The Rolls-Royce Phantom purred softly as it rolled up the long, tree-lined driveway of Institut Le Rosey. Its glossy black body caught the morning light, reflecting the awed faces of students who stopped mid-step, their conversations breaking into hurried whispers.
The sound of tires crunching against the gravel seemed to command silence, drawing all attention toward the arriving car.
When Xavier stepped out to open the door, the courtyard grew tense with anticipation. And then we emerged, Valentina with her flowing dark red hair, Isabella with her light blue waves, and Sofia with golden brown locks, each strand brushing against our ankles like woven silk. Our obsidian beads glinted against the sunlight, darker than onyx, rarer than gold. In this world, they were more than jewels. They were crowns.
The crowd rippled with reactions. Silver girls clasped each other's hands, whispering breathlessly. The gold girls, once untouchable, suddenly looked uneasy, their bracelets shimmering in pale contrast. Boys froze in place—some staring openly with lust, others with a quieter awe, as though beauty itself had descended before them.
"Look," someone murmured, "the Marinos…"
"They're even more beautiful than people said," another whispered back.
But it wasn't just beauty that drew the stares. Everyone knew what it meant to be close to us. To marry into the Marino family was to ascend instantly, to gain privileges and power that could change the course of a life. Even a close friendship with us was enough to make rivals bow their heads in deference. Our presence turned the air electric, charged with ambition, envy, and desire. At the school gates, a cluster of teachers waited with stiff postures. At their center stood the principal, a tall man with hair silvered by time and eyes that radiated wisdom. He was Alessandro Moreau—Xavier's father. To the world, he was the stern leader of Le Rosey, but to us, he was family. The moment we saw him, our composure cracked. We rushed forward, throwing our arms around him in a tight embrace.
"Nonno Alessandro!" Isabella exclaimed, her voice bright with affection.
He chuckled, embracing us warmly despite the watchful crowd. "You've grown even more dazzling since I last saw you. Just like your mother."
We bowed our heads respectfully—something we rarely did for anyone—and placed the carefully wrapped gifts into his hands.
"These are for you," Valentina said softly, her crimson lips curving into a rare smile.
The teachers gasped at the display. It was not the gifts that shocked them, but the intimacy of the gesture. The Marinos bowed to no one. No one except Alessandro Moreau. The murmurs grew louder, and that was when the first confrontation arrived. From the crowd emerged three girls, each adorned with golden beads that sparkled in the morning sun. They walked together, the click of their designer heels echoing like a declaration of war.
The first, Élodie Laurent, was statuesque, her long platinum hair framing a face that seemed carved from marble. The second, Bianca Rossi, had an hourglass figure that she flaunted boldly, her emerald eyes sharp with confidence. The third, Noura Al-Fayeed, was petite but striking, her movements precise, her smile sly as if she knew secrets no one else did. They stopped directly in front of us, their gazes intense.
"So," Élodie drawled, her voice smooth like velvet. "The rumors were true." The Marino triplets have finally arrived."
Bianca's lips curved into a smirk. "And in obsidian, no less. "I suppose it's only natural that all eyes are on you." She glanced around, as if to remind us of the stares we were drawing.
Noura tilted her head, her dark eyes glittering. "We should talk." Alliances matter here, and… let's say, the right friendships can make life much easier.
Her meaning was clear. They weren't here to welcome us—they were circling like predators, each vying for a chance to tie their futures to ours. Whether through marriage or friendship, they wanted elevation.
Valentina met their stares evenly, her expression unreadable. "Friendships should be earned, not negotiated," she said coolly.
Isabella's smile was softer, but no less sharp. "We've only just arrived." Perhaps you should let us breathe before offering proposals."
Sofia said nothing, but the flick of her golden-brown hair over her shoulder spoke volumes.
Around us, whispers surged. The Golden Girls looked restless, their jealousy barely concealed. Silver girls stared with wide eyes, some in admiration, while others looked on with envy. Boys leaned closer, some smirking with lust, others dazzled by our refusal to bow to pressure. And above it all, from the five-story building, seniors watched. Royal heirs, political heirs, and the scions of old money leaned over railings, golden beads glinting at their ankles. Their eyes were calculating, eager, and hungry. They didn't just want to meet us—they wanted connections that would ripple across nations.
"They're everything the rumors promised," one senior murmured.
"Obsidian changes everything," another replied.
The tension was thick as Alessandro placed a hand on our shoulders, gently but firmly. "Enough," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "You are here to learn, not to quarrel."
The gold girls retreated, their smiles never fading, but their eyes sharp with an unspoken challenge at us coming back to them and a hint of lust. This was not the end; it was only the beginning. We walked forward, our heads high, obsidian beads glimmering with every step.
Behind us, the whispers followed like shadows. At Le Rosey, the game had begun.