Prologue:
There are rules at Draycott Academy.
Unwritten ones.
The kind carved in silence, enforced with whispers, and sealed with blood.
No one talks about what happened on the North Terrace three years ago.
No one crosses Adrian Coleman unless they want to disappear—socially, or literally.
And no one, no one, touches what belongs to the Elites.
The school brochure talks about "excellence" and "legacy," printed in gold-foil script on 800gsm card. But what it doesn’t say is that behind every marble column, every silk curtain, every champagne-smiled prefect… there’s something rotting.
It’s not the kind of place you survive by being smart. Or kind. Or right.
It’s the kind of place you survive by playing the game better than the devils themselves.
Zara West had no idea what she was walking into when she stepped through those gates.
But Draycott?
Draycott had been waiting for her.
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The Elites. Comments