THE WAR BEGINS

The dorm room smelled like vanilla, leather, and quiet threats. Zara West dropped her secondhand duffel bag onto a rug so white, she felt guilty for existing on it. She didn’t belong here—and the walls knew it.

Everything shimmered: silk bedding, rose-gold lamps, hand-painted wallpaper. The closet lights turned on when she stepped in. That shit was from a movie. The bed? Cloud-level soft. But none of it mattered.

She could feel the judgment breathing through the halls.

---

The Next Morning – Draycott Hallway

When Zara walked into the main corridor for her first day of class, it was like walking onto a stage she wasn’t invited to.

Black hoodie. Basic jeans. Scuffed boots. Her only pair.

The laughter started before she even made it past the art wing.

“Who let public transport in here?”

“She’s giving homeless-core.”

“Wait, is that a charity case? They really lowered the bar this year.”

Every eye locked onto her like a glitch in a perfect system.

And then came the trio. The Queens.

Vanessa Kingston.

Hair platinum, heels six inches, eyes deadlier than knives. Her father owned Kingston Conglomerates, the oil empire that funded half the UK’s power grid. The bitch basically ran the school. Draycott was her jungle.

Chloe St. James.

Daughter of a British media mogul. Her mom ran a scandal blog that ruined politicians' lives before brunch. Chloe had secrets on everyone—including teachers. Her smile was sugar. Her words? Cyanide.

Belinda Garfield.

Heir to the Garfield Diamonds fortune. Her family's jewelry brand sponsored the Met Gala. Belinda walked like the floor was lucky to touch her. Violent, unhinged, and rich enough to never face consequences.

The three walked like a storm in heels.

And Zara?

Was already soaked.

---

Lunch – The Refectory

Draycott’s refectory wasn’t a cafeteria—it was a damn palace. Golden lights. Velvet booths. Chandeliers bigger than her old apartment.

Zara stood alone. Everyone else? In tribes.

She had nowhere to sit.

Until—

“Hey, Zara.”

The room froze.

She looked up—and met his eyes.

Adrian Coleman.

Black leather jacket. Chains low. Rings flashing. That usual half-smirk that said I could break you, and I might.

He sat on the elevated booth in the back—The Throne.

No one sat there. Not even Vanessa. Especially not Vanessa.

“Come sit with me.”

Her tray almost fell.

Gasps broke out like fireworks.

“Is he fucking serious?”

“She’s the scholarship trash.”

“Not even Vanessa sits there—”

“This is war.”

Zara walked to him, heart thudding like a drumline in hell.

He watched her. Eyes low. Smile sharp.

She sat.

“Nice boots,” Adrian said. Voice low, like sin in silk. “I love a girl who walks into a lion’s den dressed like she shops at despair.”

Zara shot him a glare. “You say weird shit, you know that?”

He leaned in. Closer. Close enough that his cologne hit like a spell.

“Maybe. But weird gets remembered, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

That voice wasn’t kind—it was ownership dressed as flirtation.

Vanessa stood from her table, face cracked, fury leaking from her perfect lips.

Adrian didn’t even glance her way.

Zara? She was caught. Trapped in a spider’s web of whispers and heat and danger.

Adrian smiled again. This time wider. Darker. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

She swallowed. “I’m not.”

He grinned. “You should be.”

Then he stood and left. Leaving her alone with a storm of whispers and one truth:

She had just been claimed.

Not loved. Not liked.

Claimed.

Claimed!

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