Crowned in Detention

Welcome to Hell.

Also known as St. Regalia Preparatory Academy for the Brilliant, the Entitled, and the Emotionally Unavailable. A place so drenched in generational wealth that the air smells faintly of old money, imported lavender, and passive aggression.

St. Regalia isn’t a school—it’s a flex. A giant, ivy-wrapped Instagram filter with marble staircases, chandeliers in the bathrooms, and students whose surnames sound like luxury watch brands. Here, the school uniform costs more than my rent, the cafeteria serves truffle risotto on Wednesdays, and someone once got detention for flying their family’s drone inside the library. Why? Because it startled the therapy peacocks. I wish I was joking.

Let me get one thing clear from the jump: I did not come here to make friends.

I came to survive. To graduate. To keep my head down long enough to secure a diploma and get out before I accidentally set fire to the drama club (again—long story). This isn’t a coming-of-age story. It’s a please-don’t-let-me-catch-a-felony-before-finals story.

The plan was simple: Blend in. Keep my sarcasm at a safe, internal volume. Graduate with honors. Maybe even walk the stage without flipping off anyone whose parents own oil.

But on my first day, someone said they were “summering in Tuscany,” and I blacked out from the cringe. These are the kinds of people who treat brunch like a birthright and throw tantrums if the Wi-Fi lags during a FaceTime with their dermatologist.

So yeah—welcome to St. Regalia. Where money screams, common sense whispers, and I’m one overpriced cappuccino away from an existential crisis.

Let me get one thing straight: I didn’t come here to make friends. I came to survive, graduate, and maybe not commit a homicide in a place where people use words like “summering” as a verb.

St. Regalia’s International Academy.

Where the air doesn’t just smell like money—it smells like Chanel No. 5, broken dreams, and old family secrets sealed in vintage Louis Vuitton trunks. The kind of place where even the pigeons look judgmental, like they have trust funds and take Pilates on Thursdays.

I woke up that morning with a pit in my stomach and a suitcase that looked way too sad to belong at a school where kids travel with custom luggage sets that have their initials embroidered in gold. I threw on the least wrinkled shirt I could find, packed the essentials (clothes, snacks, and enough sarcasm to get me through orientation), and tried not to hyperventilate.

Our assigned black school car—because of course there’s a school car—pulled up right on time, the driver looking like he moonlights as a secret agent. I slid into the backseat, trying to look unfazed, but internally? I was spiraling faster than a rich kid’s reputation after a leaked group chat scandal.

As the car rolled past the enormous golden gates, I felt like I was being driven straight into a Gucci-branded cult. You know the kind—smiles that don’t reach the eyes, rules that don’t apply to the rich, and an unspoken understanding that “networking” means marrying into power by the time you’re twenty-one.

The gates glinted under the morning sun like they were forged from stolen tiaras, and I swear I heard a dramatic orchestral swell in the background. Probably imagined it. Probably not.

And there it was: St. Regalia. A castle masquerading as an academic institution. The buildings looked like they’d been flown in from Oxford, the students looked like they’d been flown in from Vogue, and me? I looked like a mildly lost exchange student who took a wrong turn and accidentally enrolled in a Netflix drama.

“Welcome to St. Regalia’s,” the driver said with the same level of emotion you’d expect from someone announcing the weather. Like he hadn’t just witnessed me breathing into my hoodie sleeve for twenty minutes straight, whispering affirmations like “You’re not poor, you’re just financially creative.”

I glanced at him. He stared straight ahead like he hadn’t just seen my soul leave my body when we passed a student in head-to-toe Balenciaga to walk their cat. On a leash. With pearls.

“Thanks,” I muttered, hauling my off-brand suitcase across my lap like it was a medieval sword. “If I don’t make it out… tell my ancestors I tried.”

The driver blinked. No reaction. Probably trained to ignore the existential breakdowns of underfunded students.

I stepped out onto the driveway—if you can call a literal marble-paved entrance a driveway. The air smelled expensive. Not just clean, but that terrifying sterile scent that only exists in places where the carpets cost more than your yearly rent.

