Page 20

She felt like part of her needed to understand what had driven her dad to do the things he did—if he did it.

And what could’ve broken inside him? The other part was just desperate to know if the same flaw runs inside her veins too.

Because after the trial, Isadora Rivera had dragged her to some doctor she barely remembers.

A man with a cold hand and an even colder gaze.

They had strapped her to some weird machine, made her sit still as some strange scan mapped out the inside of her head.

Vivienne never saw the result. Never learned about what they had found.

But Isadora did. And something changed after that. Though it wasn’t immediate, Vivienne noticed; the way Isadora’s grip on her arm began to tighten a little too hard. The way her eyes would linger on her, watchful, weary. And then, of course, the accusations started.

Every few days. Then every few hours. Until it became every few minutes and seconds.

“You’re just like him!”

“You think I don’t see it?”

“Don’t even think about it, Vivienne. I swear, I’ll kill you first!”

And then one day, Isadora took it a step further.

She brought in exorcists—or whatever the hell they were. They were all men, stark white robes, their faces shadowed by candlelight. Their hands clutching whips like some holy relics.

They bundled Vivienne and tossed her into the basement.

For three days, maybe more. Time blurred between the flickering flames and the suffocating dark. She remembers the cold bite of the concrete floor, the dampness seeping into her skin, the sickly sweet smell of melted wax thick in the air.

She remembers the candles, ten of them, one for each finger.

Their flames wavered, casting twisted shadows on the walls, on their faces—faces that called her tainted, cursed, unclean.

She remembers trying to hold the candles still, trying to be good, but the wax kept dripping, sizzling against her flesh, burning deeper, deeper.

And when her hands shook, when the burn became too much, she let the candles drop.

Bad idea—because the whips came as a wage.

The first lash stole her breath, the second forced a scream from her throat. The third, fourth, fifth—she lost count. Pain blurred into agony, and agony into something she can’t quite explain even till today.

“Let the demon reveal itself!”

“Confess your sins!”

“Do you hear that? She’s laughing. The devil inside her is laughing.”

Except that Vivienne wasn’t laughing. She was choking on sobs, biting her lips until they began to bleed as her body curled in on itself.

She begged. No, not for mercy—there were none of those—but for them to stop seeing something that wasn’t there.

But they didn’t want to stop. Because they needed her to be a monster. Because if she wasn’t a monster, then what had they come to do?

“Vee!” A strong hand shakes her, snapping her from the cave of torture she has foolishly wandered into. She always keeps that memory, amongst other ones, locked. How reckless that she opened the door again.

“Are you okay?” Kenji’s worried gaze comes to view, his warm hand touching her face gently.

“I’m fine.” She forces out a smile, her voice trembling a little. The excruciating pain is back, a deep, bloody wound that took almost an entire school year to heal. The scars that forced her to wear a sweater even if it was so hot, it felt like the sun had come a mile too close to the earth.

“Vee, you are sweating and you look pale—”

The classroom door bursting open interrupts Kenji. Glancing at her again, Kenji then sits down. But Vivienne can still feel his worried gaze burning into her face.

Vivienne’s eye settles on the intruder. And she can’t help but find his attire—green pants and a gray shirt with an ill-matching tie—quite unsettling.

There’s a black laptop pouch strapped to his shoulder. Compared to the perpetually smiling Mr. Walsh, Vivienne finds this man’s face rather severe.

“This loser can’t possibly be the new teacher.” The comment is short, insulting, and unsurprising for Vivienne given its source. Mia Cox, the cheerleading captain whose wealthy father has a significant stake in the school, acts entitled as if the school is her birthright.

“Good morning, class.” His voice is annoying. That’s another thing Vivienne notices. In short, everything about him, his weird gaze, his square face, basically everything, makes her uncomfortable. But she doesn’t know why.

“I’m James. James Fadden. And uh, I’ll be your substitute teacher in the meantime.” His announcement throws the class into a cocktail of arguments and protests.

“Nope, I don’t like him,” Kenji concludes, slouching into his chair.

“I think many share your sentiment, though,” Vivienne chuckles softly. “I might not really like him too. But let’s not be quick to judge.”

Kenji scoffs. “Whatever.”

“Before we start, let’s get to know each other, shall we?” the new teacher proposes, his lips pulling into a smile for the first time. But even that feels wrong—too stiff, too forced. It’s almost like his face isn’t used to movements

“Why do you have to know us?” The question is from Banks Awolowo. “In a few hours, you are gonna hate our ass and make us a joke in the teacher’s lounge. So why don’t you just, I don’t know, teach and be on your merry way?”

Vivienne must confess, as true as Banks’ words are, he comes off a bit rude right now. But that’s okay. He’s quite dreamy. Well, used to be dreamy.

Wait, used to?

She turns to look at him again, her brows furrowed? Why isn’t her heart fluttering like before? Despite her relationship with Ian, Banks always evoked a powerful emotional response in her, making her blush uncontrollably.

His smooth onyx skin, shiny buzz cut, dimples, pearly white teeth, and lean muscles remain unchanged. Yet he looks like just another irrelevant boy in the crowd now.

Maybe it’s her that has changed. Lucan has raised the bar, making other boys or men seem less appealing to her.

“Trust me, it’s necessary that I know my students,” the teacher replies, his gaze settling on Banks with a sharpness that feels almost affronted. But he doesn’t dwell as his attention floats to the first kid in the front row.

“Your name?”

“Victoria Hastings,” the blonde girl answers.

“You.” Mr. Fadden points again.

“Nina Watkins.”

He moves on, one by one, collecting names like puzzle pieces only he can see. Vivienne finds this ridiculous. But she keeps her thoughts to herself—better not to draw his cold attention.

“You over there!” His finger is pointing toward Vivienne’s table. She stiffens. He makes her so jumpy, and she doesn’t know why. And she hates things she can’t understand.

“Kenji Sato,” Kenji answers smoothly, drumming his fingers on his table.

“Japanese?” Mr. Fadden tilts his head.

Kenji doesn’t bother responding to the obvious, so Banks snickers, “No, Indian.”

A hum settles in the air as people snicker and murmur. But it is immediately silenced by Mr. Fadden’s voice as he calls the next student.

Her.

“And you?”

Vivienne’s gaze finally lifts to him. She can’t help noticing the shift in his own gaze. Something a little dark. She feels it before she can try to see if she can understand it. It creeps slowly up her spine, like something foul curling its fingers around the back of her neck.

“Um, Vivienne?” she clears her throat, suddenly unsure of her identity under his cold scrutiny. “Vivienne Marchand.”

“Sure?”

Her stomach tightens.

“Sorry, do you think I don’t know my own name?” she snaps, sharper than she intends to.

“Sorry,” Mr. Fadden smiles, a slow crooked thing. Not amused. Not kind. But thinly veiled and mean. “You just share a resemblance with a girl I used to know.”

They were just words. People look like other people all the time. Yet it slithers through the air and lingers there.

James Fadden doesn’t break his gaze away from her on time. His eyes are locked on as though he’s searching, studying, waiting for something.

And just when it becomes unbearable for Vivienne, he looks away.

But the foreboding refuses to leave. It stays on her skin, and after a few minutes, as Mr. Fadden’s gaze keeps occasionally drifting to her, the unease sinks deeper into her blood, into her bones. And remains there.