Chapter 9
Elara
The calculus problems blurred together as twilight crept across my desk. I'd been at it for hours—derivatives, integrals, the clean logic of numbers that didn't lie or manipulate or pretend to care. My hand ached from gripping the pencil. My eyes burned.
A glance at the clock made my stomach drop: 6:52 PM.
Dinner started at seven sharp.
In my previous life, I would have been down there thirty minutes early, hovering near the dining room like a ghost, hoping Julian might arrive first so I could "accidentally" bump into him. Now the thought of facing that table—facing him—made my skin crawl.
But missing dinner wasn't an option. Mr. Vane Senior had rules about family meals: attendance was mandatory unless you were dying or out of state. Absence implied disrespect. Disrespect implied you didn't value your place in this house.
And despite everything I'd said this morning about not being charity, I wasn't stupid enough to test the old man's patience twice in one day.
Besides, if I skipped dinner, I'd go hungry. The kitchen closed at eight, and the staff had standing orders not to "encourage irregular eating habits" by providing food outside meal times—translation: if the help's daughter missed dinner, she could starve until breakfast.
I closed the textbook and stood, joints protesting after hours hunched over the desk.
"You can do this. It's just one meal. Sit, eat, leave. Don't engage. Don't react. Don't give them ammunition."
I descended the curved staircase at 6:55, each step measured and deliberate. The Blackwood Estate dining room opened before me—a stage I'd performed on countless times, always in the wrong role.
The Baccarat chandelier cast prismatic light across the long table, already set with Wedgwood china and Christofle silverware. On the far wall, a genuine Monet—Water Lilies, purchased at auction for seven figures—watched over the room with its serene indifference.
Everyone was already seated.
Mr. Vane Senior commanded the head of the table, silver hair precisely combed, posture military-straight despite his seventy-two years. Julian sat to his right—the heir's position, marked by proximity to power. His charcoal suit jacket hung on the chair back; he'd rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, exposing forearms I'd once sketched from memory in the margins of my notebooks.
Stop. Stop looking at him like that.
To Julian's right sat Victoria Vane—the real Vane daughter, the only girl born into this family in two generations. At eighteen, she'd already mastered the art of looking simultaneously bored and predatory. Tonight she wore a black knit dress with her blonde hair styled in those effortless waves that actually required an hour with a professional. Diamond studs caught the light every time she turned her head.
We were the same age. Attended the same school. Shared the same last name on paper.
But Victoria had never let me forget which of us actually belonged here.
Across from her sat Tristan Vane, a boy who was the same age as Victoria. He had Julian's aristocratic bone structure but none of his severity—Tristan hid his cruelty behind wire-rimmed glasses and Brooks Brothers cardigans, playing the affable intellectual while orchestrating humiliations with surgical precision.
They both looked up as I entered.
Victoria's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. More like a cat spotting a mouse.
Tristan's expression was more subtle—a slight lift of one eyebrow, interest sharpening behind those glasses. He swirled wine in his glass with practiced elegance.
In my previous life, I'd tried desperately to win them over. Helped Victoria with her homework (which she'd then claimed as her own). Listened to Tristan's endless stories about his school connections. Laughed at their jokes even when the punchline was me.
It had never worked. If anything, my eagerness had made them crueler.
Now I understood: I'd been trying to befriend the people who saw me as entertainment. A performing monkey they could poke with sticks.
I paused at the threshold, studying the scene with the detachment of someone watching a play she'd already seen.
The empty chair beside Julian waited. My designated seat for the past year—close enough to pass him dishes, close enough to pretend I belonged, close enough to be ignored.
Every eye tracked my movement. Victoria's calculating. Tristan's amused. Mr. Vane Senior's assessing.
Julian didn't look up from his phone.
My feet carried me past the empty chair. Past Julian's rigid shoulders and Victoria's poorly concealed surprise. I rounded the table and sat directly across from Tristan—as far from Julian as the seating arrangement allowed.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
"Oh my God." Victoria's voice dripped with theatrical delight. She pressed one manicured hand to her chest, diamonds glittering. "Is it opposite day? Did someone move the furniture? Elara, sweetie, you always sit next to Julian. Are you running a fever? Should we call the doctor?"
She turned to her older brother with exaggerated concern. "Jules, did you two have a fight? Did she finally do something so stalkery that even you couldn't ignore it?"
In my previous life, I would have stammered an excuse, face burning red. Probably apologized and moved to "my" seat while everyone watched.
Now I simply unfolded my napkin and placed it across my lap. "I thought I'd try a different view tonight, Victoria. The garden looks particularly nice from this angle."
"The garden?" She burst into laughter—bright, crystalline, genuinely amused. "Oh, that's rich. Elara, honey, you wouldn't know a rose from a dandelion. Your 'view' has only ever been Julian. Since when do you care about plants?"
Tristan leaned back in his chair, studying me with that focused attention he usually reserved for crisis management. "She has a point, Elara. I can't remember you ever looking at anything except my brother. It's actually been rather... uncomfortable. For all of us."
He smiled—that gentle, understanding smile he used right before he destroyed someone's reputation. "But especially for Julian, I imagine. Having someone watch your every move, follow you around, leave notes in your things. Some might call that obsessive. Others might use stronger words."
"Stalking," Victoria supplied helpfully. "The word is stalking."
"Victoria." Mr. Vane Senior's voice carried warning.
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking." She examined her nails—French manicure, perfect as always. "It's honestly embarrassing. At school, everyone knows she's obsessed with him. They call her 'Vane's shadow.' Did you know that, Elara? That's your nickname. Some people have started a betting pool on when Julian will finally snap and file a restraining order."
My water glass was cold against my palm. Grounding. Real.
Don't react. Don't let them see it hurts. They're like sharks—they smell blood and attack.
"You're right," I said calmly. "I have been inappropriate. And I'm working on changing that."