Merciless - Cruel Education (Book 1) MOVING TO GALATEA

The taxi cost fifty-two pounds. I watch the numbers climb on the meter as we wind through narrow roads bordered by hedgerows so perfect they might've been trimmed with nail scissors. That's three shifts at the chip shop, or near enough. That's a week's worth of food if you know how to stretch things. That's the difference between eating and not eating when you age out of the care system with nothing.

It's also gone. Already spent. The scholarship covers tuition and accommodation, but getting here? That was on me.

I've got five pounds left in my current account, and another forty-two in cash. Forty-seven pounds total to my name until the stipend comes through in two weeks.

I've survived on less.

The hedgerows give way to stone walls, and then there it is: Blackthorne College.

"Bloody hell," the taxi driver mutters. He's not wrong.

Gothic doesn't quite cover it. The building rises from manicured grounds like something dreamt up by someone with more money than sense, all grey stone and pointed arches and windows so tall you'd need a ladder to clean them. Ivy crawls up the walls in elegant patterns. Even the plants here know their place.

Four separate buildings surround a central courtyard, each one distinct. I recognise them from the website photos: Blackthorne House to the north, Ashford House to the east, Thornfield to the west, Ravenswood to the south. The four founding families, their names carved into stone above each entrance in letters two feet high.

Legacy made literal.

"Which one, love?"

"Blackthorne House." The main one. Assigned to the oldest founding family. Where Kit Webb from Sunderland, first-generation university student with £47 to her name and everything she owns in one battered suitcase, is supposed to live for the next three years.

I made it.

The thought catches me off guard. I actually made it. Out of the care system, out of the bedsit that smelled like damp and disappointment, out of Sunderland entirely. Here, where the hedge trimming probably costs more than I earned in a year.

The driver pulls up to the main entrance. A few students mill about, mostly older ones, here early like me. Their clothes don't shout wealth, they whisper it. Cashmere jumpers, designer jeans that somehow look careless, shoes that probably cost what I paid in rent for a month.

I count out the fare in notes and coins, add a two-pound tip because my mother raised me right, even if she didn't raise me for long. The driver looks at the money like it might bite him.

"You sure, love?"

"It's all there."

"I meant… you sure you're meant to be here?"

I meet his eyes. Kind eyes, actually. He probably thinks he's doing me a favour, pointing out I've made a mistake before it's too late.

"Full scholarship," I say. "The Ashford Bursary."

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe.

"Well then. Good luck to you."

I grab my suitcase from the boot with everything I own inside it, and head toward the entrance. The stone steps are worn smooth in the centres, two hundred years of feet walking the same path. Legacy paths. Founding family paths.

Now my feet walk it too.

The entrance hall steals my breath away.

The vaulted ceilings. The dark wood panelling. There's even a chandelier the size of my old bedsit hanging from iron chains. Grand portraits line the walls, with men and women in historical dress staring down, their expressions ranging from stern to vaguely disappointed. The floor is black and white marble squares like a chessboard, and I have the sudden mad thought that I'm a pawn being moved into position.

A woman in her fifties approaches, clipboard in hand, smile professional but warm. "Welcome to Blackthorne. Name?"

"Katherine Webb. I'm-"

"The Ashford Bursary recipient, yes." Her smile brightens. "Congratulations, Katherine. That's an extremely competitive scholarship. You must be very talented."

Must be desperate, more like. But I'll take talented.

"Thank you."

She consults her clipboard. "You're in Blackthorne House, third floor. Room 3C. Someone will show you up shortly. For now, if you'd like to join the others in the common room?" She gestures to a doorway on the left. "We're gathering all the first years for orientation at four o'clock, but there's tea and biscuits while you wait."

The common room is massive, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlook the grounds. The furniture looks antique, but somehow still comfortable. A dozen or so students are already here, scattered in small groups. I clock the social dynamics immediately. Who's comfortable, who's nervous, who's pretending to be comfortable while actually being nervous.

Most of them look comfortable.

I head for the tea service because I'm genuinely thirsty and because it gives me something to do with my hands. The biscuits are proper biscuits, the expensive kind. Chocolate Leibniz. I eat three and feel no shame about it.

"Scholarship?"

