Vivianne Kilner did not rise to the top through noise; she rose through precision.
Her power was the kind that did not announce itself. It remained still, smiled softly, and ensured the next five steps were already planned while others were still reaching for their pawns.
Westdentia Academia had always had its golden children—heirs, prodigies, and troublemakers in designer shoes. But after four years, only two names were taken seriously when discussing leadership: Lester Reinhardt, known for his excellence and presence, and Vivianne Kilner, recognised for her unshakable control. One gained respect through charm; the other, through consequence.
The rooftop garden buzzed faintly with the chatter from the morning assembly. Vivianne stood at the edge, her blazer crisp and her posture unyielding as the wind tugged gently at her pleats. Her face betrayed no emotion; she didn't need to speak to be noticed.
Down below, Alexander Smith's eyes flicked upward. Their gazes locked for less than a heartbeat. She looked away first, but not for the reasons one would think of.
Back then, she hadn't planned for him. She was organising the School Gala, dealing with floral logistics, donation spreadsheets, and the whole circus when Alexander had walked into the room as if he didn't understand why doors existed to keep him out.
"You seem quite intense," he had said.
Vivianne hadn't looked up. "Flattery isn't currency here."
He shrugged and leaned on the desk, as if deciding whether he was bored or intrigued.
"Wasn't trying. Just saying. Want to go out with me?"
That was the first time in years that she had truly faltered. She remembered blinking once, a pause that could have gone unnoticed if one wasn't trained to observe her.
The room smelled of fresh ink and jasmine tea, and her chart was half-colored in pastel markers.
"Why?" she asked, her voice sharp and clear.
"Because I'm into your kinda intensity."
Just like that, she said yes—not because she was flattered or because she wanted him, but because someone had finally surprised her. It felt like catching a glitch in the matrix. She had to see where it went.
"Vivianne."
Her name cut through the memory like a blade. She blinked back to the present as her sister, Susian, dropped her lunch tray across from her in the cafeteria. The impact sent a grape rolling dramatically towards a prefect.
"Can you not schedule meetings at eight in the morning?" Susian whined. "Some of us are still growing. My cells are literally screaming."
Vivianne didn't even look up from her tea. "It was nine."
"Not in Susian Standard Time. I need until like eleven before I can even fathom socialising."
Susian looked like she had sprinted through a thunderstorm made of glitter. Her uniform was a casual suggestion, her hair caught up with a celestial moon clip that did not conform to school guidelines. She had two pens stuck in her bun like weapons.
Vivianne regarded her calmly. "I didn't schedule it for you; I scheduled it for efficiency."
"And yet I'm still here," Susian said, chewing her muffin like it was a threat. "You're so humble."
Vivianne tilted her head, a rare glint in her eye. "It's exhausting being your sister."
"Which means I'm your balance," Susian replied, crumbs flying. She was impossible, messy, blunt, and entirely immune to shame.
Vivianne said nothing. That silence, coming from her, was practically a hug. She had always loved her sister, yet she never let that affection cloud her vision.
Later that day, in the high-ceilinged Prefect Lounge, Vivianne found herself opposite Lester Reinhardt. He was draped across a leather couch as if he had been born in it, one leg over the armrest, sipping something from the faculty espresso machine.
"You're still bad at scheduling," she said, her eyes on the agenda.
"You're still terrifying at it," he replied, amused.
"You still take that top spot."
"You still look at it like it owes you something."
He said it lightly, but it landed heavily. Vivianne paused and then looked at him—looked at him. Golden. Regal. Lethal in a way that made people swoon instead of duck.
"And what do you owe it?" she asked quietly.
Lester smirked, though not entirely confidently. "Still figuring that out."
She said nothing because she had already figured it out.
That evening, Vivianne returned to the Kilner estate, taking the long path through the hedge garden. The rhythm of her polished shoes clicking on the ground provided a sense of grounding. The house glowed like a stately museum, warm and cold in turns. Her mother, Adeline, waved at her from the piano room, and she waved back.
Upstairs, in the library, Vivianne unlocked a cabinet drawer and retrieved her diary. She wrote with the care of someone etching secrets into marble:
Lester Reinhardt – Top Spot
Charismatic. Strategic. Weakness: familial ties.
Protects his family. Will never strike first.
Vulnerable to emotional sabotage. Unusable without risk.
Probability of succession: 72%.
"Sir wants to see you," came the housekeeper's voice. She closed the diary gently.
In the study, her father and Uncle Jonathan stood by the fireplace, their eyes glinting like polished obsidian.
"The Montrove dinner is this weekend," Benedict said, as sharp as ever. "You'll attend as our representative."
Vivianne raised an eyebrow. "Why am I sent to waste my precious time?"
Jonathan smiled. "Because Susian once threatened to set their poodle on fire."
"I didn't!" came a distant shout from down the hall. "I said I would accidentally drop a candle! Different context!"
Benedict ignored her. "You're poised. You observe. You play the long game."
Vivianne gave a shallow nod.
Jonathan stepped closer. "Be careful with the Montrove boy."
Her breath didn't catch, but it did pause. "You mean Finley?"
"No," her father replied. "His brother. Trent."
The weight of that name sat heavily on her tongue. The memory of his eyes—always focused on her—flashed behind her mind like a warning.
Jonathan tilted his head. "You like him. Don't forget where your loyalty lies."
Vivianne didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Later, she stood alone in the darkened hallway, the study door behind her and the family crest above her head, like a crown she hadn't yet earned.
She would never be reckless like Susian, or worshipped like Lester.
But she could be remembered. She could be chosen.
Outside, the birds were quiet, and the air smelled like rain.
In Benedict's top drawer, beneath layers of merger documents and century-old contracts, a black envelope remained unopened. Its seal bore a crest not seen in public since the founding of Westdentia.
Not a company logo, but a royal one.
She didn't need a bloodline to claim a throne. Just patience.
Just timing.
Just everyone else believing she didn't want it.
She smoothed her skirt, her hands steady.
The world would only realise the truth when it was too late to stop her. And by then, the crown would already be hers.