LUCIEN

  Lucien had learned one thing fast at Billard: never sit next to Corin Clarendon.

  He'd made that mistake once, in Chemistry, and it was enough to scar him for life—or at least for the term. He always had to watch her, not in a loving way, but to stop her from trying to blow things up.

  Corin knew her chemicals too well. She knew exactly which compounds could erase half the student body and leave the other half glowing in the dark. The problem was, she found that fact amusing.

  Today, she was seated next to Rothwell. While Lucien was between Alistair Ascor and a window that refused to open. The lesser of two dangers.

  Alistair wasn't bad company. Quiet, well-mannered, all polished edges and Oxford vowels. He'd once gone an entire week pretending Lucien didn't exist, which had been fine. But lately, the boy had developed a habit of sneaking glances, the kind that made Lucien feel like he was being quietly monitored.

  He wasn't even listening to Professor Ellingham's droning lecture on early 20th-century treaties. Instead, Alistair was sketching on his tablet—delicate, precise lines forming a chessboard. He was halfway through the queen's silhouette when the professor's voice cut through the soft hum of rain against the windows.

  "Let's test your recall," Ellingham said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Mr. Rothwell, perhaps you'll begin. The year the Treaty of Versailles was signed?"

  "1918," he said, crisp, sure of himself.

  Close, Lucien thought. But not quite.

  He raised his hand before he could stop himself.

  "Actually, sir," Lucien said, keeping his tone polite, "it's 1919."

  Rothwell turned his head sharply.

  Lucien went on, "The negotiations began in 1918, but the treaty wasn't signed until June 28th, 1919. Exactly five years after Archduke Ferdinand's assassination in Sarajevo."

  A silence followed, brief and heavy. Rothwell's jaw twitched. Ellingham raised an eyebrow.

  "Precisely, Mr. Green. Excellent. Perhaps you'd care to continue. The date of the Congress of Vienna?"

  "September 1814 to June 1815," Lucien answered without pause. "Metternich chaired most sessions. They redrew Europe after Napoleon, though of course it didn't last."

  The professor's lips twitched. "Impressive. And the fall of the Berlin Wall?"

  "November 9th, 1989. Though the actual border restrictions weren't fully lifted until the 11th. People tend to remember the television footage, not the paperwork."

  A few students exchanged glances. Alistair's pen had stopped moving entirely. Corin's eyes flicked sideways, brief and assessing.

  Professor Ellingham began to pace. "Let's move further back, then. The English Civil War?"

  "1642," Lucien said easily. "King Charles raised his standard at Nottingham that August."

  A soft murmur rippled across the classroom. The professor turned, curiosity sharpening.

  "And the fall of Constantinople?"

  "May 29th, 1453. Mehmed II's cannons breached the Theodosian Walls after fifty-three days."

  Ellingham smiled now, clearly enjoying himself. "Mr. Green... one final question."

  He turned a page in his notes. "When did the Roman Republic end?"

  That one wasn't in the syllabus. The class knew it. Even Rothwell's smirk faltered.

  Lucien leaned back slightly, eyes on the blackboard as if the answer were written there.

  "Depends how you define 'end,'" he said. "If you mean the fall, then 27 BCE. It was when Octavian became Augustus. If you mean the moment it began dying, 49 BCE. When Caesar crossed the Rubicon."

  The room fell into silence.

  Professor Ellingham lowered his glasses, peering at Lucien over the rim with something dangerously close to delight.

  "Those aren't even in this week's coverage," he said, almost accusingly.

  Lucien gave a small, apologetic smile. "I like to read."

  Not a lie—just not the whole truth.

  The fact was, he remembered everything he read. Words, dates, entire paragraphs—all stacked neatly in the attics of his mind, waiting to be pulled down like well-labelled boxes.

  Alistair's gaze lingered on Lucien a moment longer than polite. When he turned his way, he went on sketching, it was a bishop now. He whispered a quiet "Check", as it stood next to the king.

  Lucien had a damn feeling he was supposed to be the bishop. Rothwell, who sat staring down at his desk, confidence cracked just slightly at the edges, was the king.

  When the bell rang, Corin rose without a word, gathering her books with the precision of someone closing a case file. She didn't look at Lucien, but as she passed his desk, the faintest curve touched her mouth—half amusement, half something harder to name.

  Approval.

  Or warning.

  ***

  The fundraiser exhibition has arrived.