I turn. A tall lad, maybe nineteen, with an easy smile and clothes that whisper old money. Dark hair, warm brown eyes, the kind of face that probably got him out of trouble in school.

"It's that obvious?" I frown, not that I didn't think it would be. You can't fake generational wealth.

"You're the only one actually eating the biscuits." His smile widens. "Marcus Ravenswood. Second year."

Ravenswood. One of the founding families. Of course he is.

"Kit Webb."

"The Ashford Bursary, brilliant. Congratulations." He says it like he means it, not like the taxi driver said it. "How are you finding it so far?"

"Big," I say honestly. "And expensive-looking."

He laughs. "Fair assessment. It gets less intimidating once you learn where everything is. Speaking of which, are you engineering or business?"

"Engineering. Sustainable energy systems."

"Excellent choice. Professor Whitmore's brilliant, you'll love her." He pauses, glances toward the doorway. "Fair warning: orientation includes a dinner tonight. Formal. So if you've got anything suitable in that suitcase…"

I have one decent outfit. Black trousers from Primark, a white blouse from the charity shop that I ironed carefully before packing. It'll do.

"Thanks for the heads-up."

"No problem. Oh, and Kit?" He hesitates. "There are the official rules, and then there's how things actually work here. Not quite the same thing."

Before I can ask what he means, a girl with blonde hair and a voice that could cut glass appears at his elbow.

"Marcus, darling, stop hoarding the scholarship student. We all want to meet her."

She's beautiful in that effortless way that comes with money and genetics and probably a skincare routine that costs more than my weekly food budget. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Georgiana Thornfield," she says, extending a hand like she's doing me a favour. "So lovely to meet you. The Ashford Bursary, how generous of them. You must be so grateful."

There it is.

"Very grateful," I say, matching her smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Where did you say you were from?"

"Sunderland."

"Oh." Her expression shifts, something between sympathy and satisfaction. "How… Northern. Well, I'm sure you'll fit in eventually. If you need any help navigating things, the right clothes, or the proper way to do things. Do let me know. I'm always happy to help those less fortunate."

Marcus's jaw tightens. "Georgiana."

"What? I'm being kind." She turns back to me, all sharp edges wrapped in cashmere. "See you at dinner, Katherine."

She glides away, leaving a wake of expensive perfume. I realise I never told her my name, and so it seems the gossip engine has already been running for a while.

"Don't mind her," Marcus says quietly. "She's like that with everyone."

"No, she's not." I meet his eyes. "She's like that with scholarship students from up north who don't belong here. I get it. It's fine."

"It's not fine."

"It's survivable." I finish my tea. "Thanks for the warning, Marcus."

I spend the next hour unpacking in my room. It's small but clean, with a single bed, desk, wardrobe, and a window overlooking the quad. It's bigger than my bedsit. Quieter too. I put my clothes away, set up my fancy new scholarship-provided laptop on the desk, and place my mother's photo on the bedside table.

Emma Webb, age twenty-three, smiling at a camera with me on her hip. I was maybe four before things got bad. Before the drugs, before the overdose.

"Made it, Mam," I whisper to the photo. "Proper university and everything."

She doesn't answer. She never does.

At four o'clock, orientation begins. The Dean, Dr. Aldridge, gives a speech about excellence and legacy and the privilege of attending Blackthorne. His eyes slide over me when he mentions the "generous scholarship program that allows talented students from all backgrounds to join our community."

Then he mentions the 'unique mentorship program' that pairs first-years with second-years from founding families. 'An invaluable networking opportunity,' he calls it. 'A chance to learn the Blackthorne way directly from those who embody our traditions.'

Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle. But I'm probably just paranoid.

At six o'clock, we're herded toward the dining hall for the formal welcome dinner.

The hall is something from a film. Long wooden tables stretching the length of the room, high ceilings with exposed beams, and more portraits of stern historical figures. A high table sits on a dais at the far end, where faculty sit.

I find a seat near the middle and watch as the room fills. Students in formal wear, chatter echoing off stone walls. I'm absurdly grateful for my Primark trousers and charity shop blouse, even if they're the cheapest things in the room.

Then I see him.

