Chapter 25: Chapter 25: Shadows in the Light
And yet… what feud existed between him and Melanie? What had she done to earn such rage?
She sat, crossing her legs slowly. Her phone was still in her hand. She stared at it, waiting—hoping for another call.
A thrill ran down her spine. Powerful people never introduced themselves first. They let their actions speak.
Still, a small part of her wished he would walk in right now, tell her it was nothing, tell her she was safe.
The call had ended, but the voice still echoed in her head.
“Someone powerful,” she whispered to herself, eyes gleaming. “Someone dangerous.”
It had been a quiet day so far. Classes were manageable, the pressure of the competition hadn’t crushed her yet, and Leo hadn’t texted her about any company emergencies. A small miracle.
Her lips twitched.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. No name. No image. Nothing to trace.
She locked her phone and set it aside, trying to calm the storm rising in her chest. The silence in the room suddenly felt too loud, too heavy. Her eyes darted to the corners, to the windows—searching for something she couldn’t name. She had always felt safe in the manor. But now, the vast halls felt distant. Cold. Vulnerable.
It was a warning.
“Mrs. Westwood,” the professor said, nodding politely.
Someone she hadn’t seen coming.
She walked to the window, arms folded as she stared out at the city skyline. The storm clouds gathering above mirrored the storm in her head.
The sky outside the Harrington Design Studio was cloudless and pale blue. Melanie walked along the hallway with a light sketchbook in her arm, her thoughts unusually calm.
A text message.
Unknown Number: Enjoy your spotlight while it lasts, Mrs. Westwood.
This wasn’t a dream anymore.
Rose didn’t know—and truthfully, she didn’t care.
“How’s the prodigy doing?”
No strange cars. No people lingering.
She swallowed hard, rereading the message.
Melanie stood in place for a few seconds, absorbing the words.
She sat at the long table, poking at her plate, appetite gone.
Melanie rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m surviving. Barely.”
She paused, then nodded. “Maybe. If I don’t burn it first.”
Jason slung his bag over his shoulder. “Need a ride home?”
Keep pushing.
Somewhere deep inside, something clicked into place. She smiled faintly and moved on.
****
Part of her wanted to laugh. After all these years of competing with Melanie in silence—now someone else had entered the game.
She slipped into the back of the car and waved at Jason as the driver pulled away.
This was her new reality.
It was on the message.
“I reviewed the rough sketch you submitted this morning,” she said. “Unusual composition. But inspired. Keep pushing.”
What could he do anyway? Protect her from shadows?
Rose paused at her vanity, catching her reflection. A wicked smile curled on her lips.
Yet.
Melanie blinked. A compliment?
Or maybe not.
The hours passed quickly, filled with drafting lines, comparing fabrics, and listening to critiques. There was an ease to the rhythm now—a steadiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. She didn’t feel like someone pretending anymore.
After the final bell rang, students began packing up. Betty popped in from the adjacent lab.
Or something worse?
He wanted to destroy her, or should she say wanted her gone.
They walked out together, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the pavement. She felt the breeze on her face and allowed herself a moment of serenity.
It wasn’t just a random comment.
Back at the manor, she kicked off her heels and headed upstairs to change out of her school clothes. A shower later, she felt refreshed and less weighed down.
But that didn’t comfort her.
Her phone buzzed.
Melanie gave her a thumbs up. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
And someone had their eyes on her.
“Same,” he said, scribbling something on his screen. “Wanna show me your sketch later?”
“When it’s time… I’ll come to you.”
Downstairs, the dining room was lit warmly, the clinking of cutlery and low voices from the kitchen blending into the usual evening melody.
She stood and pulled the curtain aside, staring out at the gates.
She felt like she belonged.
***
And what it meant.
He hadn’t said.
Melanie nodded silently. “Thanks.”
She picked up her fork but didn’t lift it. A grandfather clock ticked steadily in the hallway, louder than she remembered. The chandelier above swayed slightly—as if the air had shifted. Or maybe she was imagining it. She swallowed hard. She wasn’t used to being afraid. Not like this.
Maybe she would tell him about the message.
A knock came on the door. It was one of the staff. “Dinner will be ready shortly, ma’am.”
She tied her hair into a lazy bun and sank into the bed for a second. Just a moment’s peace.
Professor Yara gave a brief smile and continued on.
Melanie slowed, blinking. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Mel!” she called. “Don’t forget our coffee date tomorrow.”
But who was he?
And this man? He didn’t just hate Melanie.
Rose’s POV
Jason laughed.
Her chest tightened. Was this a prank? A jealous student?
“Nah. The driver is always lurking somewhere,” she said lightly.
For once, she wouldn’t have to fight alone.
If he was willing to bring Melanie down, she was more than happy to help pave the road.
A stranger who hated Melanie enough to seek allies? That couldn’t be a coincidence.
But deep down, Melanie knew better.
Melanie’s POV
Her mind wasn’t on food.
“I don’t know who you are,” she whispered aloud, “but you sound powerful. And right now, I could use someone powerful.”
Leonard wasn’t back yet.
Melanie sat up instantly, her breath catching.
“Must be nice,” Jason teased.
So, she wasn’t the only one.
Rose sat at the edge of her bed, her phone still in hand, the mysterious call replaying in her mind like a riddle she couldn’t solve. Her brows were furrowed, lips parted slightly as if the silence would offer her some kind of answer.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice soft but sincere.
Back in the classroom, she dropped into her seat beside Jason, who looked up from his tablet.
She’d just stepped out of the textile workshop when Professor Yara passed her in the hallway.
She paced the length of her room, her manicured nails tapping against her thigh. That voice—smooth, low, commanding—knew her name. Knew her history. Knew enough about Melanie to speak with venom
