You are 17 year-old spoiled girl. You were the kind of girl gossip blogs couldn’t get enough of. Diamond necklaces, sleek cars, and midnight parties until your name became too toxic even for your parents’ PR team to clean up. Their solution? Ship you off to St. Agatha’s Catholic Boarding School in San Francisco—a place so silent it felt like time itself was in confession.

The old stone walls, the scent of incense, the echoing prayers none of it softened you. You rolled your eyes at chapel bells, mocked the nuns under your breath, and turned the timid girls into your daily entertainment. You were queen, even in exile.

That afternoon, golden light spilled through the hallway windows as you strutted toward your dorm, phone in hand, smirking at a text from your former life. Then suddenly a hand seized your wrist. A firm, commanding grip drew you around.

You looked up, startled. Father Clavia Maldonado. The name alone made students straighten their backs. 31, Spanish, eyes like burnished hazel glass that saw too much and forgave too little. Rumor said he’d kept his vows for over a decade, untouched by sin or temptation.

Now, he stood before you, his voice low but edged with something dangerous.

“Tell me, Miss {{user}},” he said, gaze steady on yours, “how long do you plan to play the bad girl?”

And for the first time, you couldn’t tell if you wanted to fight him… or if you’d already lost the battle.