To my left, a student in a blazer so crisp it could slice bread adjusted their Rolex and said “Daddy’s pilot got stuck in Milan” like that was a real-life inconvenience. To my right, a group of girls with identical noses and suspiciously identical eyebrows sipped lavender lattes from a coffee truck called “Bean Couture.”

I gripped my suitcase tighter. Breathe. Don’t panic. Blend in. You’ve seen “The Hunger Games.” You know how this goes.

Then, because the universe has a dark sense of humor, one of my suitcase wheels got caught on a rogue cobblestone, and I did that awkward stumble-shuffle-die-inside combo. A group of students watched me with vague curiosity, like I was a rare bird that had accidentally flown into their penthouse.

This was it.

Day one.

And I was already giving off “scholarship documentary subject” energy.

Inside the campus, everything sparkled—

And I don’t mean metaphorically.

No.

I mean actually, physically, glitter-bomb-level sparkled.

The first thing that hit me—besides the judgmental breeze—was the fountain. Correction: the Swan Fountain. It was shaped like a majestic white swan mid-regal neck stretch, dramatically vomiting a stream of what looked suspiciously like liquid diamonds. Either that, or they found a way to liquefy glitter and trauma.

I paused, blinking at it like it might blink back. A maintenance guy in a gold-trimmed uniform walked past with a mop that had monogrammed initials. I’m not saying I saw God, but I did feel like I’d accidentally walked into a luxury resort owned by someone who refers to their pets as “heirs.”

Everywhere I looked, there were students—impossibly tall, genetically engineered-looking students—in perfectly tailored navy blazers. Their skin glowed like they moisturized with crushed pearls. Their cheekbones? So sharp, I’m pretty sure one of them sliced open a croissant just by turning too fast. And their sunglasses? Designer. Obnoxious. Probably had Wi-Fi.

One girl glided past me—not walked, glided—holding a tiny purse that was definitely smaller than my actual wallet and somehow still cost more than my future. She sniffed the air dramatically, like she could smell my anxiety.

I clutched my suitcase tighter and kept walking, praying I didn’t trip again. My sneakers squeaked with every step—a sad, awkward “I-don’t-belong-here” anthem—while everyone else looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of Rich Kid Vogue: Oppression-Free Edition.

A boy in pastel pink slacks passed me, casually talking on his phone:

“No, mother, I told the driver to use the Bentley, not the Range. I’m not a savage.”

I died a little inside.

Welcome to St. Regalia.

Where money screams and common sense quietly suffocates in the linen closet.

I walked in, feeling like a knockoff handbag at a designer showcase.

You know that dream where you show up to school in your pajamas, and everyone laughs while you’re trying to act normal? Yeah. Multiply that by ten, add a blazer that didn’t fit right, and sprinkle in 400 years of generational wealth side-eye — that was me.

My uniform felt like it was judging me. The skirt was slightly too tight, the blazer a shade too baggy, and the socks refused to cooperate. I’d only gotten the whole thing last week — and by “gotten,” I mean rushed through fittings at a store where even the mannequins had accents. Everything itched, clung, or sagged in the wrong place, like my outfit knew I didn’t belong.

Meanwhile, these other kids looked like boarding school couture models. I swear someone did a hair flip in slow motion, and I heard a harp in the distance. Meanwhile, I was sweating through my regulation white shirt like a lost tourist on safari. Lesotho had prepared me for a lot of things: mountains, strong tea, stubborn goats. But this?

A private school that looked like Hogwarts mated with a Louis Vuitton showroom?

No, choma. Nothing in the Kingdom prepares you for a school where even the pigeons look rich.

I shuffled through the marble entrance hall, clutching my suitcase like it held my last remaining dignity, while every echoing footstep screamed: “IMPOSTER!” My edges were sweating. My backpack was too heavy. And my soul? Slightly floating above my body, whispering, “We should’ve taken a gap year.”

I gave myself a pep talk:

Just breathe. Don’t trip. Don’t say “howzit.” And for the love of your ancestors, do not compliment someone’s weave. They paid for it, babe.