He's at the far end, talking to a professor, and I notice him the way you notice a fire alarm: immediate, visceral, and impossible to ignore.

Tall. Dark hair that falls over his eyes just slightly, like he can't be bothered to cut it properly. Sharp features, the kind that would photograph well. Expensive clothes worn carelessly. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, like something wild that's learned to wear a suit.

Then he looks up, and I see his eyes. Grey-blue, cold as North Sea water. The kind of eyes that assess value and find you wanting. The kind of eyes that see everything and care about nothing.

He's bored. Completely, utterly bored. Looking at the room like he's seen it all before and found it wanting. His gaze sweeps across the students, dismissive, until it lands on me.

Something changes in his expression. Not warmth, nothing that kind. Interest, maybe. Assessment. He sees me seeing him, and one corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Then he looks away, already bored again.

My heart is hammering a rapid tattoo, and I don't know why. Fight or flight, probably. That look felt like being pinned by a predator that's deciding whether you're worth the chase.

"That's Raphael Ashford," someone whispers beside me. A girl with dark skin and kind eyes who'd introduced herself earlier as Amara. "Second year Masters. His family owns half of London, basically. You know, the banking Ashfords?"

I don't, but I nod anyway.

"Total bastard, apparently," Amara continues. "But beautiful and rich enough to get away with it."

I watch him take his seat at the high table - of course, he's at the high table - and something cold settles in my chest. Not fear exactly. More like recognition.

I know what dangerous looks like. I grew up with it, in different forms. And Raphael Ashford, beautiful and bored and looking at the world like it owes him something, is dangerous.

The Dean stands to give another speech. I should listen, but I'm still thinking about those grey-blue eyes, that assessing look.

"And now," the Dean says, "a special welcome to our scholarship recipient, who joins us through the generosity of our founding families. This year's Ashford Bursary winner, Katherine Webb, brings exceptional academic credentials from-" he pauses, just slightly "Sunderland Academy."

A few titters around the room. Sunderland Academy is a comprehensive school, it's state-funded, in one of the poorest parts of the Northeast.

I keep my face neutral. Fuck them.

"Katherine joins us to study engineering, and we're delighted to have her."

Polite applause. A few curious looks. Georgiana's smile from across the table is all teeth.

From the high table, Raphael Ashford watches me with those cold eyes, still bored, still assessing. I meet his gaze. I don't look away. After a beat, he does with a small insufferable smirk. He picks up his wine glass, drinks, and looks away like I'm not worth his time or attention.

Good. That's fine. Perfect, actually.

I'm not here for him or Georgiana or anyone else. I'm here for the degree, for the job prospects, for the life that education can buy. Three years and I'm free. Three years of keeping my head down, working hard, and proving I belong here, even if they think I don't.

Three years. I can survive anything for three years.

The dinner drags on, course after course, speeches and toasts galore. I smile politely, answer questions about my background with careful vagueness. I deflect and redirect like I learned in the care homes. Nobody really cares anyway. I'm the scholarship student from up North, the diversity tick box, the feel-good story about mobility and opportunity.

By ten o'clock, I'm exhausted. Not from the day so much as from the constant performance, the code-switching, the careful navigation of social waters I barely understand. I slip away while people are still drinking and laughing, and head back to my room in Blackthorne House.

My laptop sits on the desk. I should unpack the last few things, hang up my jacket, and get ready for tomorrow's schedule. Instead, I sit on the bed and stare at my mother's photo.

"I'm here," I tell her. Tell myself, really. "First day done. Made it this far."

Three years feels both impossibly long and maybe, possibly, survivable.

I change into pyjamas and brush my teeth in the shared bathroom down the hall. When I return, the scholarship paperwork still sits on my desk—two hundred pages of terms and conditions I'd signed without reading properly because who reads scholarship contracts properly when you're desperate and grateful and can't believe your luck?

I should read it now. I should go through it carefully, understand what I've agreed to.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll read it properly.

Tonight I'm just tired.

I turn off the light and lie in the dark, listening to footsteps in the corridor, distant laughter, the sounds of wealthy students settling into their wealthy lives at their wealthy college.

And I think about cold grey-blue eyes looking at me like I might be interesting.

Like I might be worth noticing.