family business, and a life spent maintaining the Beaumont legacy. But that wasn't what she actually wanted. Her real wish the one she always wanted was to make a difference, to help people in a way that mattered, not just to uphold her family's image.
"I've been thinking about it," she lied, forcing a smile. "I'm not sure yet, but I'll figure it out."
"Good....."Her father nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response, and the conversation shifted back to safe, impersonal topics.
After dinner, she extricated herself and retreated to her room. It had a Silk wallpaper the color of spoiled cream peeled ever so slightly near the ceiling, revealing layers of older patterns beneath roses, damask, stripes like the rings of a tree marking decades of decay. A four-poster bed dominated the space, its velvet curtains embroidered with golden peacocks whose eyes glittered judgmentally. She hated those peacocks. At twelve, she'd tried to scissors off their beaks, only to have Nanny Charlotte slap her wrist and hiss, "These heirlooms cost more than your life, girl."
The walk-in closet yawned open, a rainbow of designer fabrics arranged by color and season. A row of Manolo Blahniks stood at attention, unworn. A Bergdorf Goodman tag still dangled from the sleeve of a Valentino blouse. Everything pristine, untouched. Bought, not earned, she thought bitterly. On the vanity, a sapphire necklace lay coiled like a serpent a "peace offering" from Mother after last month's charity gala debacle. Allison had refused to wear it, just as she'd refused to apologize for spilling champagne on the mayor's wife. ("It was an accident," she'd lied, savoring the woman's outraged squawk.). This was not a room it was a silk laden prison she hated to the core.
Four hours later...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three precise raps—James, the family's long-suffering butler. His timing was impeccable, as if he'd been waiting in the shadows for her to let her guard down.
"Miss Allison," he intoned, voice smooth as polished silver, "your mother requests your presence in the study."
She didn't move. "Tell her I'm indisposed."
A pause. James had been with the family since before her birth, his loyalty bought with a pension plan and a townhouse in the Hamptons. Yet sometimes, when the light hit his wire-rimmed glasses just so, she caught a flicker of pity.
"She insisted, miss."
"Of course she did."
Allison rose, smoothing her plaid skirt and her shirt and went down the marble stairs to her mothers office....