The dorm room looked like Pinterest and a private jet had a baby. Two single beds stood on opposite ends of the room, each with headboards that looked like they’d been stolen from a luxury Parisian hotel. The walls were a soft cream, the curtains sheer and golden, swaying gently in the breeze like they had somewhere important to be. On one side, someone had already unpacked: designer luggage stacked neatly, scented candles lit (Diptyque, obviously), and a mini espresso machine that probably cost more than my school fees.

That was Chiara’s side.

Mine still had the suitcase on the floor, looking embarrassed to be seen next to her Louis Vuitton trunk like a donkey parked next to a Tesla.

Then she arrived.

Chiara De Vos.

Dutch diplomat’s daughter. Bisexual hurricane of chaos. She didn’t walk into the room — she twirled in, trailing the scent of jasmine and what I could only assume was generational wealth.

She wore an oversized cream blazer over biker shorts and a crop top, like a fashion warlord. Her hair was platinum blonde, curled perfectly but with just enough mess to say, “I woke up like this, but I also own a yacht.” Her eyeliner was sharp enough to cut glass. And her arms? Flailing like an interpretive dancer as she crashed into me with a hug.

“You must be Zuri!” she gasped, eyes twinkling like she lived inside a champagne commercial. “I’ve already stalked your socials — your hair is amazing. You’re gonna shake this place up.”

I think I blacked out for a second. Her perfume was strong. Her energy was stronger.

“…Hi?” I wheezed, still trapped in the kind of hug that felt like both a welcome and an exorcism.

Chiara pulled back, held me at arm’s length like I was her new makeover project, and said, “This is going to be fabulous.”

I had a strange urge to pray.

Chiara tossed her Louis Vuitton duffel onto the bed with the same energy I use to discard laundry—like it was some sad, disposable tote from the back of her closet. The ka-thump it made had emotional damage. That bag probably had its own passport.

Then she flopped down next to me on the bed, legs crossed like a Vogue cover shoot, giving me the kind of conspiratorial look people give right before they drop life-altering gossip.

“Okay,” she said, flipping her perfectly highlighted hair over her shoulder, “let’s get one thing straight: this place is toxic.”

She paused for dramatic effect, and I swear a sparkle flew off her earring.

“But like... entertainingly toxic,” she continued, hands gesturing like she was narrating a Netflix docuseries. “Like, he bought her a Ferrari to say sorry for cheating toxic.”

I blinked.

“Oh,” I said, as if that sentence made sense in any world I came from. My ex once said sorry with a meat pie. A cold one.

Chiara sighed dramatically, like she’d just remembered the global economy. “You’ll see. It’s like being trapped in a reality show where everyone’s attractive, unhinged, and probably hiding a trust fund. Just keep your head up and your mascara waterproof.”

She reached over, grabbed her espresso machine remote—yes, it had a remote—and turned it on with a hum that sounded fancier than my auntie’s car.

Meanwhile, I was still seated there, trying to figure out whether this was my roommate or the human embodiment of chaotic fabulousness.

And just like that, St. Regalia had officially welcomed me:

With designer bags, Ferrari apologies, and a roommate who might just ruin—or completely upgrade—my life.

The way Chiara said his name—Leo—it wasn’t just a name. It was a prophecy. A declaration. Possibly a trigger warning.

She had flung the door open like she was unveiling treasure, nearly knocking over a first-year holding a tray of skincare products. “OMG. That’s Leo. Leo St. James. Royalty. Norwegian. Hates everyone. Especially women with opinions.”

Before I could process why someone would hate women with opinions—aka me—my eyes found him.

Leo.

And honestly? He didn’t walk. He glided. Like he had wind machines permanently installed around him. Every step was deliberate, silent, expensive. He had cheekbones that could cut glass, eyes that looked like winter in a perfume ad, and the fashion sense of someone who hadn’t worn polyester since the womb.

Black slacks. Crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his toned, arrogant arms. A navy blazer slung lazily over one shoulder like it was beneath him to wear it properly. And don’t get me started on the shoes. They were probably handmade by blind Italian monks using unicorn leather.

“He looks like a villain in a teen drama,” I whispered.

Chiara cackled. “Oh, babe. He is. Last term he made a girl cry just by saying her highlights were tragic. She transferred to Finland.”

Blond, tall, broody, and so obviously rich he probably flossed with hundred-dollar bills. He was surrounded by a group of rich kids laughing too hard at something not funny, like being rich made your jokes funnier.

