"The Princess"—the love triangle involving a painter and a poet—spread through the academy overnight as if it had sprouted wings.

On my way to the cafeteria, I felt gazes from every direction—curious, sympathetic, or gleefully malicious. Whispers followed me like persistent flies impossible to swat away.


"Did you hear? That Isabella publicly confessed to Sebastian from the Art Society."

"Poor Arya. Her boyfriend's about to be stolen right from under her nose."

"What's to pity? I'd choose the princess too. That's wealth and status most people can only dream about."


Most were convinced Sebastian would choose Isabella. After all, money and status have corrupted far stronger hearts than his.

But I still wanted to believe in him.


I remembered how his eyes held nothing but pure devotion when he painted. Surely that purity couldn't be so easily corrupted. That moment of hesitation in the restaurant yesterday—surely it was just momentary shock at her unexpected offer.

At lunch, I sat alone in the corner. Sebastian never appeared; he was clearly avoiding me.

A conversation from the neighboring table drifted to my ears.

"That Isabella—is she for real? Something feels off." The male voice was unfamiliar.

"Reynard, not this again. She's hosting a party at Egret Manor. How could she be fake?"

"But I checked—the Windermere royal family's hair color is—"

"Enough, enough! Don't ruin the excitement. Can't we just enjoy having something interesting happening for once?"

Reynard. I committed the name to memory. At least one person at this academy still possessed critical thinking skills.

With afternoon classes canceled, I headed to the painting studio. I needed to find Sebastian and clear the air.

The studio air hung heavy with turpentine and oil paint. Sebastian stood before an unfinished canvas, his back to the door. Isabella hovered beside him, standing so close their shoulders nearly touched.

Her finger traced a line on his canvas, her voice honeyed and coy: "Sebastian, imagine if you used the royal-exclusive 'Windermere Blue' here. It would be absolutely stunning. Just say yes, and I'll have an entire set delivered to you by tomorrow."

Sebastian neither spoke nor moved away. His brush-hand hung suspended in midair, frozen with indecision.

My heart turned to ice. All hope and trust vanished like soap bubbles, leaving not even a damp spot behind.

"Isabella," I called out, my voice surprisingly steady even to my own ears, "you've never even set foot in the royal capital. How would you know anything about 'Windermere Blue'?"

They whirled around in unison, twin expressions of shock on their faces.

Isabella recovered first, clutching Sebastian's arm and arranging her features into wounded innocence. "Arya, I understand you're jealous, but these baseless accusations are beneath you!"

"Baseless?" I stepped closer, my eyes fixed on Sebastian. "The true Princess of Windermere has had silver hair from birth. Her accent was shaped by the finest court tutors and would never carry that southern rural drawl. And she would never use a royal residence to barter for someone's affections."

With each word, Isabella's face drained of color.

I turned to Sebastian, waiting. I was giving him a chance—an opportunity to expose this fraud and stand by me.

Instead, he frowned and stepped protectively in front of Isabella.

"Arya, enough of this nonsense." His voice dripped with exhaustion and irritation. "Does it really matter whether Isabella is a princess or not?"

It felt like a bucket of ice water cascading from my crown to my toes.

"So you choose to believe in the future she's promised you?" I asked, my voice betraying the slightest tremor.

Sebastian's eyes slid away from mine, unable to meet my gaze. "I... I just want to give myself a chance," he murmured.

A chance to become a court painter and bask in wealth and glory.

I understood. Completely.

I stared at those blue eyes that once reflected only his canvas and me, now clouded with naked ambition. He seemed like a stranger—one who repulsed me.

"Fine." Just one word.

"Sebastian, we're done."

Without another glance, I turned and walked from the studio. Behind me, Isabella's triumphant chuckle mingled with Sebastian's half-hearted call of my name.

I didn't break stride for a moment.