The copy arrived on her desk the way most things did in the Vale household.

  The university’s autumn publication, embossed with its gold crest and aspirational typography, bore the usual gloss of curated excellence, designed more for benefactors than students. Selene turned it over without particular interest, letting the spine fall open in the middle, prepared to skim and dismiss.

  Across the center spread, under the banner of an article that spoke of academic innovation and student excellence, stood two figures positioned with studied balance, Adrian on the left, unmistakable in his stillness, and beside him, a girl with silver hair whose name she had not previously thought worth remembering.

  Her posture was poised but not performative, her smile deliberate, contained, intelligent without being self-conscious. It was a composed kind of presence, the kind Selene recognized as either deeply calculated or genuinely unafraid.

  And Adrian looked strangely unfamiliar in this one.

  The expression in his eyes was softer, something unreadable that lacked his usual disinterest. That, more than the image itself, was what had made the article go viral.

  She read the caption.

  A respectable pairing, if somewhat unlikely. Most would interpret it as a convenient PR narrative, diversity, collaboration, the new generation of Vermillion Crown.

  And yet, Selene had never relied on surface explanations.

  Her inbox had already begun to reflect the stirrings: polite messages from alumni, subtle remarks in diplomatic circles, a few clipped observations from faculty who were no doubt wondering who this Mira Larkspur was and what had given her the right to stand beside the Vale heir in print.

  Lucian had said nothing about it, and that silence, she knew, was not disinterest but control. Neither of them reacted to publicity. They had learned long ago that to chase every echo of public perception was to lose sight of the real power moving beneath it.

  Mira, yes, that was the name, still appeared unremarkable on paper.

  An international relations student on scholarship with a history of environmental work and public outreach.

  Her father was a known figure in diplomatic circles, but the family itself was not embedded in any structure that mattered to the Vale estate. Adrian had always been capable of brief fascination, of letting someone near the perimeter of his life so long as they did not ask to cross it. But whatever softness others might imagine in that photo, Selene knew how quickly it would fade. In all his years, he had never kept company with girls, never let anyone close enough to trespass into his private world.

  What people mistook for detachment was in fact a life shaped by discipline, not by feeling. And Selene, who had watched him grow through those silences, believed firmly that this, too, would pass.

  Sooner or later, something in him would withdraw again. The girl might be clever, but Adrian had never allowed anyone to remain long enough to matter.

  Selene closed the magazine, placed it neatly into the drawer beneath her desk.

  Selene would learn who the girl truly was — and what had drawn her to his side.

  ?

  Professor Aldric hadn’t even finished his morning tea when his inbox exploded.

  Subject: Sponsorship Inquiry – From Biogenix Labs

  Subject: Rare Plant Club Feature Request – Botanical World Magazine

  Subject: Visit Request – Ambassador of the Royal Horticultural Society

  He blinked at the screen, brows furrowing beneath his silver-streaked curls. The Rare Plant Club had always been a secluded corner of Vermillion Crown Academy, a haven for students who preferred chloroplasts over conversation, and who could get lost for hours labeling seedlings or debating pollination strategies.

  But something had changed. Explosively.

  Adrian Vale, yes, that Adrian Vale, had finally spoken publicly. After two years of declining every interview, he’d agreed to a short profile for the Vermillion. It was quiet, filmed in the rooftop botanical garden of his dormitory. The story went to print. And then it went viral.

  Not for what he said about plants. But because people realized he was in the Rare Plant Club.

  That revelation alone sent the public into a frenzy. Dozens of clips flooded TikTok, Instagram, even educational YouTube channels. News anchors debated the influence of the Vale heir joining a student club. Alumni blogs speculated which rare species Adrian might be tending to. Demand to visit the greenhouse skyrocketed overnight.

  And now, Aldric’s inbox was a minefield of opportunity.

  In the club’s greenhouse, Mira Larkspur thudded a stack of printed emails onto the table. “Seven sponsorship offers this morning. One wants to send a film crew.”