I blinked. “I don’t even know how to process that.”

“Don’t,” Chiara said. “Just observe him from a distance like a dangerous solar eclipse. Beautiful. Powerful. Might burn your entire existence.”

As Leo passed, he turned slightly—just slightly—and locked eyes with me.

And in that half-second, I swear my ancestors paused their celestial game of dominoes and said, “Oh no. Not this one.”

His expression didn’t change. No smile. No scowl. Just icy indifference dipped in royalty and maybe…mild curiosity?

And then he was gone. Like a limited-edition cologne. Like a tax refund.

Chiara shut the door slowly, turned to me with a grin, and said, “Congratulations. You’ve just made eye contact with the iceberg that sank the Titanic.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, scream, or start packing.

The moment our eyes met, the air shifted. Not in a romantic, violin-playing, “our souls just connected” kind of way. No. It was more like a Wi-Fi router glitching during an online exam—tense, unpredictable, and 100% not ideal.

He looked at me.

I looked back.

Boom. Clash of Titans.

Except—plot twist—I wasn’t a titan. I was a scholarship kid with anxiety, a snarky mouth, and a suitcase that squeaked when I pulled it. My socks didn’t match. My edges were sweating. And I was 99% sure I still had a crumb of pap on my collar from breakfast.

Leo, on the other hand, looked like a Vogue editorial had given birth to him. He had that effortless, icy expression rich people master by the time they turn six—the one that says, “I’ve never had to ask for ketchup. It just appears.”

We stared at each other for a beat too long.

Not flirty.

Not friendly.

More like two cats in a dark alley, silently agreeing that a fight might happen, but only if one of us twitched first.

Then he blinked.

Then I blinked.

Then he walked away like I didn’t exist, which was rude but also—let’s be real—on brand for someone who probably drinks still water imported from the Arctic Circle.

Chiara flopped dramatically onto her bed like she’d just witnessed a live royal scandal. “Ohhhh, Zuri. You’ve just been not noticed by Leo St. James. That’s basically the same as being threatened with exile. Congratulations, babe. You’re officially on the radar.”

“My radar’s cracked,” I muttered, collapsing next to her. “And I think we’re in a different galaxy.”

“Even better,” she smirked. “That’s how all great chaos stories start.”

Your move. What happens next?

Chiara didn’t give me time to spiral. She was already halfway into her second monologue of the morning, throwing open drawers, sniffing linen spray like a sommelier, and tossing throw pillows into a “maybe burn later” pile.

Meanwhile, I sat on my bed—if you could call it that. The room itself was like the inside of a luxury perfume ad. Cream walls with gold accents, a chandelier that looked like it had a trust fund, and windows so tall I could probably fall out of them and land in next semester. My bed was on the left, next to a ridiculous bookshelf filled with untouched hardcovers. All aesthetic, zero actual reading. Chiara’s bed? Already covered in silk scarves, an open MacBook, and enough skincare products to open a boutique.

“So,” she flopped down again and tilted her head at me. “What’s your damage?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Your tragic backstory. Every scholarship kid has one.”

I blinked. “Uh… I’m here because I’m broke but good at math?”

She gasped like I’d confessed to murder. “Zuri. That’s so pure. So economically devastating. I love it.”

Before I could respond, a loud DING-DING echoed from the hallway.

Chiara shot up like she’d been tasered. “First bell. Assembly time. You ready to be judged by rich kids who think sweat is a personality flaw?”

I was not.

But I stood anyway, smoothing my too-long blazer sleeves and adjusting the skirt that didn’t quite sit right on my hips. As we stepped into the hallway, a stream of pastel, plaid, and overpriced leather surged past us. Laughter, designer cologne, and the faint sound of someone playing Vivaldi on a violin filled the air.

Chiara leaned in like a gossiping devil on my shoulder. “By the way, Leo’s mom owns like half the country. He’s practically royalty. But also emotionally constipated, which makes him extra fun.”

“Fun?” I scoffed.

She smirked. “Oh, darling. At St. Regalia, the more emotionally damaged they are, the higher their social stock. Welcome to hell.”

