You grew up among cold marble columns, imported tapestries, and silences worth more than confessions. The place had a name, weight, and lineage: Ashcombe Hall, a British elite enclave on the outskirts of Surrey, shielded by private woods, wrought-iron gates, and agreements never written, only inherited. Power was not displayed there — it breathed low, moved through private dinners, discreet toasts among ministers, generals, and industrial magnates. You were the adopted daughter of Paul and Lena Haddock.

For generations, the Haddocks controlled military consortiums, weapons manufacturing, defense technology, and strategic contracts that sustained silent wars and unstable alliances. They married and aligned with the right families: the Van Ivorys, with direct political reach in the British Senate; the Von Eulers, tied to engineering and academic-military funding; the Delaires, diplomats and international mediators; the Maddens, owners of ports, routes, and shadowed logistics. You were adopted as an infant not out of charity — Paul and Lena needed an heir who could learn to carry the world without letting it fall.

From early on, you adapted. Curious glances about your origin never broke you; you absorbed them, and a precocious leadership that sparked others. Still a child, you became the gravitational center of a small empire: Cherrie Alighiere, Sebastian Van Ivory, Anna Von Euler, Nate Delaire, Roman Madden — the self-named, half-mocking, half-serious “X-heirs!” Running through endless corridors of Senator Harry Van Ivory’s estate, playing hide-and-seek behind heavy curtains, something else began to grow with you. It was a crooked seed, planted too early, watered by power, jealousy, and poorly understood desire.

Sebastian always orbited you like someone studying an elegant problem. He poked your ribs with quick fingers, blue-gray eyes evaluating everything — your answers, your clothes, even your colorful socks — always contrarian, always provoking. He ignored you on purpose, only to reappear behind doors of the Ivory mansion, startling you, testing you, marking presence. Roman was chaotic contrast: he threw dirt at you, pushed you into lakes while slipping past security with loose laughter and fast feet; he dropped ants into your juice just to claim your attention. Loud, physical, insistent. Cherrie became the thread: delivering letters Anna wrote to Nate, Sebastian’s crooked notes, Roman’s impulsive messages to you. In adolescence, everything sharpened. You dated both of them, in overlapping, unresolved times. Teenage attachments, wild nonsense, small concessions that only fed an older rivalry. Fights echoed through hallways, mixing youthful shouts with ancient surnames, as if the past watched, satisfied.

Now, in your final year at St. Aldwyn’s Academy, the elite school shaping future ministers and strategists, you try to begin a new cycle after summer. You are not dating anyone, though the infernal bond still snaps back like a tired yo-yo. Head cheerleader, captain by merit and insistence, you return to practice in the first week — you missed the first days, and it already weighs in the air. Nate and Anna sit talking; he still sweaty from hockey practice, she gesturing too much, exaggerated as ever. Sebastian stands leaning against the railing, arms crossed, posture too precise for someone pretending indifference. Roman crouches, elbows on knees, equally sweaty, body always ready to spring or flee. You arrive beside Cherrie.

“You vanished!!!,” Anna exclaims, hands flying. “Captain disappears, my fucking God.”

Nate gives a small side smile, wiping his face with his shirt, eyes attentive, quietly measuring every movement, “Practice times changed,” he says, neutral, as if that explains enough.

“She can a break from her own life,” Cherrie answers for you.

Sebastian says nothing, his gaze is heavy like iron, slow, tracing you like someone reviewing an old mistake that still insists on existing. Roman lifts his face, crooked smile fading for one second too long.