  Valeria looked up from pruning a shyleaf vine. “We don’t even have visitor benches.”

  Ren blinked at his phone. “Do we need security? Someone just tried to buy a guided tour slot on our website.”

  Professor Aldric entered, still looking slightly dazed. “Adrian Vale has been with us for two years. Not once has he agreed to a public interview.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Mira smirked. “If he’d done this earlier, we wouldn’t have needed to spend months developing the PR plan ourselves.”

  Adrian, seated calmly in a sunlit corner, sketching a new arrangement for the alpine terrarium, didn’t look up.

  Aldric chuckled. “Regardless, thanks to everyone’s work, the documentation, the photographs, the stories, it’s all ready. The website, the social media platforms, the profiles… You made sure the Rare Plant Club was visible the moment the world came looking.”

  Noah glanced at the analytics dashboard. “We’ve had more hits today than in the past three years combined.”

  Ren added, “I just got a message from the horticultural science journal. They want to feature our fungus wall.”

  Valeria beamed. “They used to think we were the no-name club.”

  Aldric raised his teacup with pride. “Not anymore.”

  Adrian hadn’t said much all morning. While the others buzzed around the greenhouse, fielding messages, checking social media, straightening up plant labels, he stayed near the back bench, methodically repotting a twitch-sensitive fern with movements too precise to be casual.

  Mira watched him for a moment, then walked over and crouched beside the table.

  “You’re quiet,” she said softly.

  Adrian didn’t look up. “Not much to say.”

  “You didn’t expect the reaction?”

  A pause.

  “I didn’t mention the club,” he said flatly. “They traced it.”

  Mira sat on the edge of the bench, folding her arms. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “They’re not here for the plants, Mira,” he said, finally glancing at her. “They’re here because they think someone like me makes it interesting. But they don’t care about this.” He gestured to the delicate vines and annotated care sheets. “It’ll get chaotic. Crowded. Shallow.”

  Mira was silent for a moment, then exhaled. “Okay. Then we make rules. Only groups with approval, clear purpose, and proper manners are allowed in. And same goes for sponsors, we’ll talk it through with Aldric. He’ll understand.”

  Adrian looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

  She offered a wry smile. “We’ll keep this place safe, Adrian. It’s ours. Let the rest of the world shout outside the glass, but in here, we set the tone.”

  Across the greenhouse, Professor Aldric called, “Mira, remind me to disable the online calendar. Someone just booked the entire week for ‘spiritual recharging among rare mosses’.”

  Mira groaned. “Okay, new rule, no poetic titles unless it comes with a grant.”

  Adrian almost, almost smiled. Then he went back to his fern.

  ?

  In the digital age, viral moments often came from the least expected corners. But when Adrian Vale, the enigmatic heir to a medical empire and a prodigy in his own right, spoke in an exclusive feature for The Vermillion Academy, the world took notice.

  Almost immediately, Mira Larkspur, the poised and articulate student who appeared alongside Vale in the feature, found herself trending as well. But unlike Vale, who remained entirely offline and resolutely inaccessible, Mira was quickly approached on campus by fans, students, and hopefuls eager for signatures, introductions, or inside stories.

  She responded with a calm detachment that only stirred the pot further: “We’re not close. We just happened to share the interview. And no, Adrian doesn’t give out signatures.” The internet’s reaction was swift and divided. Admirers praised her grace; others accused her of being unfriendly or distant. Fan forums lit up with theories, edits, and drama.

  No one used her full name anymore, just Mira. Or worse, nicknames she’d never chosen. “Vale’s girl”, “Mushroom pet”, “Scholarship sweetheart.”

  The posts weren’t polite. They weren’t curious. They were invasive in the way only anonymity allows.

  “She gives manipulative vibes. Like… those girls who pretend they don’t know they’re pretty.”

  “ngl she looks like she practices interviews in the mirror.”

  “bet she fake-cries when she’s overwhelmed. watch her play the sensitive card next.”