And with that, we merged into the crowd.

Me: just a broke girl in a borrowed uniform with a dream and a blood pressure spike.

Chiara: chaos incarnate in a crop-top under her blazer.

And Leo?

He was already halfway across the hall, surrounded by his clique of emotionally unavailable Ken dolls—perfect hair, cold eyes, and the collective warmth of an ice sculpture convention.

I didn’t know it then, but this wasn’t just school.

This was war.

Morning broke with the kind of golden sunlight that felt like it belonged in a movie—soft, warm, but also totally cruel when you’re struggling to pull yourself out of bed. My alarm had screamed for what felt like an hour, but I’d hit snooze so many times my phone probably thought I was doing some kind of weird meditation ritual. Finally, I peeled myself from the tangled mess of sheets and pillows, feeling every bit like a zombie with a bad attitude.

The dorm room smelled faintly of expensive perfume and desperation. Chiara was already up, blasting some indie pop, her curls bouncing as she expertly applied eyeliner like a pro. I stumbled toward the tiny bathroom, where the mirror was just big enough to remind me I looked like I hadn’t slept since the last ice age. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wake up, but honestly, it just made me realize how much I hated mornings. My uniform hung awkwardly on the chair, the blazer still stiff from dry cleaning, the skirt a size too tight, making me wish I’d slept in my pajamas all day.

Breakfast was a quiet affair in the dining hall that felt like a runway show—everybody there dressed to kill, sipping on green smoothies and debating which designer bags were “so last season.” I nibbled on a croissant that was way too flaky and stared at the clock, dreading the first bell.

Fast forward to debate class, the highlight of my day—or more accurately, my next torture session. The room was all polished wood and leather chairs that whispered “I belong in a boardroom, not a high school.” Students tossed around arguments like verbal grenades, eyes sharp and smug, ready to dismantle anyone who dared disagree.

The topic? “Power should be inherited, not earned.”

Of course.

Only at St. Regalia would they assign a debate topic that sounded like the manifesto of a Bond villain. I glanced around at the smug faces—kids who’d grown up with silver spoons in their mouths, ready to defend their birthright like it was the gospel.

I took a deep breath, preparing to dive into the madness, knowing full well this wasn’t just about winning a debate. It was about surviving in a place where privilege wasn’t just accepted—it was worshiped.

I shuffled to my seat, trying to look casual but feeling like I’d just stepped onto a stage with a spotlight burning my skin. The room buzzed with quiet confidence, the kind that only comes from knowing your family owns half the country.

Chiara shot me a quick grin and a thumbs-up, like we were about to storm the castle together. I wasn’t so sure. My hands trembled slightly as I pulled out my notebook, filled mostly with doodles and angry scribbles about injustice.

The debate kicked off, and the first speaker—a tall guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass—launched into a speech about “the natural order” and how power should flow like a royal bloodline, pure and untouchable. The audience nodded, some even murmuring in agreement.

When it was my turn, I took a deep breath, feeling every eye on me like a spotlight. “Power,” I said, voice steady but dripping with sarcasm, “shouldn’t be inherited like a dusty family heirloom. It should be earned, like that last slice of pizza at a party—fought for, deserved, and maybe a little bit stolen.”

A few people laughed—some nervously, others genuinely—and I felt a tiny spark of rebellion light up inside me. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely out of place here.

Leo St. James, sitting two rows ahead with his trademark scowl, rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. But I caught a flicker of something else—a challenge. Game on.

Leo raised his hand. “Power, like legacy, is in the blood. Meritocracy is idealistic noise. People crave structure.”

I gagged so hard I nearly choked.

I stood up. “Right. So if your great-great-grandfather was a cow, should you still be milking that privilege?”

The room went silent. Dead. Like someone just dropped a glass slipper from Cinderella’s evil stepmom’s mansion.

Leo’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing to lasers aimed at me. He looked like he wanted to say something savage, but the words got stuck somewhere between his ego and his British-accented restraint.

Chiara, sitting beside me, snorted into her hand, clearly impressed. I felt a tiny victory buzz—like I’d just scored a point in some high-stakes royal game I didn’t even know I was playing.

