Chapter 1— The Princess with Blood on Her Tiara
The first time I realised people didn’t just hate me — they wanted to see me burn — was on the first day of junior year.
The school gates of St. Cecilia’s Academy gleamed in the August sun, all gold filigree and lies. Behind them, whispers followed me like perfume.
Zara Moretti, back from summer break. Zara Moretti, whose father could buy the school twice over. Zara Moretti, who allegedly pushed her ex down the marble staircase last term.
Allegedly.
My tiara — yes, a real one — sat crooked on my head. Deliberate. Nothing screams unbothered like looking like you dressed inthe dark but still turning heads. My skirt was an inch shorter than regulation. My lip gloss matched the cherry stain on the rumour mill.
And then, as if this whole thing wasn’t theatrical enough, someone decided to welcome me back with a little gift.
Right there on the steps, laid out like a crime scene: my diary. Pages torn. The edges charred. Pearls scattered like they’d been ripped from my neck.
The girls by the fountain smirked. One even waved.
I bent down, picked up the diary, and smiled like it was a love letter. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned at St. Cecilia’s, it’s this:
You don’t let them see you flinch.
I tucked the scorched diary under my arm, pretending not to notice the stares drilling holes into my back. The pearls clinked in my pocket with every step.
Inside the marble hallway, I leaned against my locker and flipped open the diary. Most of the pages were gone, ripped clean. Whoever did this wanted me to know they’d been inside my head — and they’d kept the parts worth ruining me with.
On the last surviving page, scrawled in red ink that bled through the paper, were six words:
I know what you did, Zara.
No signature. No date. Just a threat wrapped like a gift.
And here’s the thing about me — I don’t run from trouble.
I invite it in for tea.
