Chapter 1: The Witch of St. Augustine's
Isabella's POV
The first day of senior year was supposed to feel like a new beginning. At least that's what my friend Clara always said.
'We start fresh with everything,' she'd say :fresh notebooks, clean uniforms, new goals…' yeah, all that sentimental rubbish.
For me? It just smelled like freshly cut grass, expensive perfume, and entitlement. Lots of entitlement.
Still, I couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at my lips as I stepped through the arched gates of St. Augustine's Academy. The grand old building loomed ahead of me, all ivy-draped stone walls and sharp spires, like something pulled out of an English Gothic postcard. I'd walked these paths for three years already, but on mornings like this, even I had to admit it was breathtaking.
And intimidating.
The only reason I was stepping through the gates right now was because I had gone back home to wish my parents goodbye for their trip. We'd just come back from vacation and they were going on another. Well, it's not like I could fault them, they needed the break especially after my mother almost collapsed last year. My father wasn't ready to lose his wife so he dropped most of his work and decided to spend more time with her.
Anyway, that's about what I'll tell you regarding my parents so let's move back to where we were. Students swarmed the courtyard, a sea of navy-blue blazers, crisp white shirts, and perfectly pressed skirts and trousers. Some already clustered in groups, laughing too loudly. Some others dragged glossy suitcases across the cobblestones, returning from summers in yachts and villas scattered across Europe. It should be noted that in my school, you can resume any time you felt like as long as it was within the first few weeks of resumption and by few I meant two.
Everywhere I looked, money dripped from students, their diamond watches, designer handbags, leather shoes polished until I could see my own reflection. I sounded jealous but the truth was, I was one of them. My clothes were designer too and even my pen was customised. I'm not boasting, it's just the truth.
This was St. Augustine's college where CEOs sent their heirs, where senators and ministers shipped off their children, where royalty belonged, where the second son of a Duke could get away with murder. And I mean that literally…probably.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and kept walking, my polished black loafers clicking against the stone. The last thing I needed was to be caught in the hallway stampede once the bell rang.
I tugged my vest closed as a cool breeze swept through the courtyard. Most students wore their blazers like armor, stiff and proper, but I'd always preferred the fitted navy vest that came with the uniform. It let me move easier, and it was far less suffocating.
The moment I stepped into the east corridor, the noise dimmed, replaced by the echo of my footsteps. The hallway was long and cavernous, lined with tall windows that let in stripes of sunlight. Gold-framed portraits of past headmasters stared down at me disapprovingly, and beneath my feet, the marble floor gleamed as though someone had scrubbed it with until their reflection stared back at them just like mine was doing.
"Isabella!"
I turned just in time to see Clara and Yvette waving wildly from across the courtyard. Clara's ponytail bounced as she half-dragged Yvette, both of them talking at the same time, their words carrying faintly even through the crowd.
"Classroom," I mouthed, pointing toward the door in front of me. Clara gave me a thumbs-up, while Yvette wrinkled her nose as though asking why we should go to the classroom. If there was one person who hated school and classrooms, it was Yvette. Too bad she needed it if she was going to take over her mother's fashion empire.
I smoothed my skirt, straightened my tie, and reached for the brass handle of the classroom door. This was it, the start of our final year. If I could just keep my head down and avoid certain people, it would pass quickly.
But of course, St. Augustine's had other plans.
Splash!
The sound came first, followed by the sensation. Something cold and thick crashed onto the top of my head and cascaded down my hair, soaking into my vest and shirt. My breath caught as the heavy liquid dripped into my eyes, slid down my arms, and splattered across the marble floor.
Blue. Fucking. Paint.
I blinked through streaks of paint, watching it form a puddle at my feet, staining my loafers.
Then came the clicking, the sound of phone shutters.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Gasps rippled through the hallway from the few students present as laughter followed.
I didn't need to guess. I didn't need divine revelation. I knew exactly who was behind this, laughing like the devil himself.
I turned slowly, and there he was, the bane of my fucking existence, Alexander Hawthorne.
Golden blond hair, messy in that effortless way that fucking suited him. Eyes the exact shade of a summer sky, sharp and mocking even from across the hall. His blazer hung loosely over his shoulders, tie dangling like he hadn't even bothered to knot it properly. One hand was tucked in his pocket, the other twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, an accessory he carried as casually as his arrogance.
He was surrounded by his clique, all laughing like hyenas as they snapped photos and shoved each other. Alex himself was doubled over, laughing so hard his voice echoed down the entire corridor.
My notebook slipped from my paint-stained hand and thudded onto the marble. I didn't bother to pick it up. Fuck avoiding him.
"Oh, look," Alex drawled between chuckles, his voice thick with mockery. "The witch is back. And she's dressed for the part this year."
More laughter erupted, bouncing off the walls, sinking into my skin. Heat burned across my face, not just from humiliation but from rage. I clenched my fists. I was going to knock that ridiculous look off his face.
I grabbed the still-dripping bucket perched on the doorframe and charged.
"ISABELLA!" Clara screamed somewhere down the hall.
She hated trouble and violence but I had a penchant for it. And besides, it was too late to stop me.
Alex's eyes widened, and then that insufferable grin split his face. He spun on his heel and bolted, blazer flaring out behind him.
"Run for your lives!" he yelled, weaving through a group of wide-eyed freshmen. "The Mad Hatter is on the loose!"
The crowd exploded with shrieks and laughter. Phones rose higher, recording every second as I sprinted after him, paint sloshing dangerously with each step.
"Alex!" I roared. "You're dead!"
"Careful, Marquez," he called back, dodging around a corner. "But I have to say, blue is so not your color!"
Students flattened themselves against lockers as we tore past. My shoes squeaked against the marble, his laughter echoing just ahead of me. I ignored the ache in my arms from the heavy bucket, the way paint dripped down my sleeves, I wasn't stopping until I caught him and drenched him with this paint.
He skidded to avoid a teacher, nearly knocking the poor man's coffee across the floor. His friends howled with laughter, egging him on.
"Come on, Isabella!" Alex shouted over his shoulder, his voice infuriatingly gleeful. "Is that the best you've got?"
My blood boiled.
With a burst of speed, I closed the gap. He glanced back just as I swung the bucket, sending a fresh wave of blue paint splattering across his pristine shirt and down his expensive leather shoes.
His laughter cut off in a sharp inhale.
Got him.
I opened my mouth to deliver the finishing blow, some scathing remark that would leave him speechless, when a third voice thundered across the hallway.
"What," it rumbled, low and dangerous, "is the meaning of this?"
Silence fell instantly and phones were lowered. Alex and I turned at the same time and froze when we saw who spoke.
Headmaster Alistair.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a flawless three-piece suit that probably cost more than my family's house. His silver hair was slicked back, his expression carved from stone.
Blue paint dripped onto his perfectly polished black shoes.
I swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry sir." I said as I started retreating.
Alex followed my lead. "I'm really sorry sir." He told him.
"Don't even think about running," he said to us.
"Run? Who is running?" We asked at the same time then turned to glare at each other.
"My office, now!" Alistair roared and we knew there was no escape now, not after he knew we planned to run before.
"Yes sir."
And so begins my last days at St. Augustine's College. So much for a calm year.