  A routine display. A polite little show of marksmanship for the donors, their jewelled wives, and the cameras. The English Sporting Club stood in a perfect line—pressed jackets, polished barrels, every boy rehearsed within an inch of his life.

  Lucien stood as one of them. He was the probationary member, the novelty. This one day would decide his fate.

  The group shooting began promptly. Foundation donors selected their champions with the same quiet ruthlessness they reserved for business deals.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The betting was discreet, but Lucien recognized the gleam in their eyes. Rich people had a way of turning everything into entertainment.

  Every target that flew shattered. Scored "dead".

  Across the line, he caught a few of them shaking their heads when they realized he hadn't missed once. They'd clearly bet against the new kid. Poor investment.

  Corin Clarendon would be next. The finale. The club's star and the only person who could make a firearm look like a fashion accessory.

  When she stepped up to the mark, the audience hushed automatically. She moved with the kind of precision that made men shut up and women sit taller.

  "Pull," she commanded, and the clay targets shattered mid-air one by one—each explosion of orange dust drawing polite applause.

  Lucien might have joined in if he hadn't been too busy reminding himself to breathe.

  Then he saw Taylor moving. And two more assistants. They were wheeling out additional trap throwers—six of them, placed on different corners of the field.

  Before he could ask, Corin's voice cut cleanly through the chatter.

  "Lucien."

  Heads turned.

  Corin tilted her head, and he knew that was her way of beckoning him forward.

  He did, cautiously, because you didn't say no when Corin Clarendon said your name in public. He approached the line, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

  "You're joking, right?" he muttered when he reached her.

  She didn't answer. Just reloaded with mechanical grace. "Taylor told me you perform best when you're afraid," she said lightly. "Are you scared enough?"

  Scared? No.

  He was about to throw up.

  She smirked. The kind that didn't belong to her Head Girl mask.

  "Are you going to shoot me?" he asked, mostly serious.

  "Only if you miss."

  She cracked the barrel closed, and that was the end of discussion.

  The assistants signalled. The trap throwers whirred to life.

  Targets burst into the air—four at once, fast, unpredictable. Lucien reacted on instinct. He fired, hit one, reloaded, turned, hit another. The applause rose with each sharp report. He and Corin moved in perfect sync, two halves of a single rhythm.

  Until one target came at him too fast.

  He raised the gun, fired—missed the centre. It cracked but didn't break. Reflex took over; before it fell, he fired again. The second shot caught it mid-air. It exploded into dust.

  Silence, then thunderous applause.

  Lucien exhaled slowly. His arms ached; his ears rang. When he turned, Corin was already looking at him. Her expression unreadable, the faintest hint of irritation.

  He gave her a small, defiant tilt of his head. What? It broke, didn't it?

  Corin's gaze lingered a second too long before she turned away, facing the crowd as though he'd ceased to exist.

  The audience rose to their feet, applause rippling across the field like gunfire. Taylor looked quietly pleased, the sort of satisfaction only a man who'd placed the right bet could wear.

  Lucien kept his posture steady, jaw set, pretending it had all gone exactly according to plan.

  He had survived the shooting exhibition. More than survived, he'd aced it. The applause still rang in his ears, polite but pointed. He wasn't just some transfer anymore; he'd been presented.

  The real test would happen at dinner.

  Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, scattering light across the Clarendon Foundation's ballroom. The fundraiser looked less like charity and more like coronation—white orchids in gold vases, champagne flutes balanced on silver trays, and the hum of money disguised as polite laughter.

  Lucien wore the uniform Taylor had chosen for him: tailored black, white shirt, cufflinks stamped with the club crest. He still felt like an imposter, but at least a well-dressed one.

  He'd been told to "assist with hosting duties," which was Taylor's polite way of saying stand still and look expensive.

  Corin appeared at his side, every inch the queen, navy gown cut to perfection, diamonds at her throat. She looked devastating in blue. He didn't say it. It might remind her of something he was trying very hard to bury.

  "You look nice," he said instead, eyes trailing briefly to the elegant curve of her bare back. He was concerned, mostly, that she might catch a cold.

  Corin Clarendon didn't catch colds. She caught him.

  "Eyes up here, Green," she said lightly, one manicured finger gesturing to her face.

  "Sorry," he murmured, lips twitching. "I'm trying. But you're... very distracting."

  "I don't need you distracted. I need you to work."

  Before he could protest, she took hold of his sleeve and steered him through the glittering crowd with the efficiency of someone accustomed to commanding donors.

  "Lucien," she said, "Lady Harrowhal."

