Operation Ascendancy: Phase Two (The Bloodbath in Blazers)
Thursday, February 13thDear Diary,
We are now officially in a social cold war.
Forget the school prospectus, the uniforms, the serene chapel with suspiciously ancient ivy—St. Augustine's is a battlefield. Not with swords, but with side-eyes, silence, and savage subtweets. And I, Leoni Cortzel, the rightful heir to Upper East Side fabulousness, will not be outmaneuvered by an aristocrat with a hairbrush and a superiority complex.
Let me tell you what happened today.
Phase Two: Seize the Morning.
I decided to neutralize Cressida's psychological dominance over the dining hall. She arrives at exactly 7:45 AM, sits at the third table from the left, and drinks green tea with lemon. Everyone else orbits her like she's some kind of solar queen with a Prada halo.
So I woke up at 5:30 AM (yes, actual suffering), applied a three-step glass-skin routine, curled my hair into effortless waves (nothing effortless about it), and marched in at 7:30 sharp. I took her table.
And waited.
At 7:45 on the dot, the temperature in the room dropped three degrees. Cressida entered like a gust of icy wind in Louis Vuitton loafers. She looked at me. I looked back. I smiled.
She blinked once. Then walked past.
But—oh no, Diary—she didn't go sit at another table. She walked to the kitchen. Two minutes later, she emerged… with a tea tray. And she carried it all the way to my table and sat across from me.
"Morning," she said sweetly, like she wasn't planning my assassination.
I said, "Morning, darling. Sleep well, or did your conscience keep you up?"
Her eyes twitched. A small victory.
Then she smiled. Again. That terrible, soft, lethal smile that says, "I've already read your obituary."
"You're wearing Cartier," she said. "From last season."
I nearly choked on my grapefruit. She clocked my bracelet like a sniper."Vintage," I said, trying not to flinch. "You wouldn't understand."
"Of course. Nostalgia's very in this year."
I swear she called my bracelet nostalgia. This is psychological warfare in pearls.
Lunch: The Coup Attempt
After my brush with social death, I knew I needed allies. Fast. So I pulled Lily Wu and Ava Fernandes into a side conversation in the art courtyard and offered them both seats at my "inner circle." I told them we'd host a themed dinner party for Valentine's Day. All-girls, all-pink, all-exclusive. They looked interested… until Juniper Cross—Cressida's terrifyingly well-informed second-in-command—appeared out of nowhere and said:
"Oh, didn't Cressida already announce her Valentine's soirée? Gatsby-themed. Champagne mocktails. A harpist."
A HARPIST.I planned heart-shaped cupcakes and glitter name cards. She got a literal harpist.
Lily said she "might be busy that night." Ava just shrugged and said, "Well, we could go to both."
Both.No, darling. That's not how royalty works. There's no "both." There's only mine.
Evening Debrief: Self-Care and Sabotage
I took a 90-minute bath, drank overpriced imported coconut water, and began re-strategizing.
I'm done playing the wide-eyed new girl. That got me sympathy. It won't get me the throne.
So here's the new plan:
Target Juniper Cross. The brain behind Cressida's empire. If she cracks, the whole regime teeters.
Launch the Valentine's event anyway. But rebrand it as a "Roses and Revenge" party. Dark, dramatic, exclusive. An antidote to Cressida's pinkwashed Gatsby circus.
Find dirt. Every queen has a scandal. I want hers.
Recruit Leonora (if I can find her—she's been acting weird, sneaking around near the chapel like she's starring in some cursed Victorian boarding school novel). If she's uncovering secrets, maybe I can use them.
Also, side note: The Wi-Fi here is criminal. I can't even stream my face yoga instructor properly, and if I get fine lines from stress, I swear I'll sue.
Anyway. Cressida may have the harpist. She may have the pedigree. She may walk like the hallway was built just for her.But I have something she doesn't.
An origin story.
And if high school is just monarchy with better lighting, then I'm coming for the crown, Diary.No matter how many girls I have to out-glam, outwit, or outlast.
XOXO,Leoni Cortzel, Future Supreme