  People were screenshotting her photos, zooming in on her mouth, her collarbone, her hands, circling things like she was a conspiracy theory.

  “Lip balm. Always. Trying to look soft.”

  “Zoom in. That’s tinted. But she wants to be the ‘natural one.’”

  “Look at her nails. Clean, rounded, no polish. This is ‘I garden and bake and never fight with my boyfriend’ energy.”

  Her Rare Plant Club photo was reposted with the caption:

  “Miss fungi girl said soft but I see PR training.”

  Underneath:

  “She’s the type who makes you tea and then ruins your life.”

  They dug through her old public posts like they were reading her diary.

  A selfie with a spore print kit became:

  “Plotting her rise since high school. This girl doesn’t ‘discover,’ she calculates.”

  Someone even quote-tweeted an old post she wrote about biodiversity and added:

  “omg she wants to SAVE THE PLANET and Adrian Vale’s bloodline.”

  Another post got uglier:

  “She’s playing the ‘not like other girls’ speedrun and winning.”

  “weird how no one’s seen her cry yet. she’s either scary or fake or both.”

  Then they found her mother’s academic paper, republished it with:

  “Nepo fungus baby strikes again.”

  And someone messaged her uncle’s account asking if the “rumors were true.” Which rumors? Mira didn’t even know.

  She locked her page. They screen-recorded it before she could.

  One account posted a TikTok slideshow with her voice from a panel playing over it, cropped, slowed down. Her eyes blinking once.

  “This girl has cult leader cadence; I’m scared.”

  And the comments,

  “Bet she never even liked him. Just wanted the visibility.”

  “That ‘quiet girl’ mask is gonna crack. Just wait.”

  “She’s giving dark feminine coded.”

  They were tracking her in real time.

  “She was in the greenhouse at 4:20PM yesterday. Girl’s hiding.”

  “Someone said she cried in the econ building bathroom. Can anyone confirm?”

  And Mira didn’t post a single thing.

  But somehow, every silence became a statement they could twist.

  By the end of the second day, she didn’t feel watched. She felt peeled. Like they’d turned her body and history and voice into an open forum.

  And she didn’t know how to make them stop.

  ?

  The room was filled with the scent of dried lavender and the light of laptop screens. Mira’s room had become an impromptu war room.

  Luca was pacing dramatically near the window, tablet in hand, reading from the school forum with theatrical flair. “‘Top Search Rank: Adrian Vale and Vermillion Crown Academy. Honorable mention: Mira Larkspur, the mysterious girl who shared the rooftop interview.’ I mean, wow. You're officially myth-adjacent.”

  Mira, sitting cross-legged on her bed, groaned and pulled a pillow over her face. “I didn’t even say anything weird. I just breathed.”

  Camille, already tapping away on her laptop from the desk, announced, “I’m writing a follow-up. ‘Private Student Faces Public Madness: Why Our Mira Needs to Be Left Alone.’ I’m not letting them twist this.”

  Elias, flipping through a law textbook on his lap, added calmly, “I’ll draft a short piece citing privacy laws and media ethics. We’ll circulate it, nicely, but firmly. Reckless fan behavior has real consequences.”

  Naomi nodded from her spot by the shelf. “You’d think the school would’ve prepped for this. It’s not like they didn’t know Adrian Vale’s name has nuclear potential.”

  “I didn’t think it would spill over to me,” Mira muttered, peeking out from under the pillow.

  Valeria, half-curled on the beanbag, replied, “You sat next to him. That’s enough. They’ve decided you’re the romantic subplot in some campus drama.”

  “I’m not in anything,” Mira protested. “And I’m not asking him to sign anything, and I’m definitely not explaining myself on any livestream.”

  “You don’t have to,” Elara said firmly from the corner. “Starting tomorrow, except during class, we stick together. No one corners you alone. No fangirl mob drama. Safety first.”

  The room fell silent for a second, serious, united.

  Camille cracked her knuckles. “Let’s make sure the next thing trending is boundaries.”

  ?