  The woman before him was older—sixties perhaps—but age had only sharpened her presence. A widow's black gown, pearls heavy around her neck, and eyes sharp as a hawk's. She leaned on a silver-headed cane, but Lucien had no doubt she could skewer half the room with it if she wanted.

  "Lady Harrowhal," Lucien said, offering a hand.

  She took it, her fingers cool, her gaze warmer than he expected. Too warm, maybe.

  "My dear," she said, voice rich with practiced charm, "you remind me so much of Timothy."

  Lucien blinked. "Timothy," he echoed. "Your husband?"

  Corin didn't miss a beat. "No," she said, swirling the champagne in her glass. "Her dog."

  Lady Harrowhal's smiles deepened, unoffended. She looked at Lucien like she might indeed scratch him behind the ears.

  Lucien leaned toward Corin, whispering, "Are you trying to pimp me?"

  Corin shrugged, elegant and merciless. "Don't be absurd." She took a sip from her glass. "I don't try."

  And just like that, she left him standing there.

  Lady Harrowhal patted his arm, her rings catching the light. "Walk me around, won't you, Mr. Green? My knees aren't what they used to be, and you look steady enough."

  Lucien glanced at Corin's retreating figure, her gown gliding like the shadow of a guillotine, and then back at Lady Harrowhal.

  Steady enough. Right.

  "Of course," he said smoothly, offering his arm.

  Lady Harrowhal—Henrietta, as she insisted—moved through the ballroom with the grace of someone who had spent her life at the centre of it. Lucien quickly learned she didn't simply walk him around for show. Every introduction, every pause at a table, every smile exchanged with a patron was deliberate.

  They weren't mingling. They were weighing the field.

  Lucien noticed it in her eyes. The way she catalogued responses. A smile offered to Corin was noted, assessed: was it genuine respect, or grudging necessity? Which patrons leaned forward eagerly? Which ones looked away too quickly?

  "This place is a stage," Henrietta murmured, just for him. "Everyone performing their loyalty."

  "And you?" Lucien asked.

  She smiled faintly. "I prefer the role of audience. It pays better."

  They stopped by the edge of the dance floor; champagne flutes pressed into their hands by passing waiters. Henrietta's gaze found Corin across the room.

  "Look at her," she said softly. "What a brilliant girl."

  Lucien followed her line of sight. Corin stood among a cluster of men twice her age, all of them tilting toward her as though she carried the sun in her throat.

  "I wouldn't call her a girl," Lucien muttered.

  Henrietta laughed, rich and throaty. "Of course not. She has more balls than most of the men here."

  There was no mockery in her tone. Only respect.

  Lucien sipped his drink.

  "And in that dress," Henrietta went on, "the men would gladly sign over their entire fortunes just for the privilege of a dance."

  He smirked. "I'll pay to see anyone brave enough to touch."

  It was exactly then Corin's gaze slid across the ballroom and caught his. Brief, but sharp enough that Lucien almost choked on his champagne.

  "She's still mad," he muttered, louder than he meant.

  Henrietta arched a brow. "Whatever did you do to earn the ire of the Clarendon Rose?"

  There it was again. Rose. They all called her that.

  "She's a very thorny rose," Lucien remarked.

  Henrietta laughed, the kind of laugh that earned her side-glances from nearby patrons. "Nonsense. She's everything that is good about her father's empire."

  Lucien tilted his head. "Have we met the same Corin?"

  "Oh, you are delightful," Henrietta said, eyes sparkling. "She was right. I really do enjoy you."

  She reached into her clutch and pulled out a sleek check book, snapping it open. "Now tell me—how much would you need to earn her forgiveness?"

  Lucien blinked. "That's... not how it works."

  Henrietta arched a brow. "Everything here works on numbers."

  She scrawled a figure on the slip and turned it toward him. Lucien nearly dropped his glass. The sum was enough to wipe out debts he hadn't even admitted to himself.

  "I don't suppose you could add few more zeroes?" he asked, half in jest, half testing her.

  Henrietta barked out a laugh. "We're feeding the children, darling, not buying Corin Clarendon. Take it." She folded the check into his jacket pocket with an almost maternal pat.

  Lucien stood there, stunned into silence for the first time all evening.

  Henrietta smoothed her glove and smiled. "Now finish your drink. Then fetch me another. You're my escort tonight, after all."

  And just like that, she swept him along again, dazzling the room with her laughter, while Lucien realized he'd just been adopted.