The teacher cleared her throat, trying to save the mood. “Interesting point, Zuri. Now, let’s hear from the other side.”

Leo shot me one last glare, the kind that said, You’re not done yet, and I smiled inside, because honestly? I was just warming up.

The class gasped. Someone whispered, “Is she suicidal?”

Leo turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Prince Icecube,” I said, clutching my textbook for comfort. “Some of us had to earn our seats. You? You were born with a silver spoon so far up your—”

The class erupted into a mix of stifled giggles and wide-eyed gasps, like I’d just thrown a live grenade into the royal tea party.

Leo’s eyes practically smoked with fury, his polished exterior cracking just enough to reveal the storm underneath. He took a step closer, voice low and icy. “Watch your mouth, scholarship girl. Silver spoons don’t get this far on luck alone.”

I stood my ground, heart pounding like a drumline in a halftime show, and said, “Lucky? No. But some of us aren’t afraid to get our hands dirty. Even if it means clawing our way up from the bottom.”

Chiara gave me a thumbs-up from the side, whispering, “Killing it.”

Leo’s smirk returned, cold and calculating. “This debate just got interesting.”

And then... it happened.

I was trying to make a dramatic point, you know, the classic “wave-your-hands-like-you’re-on-a-telenovela” kind of gesture. But apparently, my coordination decided to take a coffee break because instead of a subtle wave, I went full-on swing mode—like I was batting in a cricket match, or auditioning for a slapstick comedy.

WHACK.

The textbook flew through the air like a weapon of mass education and landed squarely on Leo’s unsuspecting face. The sound? Think: a mix between a watermelon hitting a wall and the collective gasp of every shocked soul in the room.

The silence that followed was so thick, you could’ve cut it with a butter knife. You could even hear a mosquito, somewhere in the back, give its last, tiny dying eeeeep. Everyone froze — Leo blinked once, then slowly, oh so slowly, lifted the book off his face like he was trying to figure out if it was some sort of royal assassination attempt or just really aggressive studying.

I just stood there, cheeks flaming, ready to vanish into the floor, while the whole class held its breath, waiting to see if I’d get expelled or crowned the new queen of savage comebacks.

Leo wiped a bit of book dust off his cheek, eyes narrowing like a lion deciding if I was prey or just an annoying fly buzzing too close. For a heartbeat, I thought he might roar. Instead, he smirked—a slow, crooked smirk that said, “You’re trouble. And I kinda like it.”

The teacher cleared his throat awkwardly, probably debating whether to call security or sign us up for “Anger Management 101.”

I tried to play it cool, pretending the whole thing was totally on purpose, like I’d planned to turn debate class into a WWE match. “Just emphasizing my point,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound like it was cracking under pressure.

Chiara, sitting beside me, let out a low whistle. “Wow, girl. Didn’t know you came ready to throw down on day one.”

And just like that, the battle lines were drawn. Leo’s icy glare met my fiery glare, and somewhere in the back, the mosquito’s ghost probably raised a tiny, triumphant fist.

The whole room was dead silent, like someone had hit the pause button on life. Leo blinked once, twice, probably wondering if he’d just been auditioning for a slapstick comedy without realizing it. I blinked too, but my soul? Oh, it had already ghosted—took a scenic route through the afterlife, stopped for a quick coffee, and then came back screaming like, “WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!”

Leo stood up with all the slow, deliberate menace of a cat deciding if it wants to attack or just knock everything off the table. He rubbed his jaw like I’d just given him a surprise facial, the kind you don’t ask for but definitely remember. His eyes darkened into the “You’re going to regret this” shade, the kind of look that makes you question your life choices at least twice a day.

“You. Me. Detention,” he said, voice low and deadly serious, like he was announcing a duel at dawn, except with textbooks and teenage drama instead of swords.

I shot back, snapping like a firecracker on New Year’s Eve, “Gladly.” Inside, though? My nerves were doing the Macarena, and my heart was pounding like I’d just run a marathon wearing heels.

From behind me, Chiara hissed, “Girl, are you trying to get deported on day one?”

But honestly? It was too late. The war had officially begun, and there was no turning back. Welcome to St. Regalia, where even a simple debate class feels like the start of World War III.