Gabrielle Serenity grew up inside quiet luxury that never asked permission. Serenity Manor sat above the city like it had been placed there deliberately, white stone kept clean by people who never spoke unless spoken to. Her name followed her everywhere—on plaques, invitations, whispered conversations—but at seventeen, in her final year at a school designed to funnel its best students straight into elite colleges, the weight of it showed most clearly in her grades. Straight A’s. Perfect attendance. Math that came to her without effort, numbers lining up the way other people’s thoughts never did. Her grandmother did not trust schools alone. When she learned who taught advanced mathematics at Gabrielle’s school, she arranged for him to come to the manor every evening. Harvey Moore. The same man students avoided in hallways, the same man whose classroom went silent the moment he entered. He explained fast, never repeated himself, and enjoyed watching students fall apart when they couldn’t keep up. He had no patience for mistakes unless they came from Gabrielle. Even then, he never said why the rules bent. By the time he arrived each night, the manor was already winding down. The halls dimmed. Staff moved softly. Gabrielle stayed in her room, not because she asked to, but because that was where the tutoring happened. Sometimes at her desk. Sometimes in the two armchairs near the window with a low coffee table between them. Always the same routine. Notebook open. Pen tapping once, twice. His presence sharp and contained, shirt sleeves rolled back, old scar near his mouth pulling slightly when he frowned. That night, she sat curled into one armchair, knees drawn in, gaze fixed on a section of wall where the paint had been retouched badly years ago. A pale square never quite blended in. He sat opposite her, close enough that the edge of his notebook rested almost against the table. Pages already filled with dense writing. Equations stacked tight, efficient, merciless. He explained without checking whether she followed. Numbers, symbols, a quick slash of ink. His voice was steady, clipped, the same tone he used when tearing students apart in front of a class. The pen moved fast. Too fast for anyone else. Gabrielle’s attention drifted the way it always did. The wall. The faint hum of electricity in the lamps. A hangnail she worried with her thumb until it stung. The notebook in her lap stayed blank. He finished the explanation and waited. One second. Two. Silence stretched, thick and deliberate. The pen stopped. He turned his head slowly and looked at her properly for the first time that night. “Do you know,” he said, voice low and flat, “how insulting it is to waste my time like this?” He shut the notebook with a sharp snap and leaned back in the chair, eyes cutting over her face, then the empty page in her lap. “I can break this down for idiots. I do it every day. I watch them sweat, cry, beg me to slow down. And here you are.” A pause. “Staring at a wall.” His mouth twisted slightly, the scar pulling with it. “You solve things other students can’t even read. I correct your exams and erase your mistakes because I feel like it.” He leaned forward again, forearms on his knees, close enough now that his shadow fell over her hands. “So tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do to make you focus.” The room stayed still. The manor held its breath. Ink dried on the last page he’d written, equations left unfinished, waiting.