Serena's POV

The car had barely cleared the estate gates when my phone buzzed.

C: [Use an alias for enrollment registration. I've prepared the identity documents.]

I typed two words and sent them back.

[No need.]

Ten seconds later, my phone rang.

"Are you joking?" Carlo's voice was low and tense.

"I haven't done anything wrong, so why should I hide?" I leaned against the car window, watching the iron gates recede in the side mirror. "Using a fake name is what guilty people do when they're running scared. I'm not going to act like I have something to apologize for."

"This isn't about guilt—it's about safety," Carlo said."You're making yourself a target."

"I'm making myself bait," I corrected. "There's a difference. A target just sits there and gets hit. Bait draws the enemy out into the open where you can see them coming."

The line went quiet for a few seconds, and I could almost hear him weighing the risks, calculating angles I probably hadn't even considered.

"Fine."

He hung up.

I shoved my phone back into my bag, my heart inexplicably racing. I knew this would expose me to danger, but hiding would only leave me vulnerable to attacks.

Taking the initiative would disrupt their plans and force them to react, giving me control of the situation.

This was the game theory my father had taught me—if he were still alive, he'd probably praise me for learning quickly. Or maybe he'd scold me for being too reckless.

I stared out the window, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

The entrance to the University of Ashford consisted of two granite pillars covered in ivy.

Bellavista was still warm in September, and the cobblestone paths were crowded with students dragging suitcases behind them.

I got out of the car and scanned the area first—there was a fire escape behind the library, exits on both the east and west sides of the academic building, a service corridor connected to the cafeteria, and a small road from the parking lot leading outside.

My father had taught me to always find an exit route before entering any unfamiliar place—a survival skill I'd never forgotten.

The dormitory stood in the northwest corner, a four-story red brick building.

I dragged my suitcase up to the third floor, where the door to room 312 stood open.

A girl with chestnut curls was standing on a chair, taping up a poster—some pop band's tour announcement, crooked and uneven.

She turned around when she heard my footsteps, glanced at the nameplate freshly posted on the door, then looked back at me with a bright smile.

"Serena Belmont."

"What a beautiful name, just like you," she said, already reaching for my suitcase. "Your bed is by the window, and I saved you the better closet because mine is overflowing—I brought way too much stuff—"

Mia spoke incredibly fast, her words tumbling out in rapid succession without pause.

I thanked her with a smile and began unpacking. As I organized my belongings, I observed her carefully. Mia had brought three pairs of running shoes, there was a cartoon character pillow tossed on her bed, and a whole box of energy bars sat on the floor. Her nails were painted orange, and dimples appeared when she spoke. She seemed harmless enough, but I couldn't be certain. Carlo had mentioned that Vera had people planted in the school, though their identities remained unclear. I'd add Mia to my observation list for now.

The first class was Introduction to Criminal Psychology, held in the main academic building's lecture hall. By the time Mia and I arrived, most of the seats were already taken. She started pulling me toward the front rows, but I stopped her.

"I prefer sitting in the back."

"Why? You can see better up front," Mia said, looking confused.

"Poor eyesight," I lied casually.

The back row offered a better vantage point—I could see the entire classroom, track who entered and when, identify latecomers, and observe the seating arrangements and those whispering conversations. Just as we sat down, a blonde girl in the front row turned around, a gemstone necklace catching the light with cold brilliance around her neck.

She smiled sweetly, but her eyes held a calculating quality.

"Hi there, you're the new transfer student, right? I'm Chloe Fairmont."

I touched her hand briefly before releasing it. Her hand was cold, her nails meticulously manicured.

"Serena Belmont."

Chloe's eyes lit up slightly. "Belmont? From the Belmont family on Valdoro Island?"

My chest tightened, though I kept my expression neutral. How did she know so much?

"Yes."

"Oh—" She drew out the syllable deliberately. "My fiancé is also from Valdoro Island. Luca Falcone—you must know him, right?"

Hearing that name made my entire body stiffen momentarily.

I stared at Chloe. She smiled with a hint of smugness, her eyes gleaming with anticipation—as if she were waiting for me to lose my composure or show some jealousy, ready to enjoy the spectacle.

But I wouldn't give her that satisfaction.

"I do. Congratulations," I replied casually.

Chloe's expression froze. She clearly hadn't expected this reaction, probably assuming I'd make a scene or at least display some envy. But what did any of this have to do with me? Someone who had once been willing to take a bullet for me couldn't even be bothered to answer a phone call in the end. Whatever bond we'd shared meant nothing in the face of self-interest.

I turned my attention to my textbook.

Chloe stared for a few seconds before awkwardly turning back around.

Mia leaned over and whispered, "That was so cool! Who is this Luca guy anyway?"

"Nobody. We're not close."

I wasn't lying. After my father's death, Luca had immediately gotten engaged and blocked all my contact information—I genuinely didn't know this version of him. The Luca I'd known was already dead.

Professor Adams set his briefcase on the podium and looked up, scanning the classroom. His gaze moved from left to right, from front row to back, and when it reached my row—it paused. Then continued moving. My heart skipped a beat. He'd recognized me.

Adams picked up the roster and began calling names, his voice steady and even, without any fluctuation.

"Chloe Fairmont."

"Here."

"Mia Carson."

"Here!"

"Serena Belmont."

His voice remained steady, his expression unchanged, just as it had been when calling the other names.

I raised my hand. "Here."

Adams looked down, marked something with his pen, and continued to the next name, as if nothing had happened. But I'd seen it—his hand had stiffened slightly around the pen.

The lecture officially began. His tone was professional, devoid of emotion. But when he reached the word "lying," his hand tapped the edge of the podium once. Then, as he continued, "For example," switching the projection, "when someone claims they know nothing, if their eyebrows rise slightly before they speak, that usually indicates deception, because the emotion of surprise should appear the instant they hear the question, not before they answer," his hand touched the podium again. Twice now.

The projection displayed a series of comparative facial expression diagrams.

"Of course," Adams' tone became slightly more relaxed, "microexpression analysis isn't foolproof. Some people, with training, can perfectly control their facial muscles. And others..." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the classroom. "Are naturally gifted at concealment."

That sentence felt directed at someone specific.

I maintained my note-taking posture without looking up, but my palms were already sweating. Throughout the entire lecture, I observed Adams—watching his gestures, listening for changes in his tone, noting where his gaze lingered. But he was too professional; aside from those two taps on the podium, I couldn't find any cracks in his composure.

The bell rang. Mia poked my arm. "Do you really like Professor Adams that much? You kept staring at him the whole time."

Before I could respond, she continued, "Though Professor Adams really is impressive—great lecturer, and handsome too. Too bad he's not single. I heard he has a girlfriend from Valdoro Island, but nobody's ever seen her. Pretty mysterious, right?"

My hand froze mid-motion. A girlfriend from Valdoro Island. Nobody had ever seen her. Vera fit that description perfectly.

"How do you know?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Oh, it's kind of an open secret," Mia shrugged. "Last Christmas, someone saw Professor Adams buying a necklace at a jewelry store, said it was for his girlfriend. Plus, he has a photo frame in his office, but the picture faces inward—nobody's seen it. The more he hides it, the more curious everyone gets."

So to confirm who Adams' girlfriend was, I'd need to see that photograph.

"Come on, let's go to the cafeteria—I'm starving!" Mia pulled me to my feet.

I gathered my things and followed her out. As we passed the podium, I couldn't help glancing back. Adams was organizing his files, and sensing my gaze, he looked up. Our eyes met for exactly one second. Then he looked away and continued with his papers, as if nothing had happened. But I'd seen it—his neck had stiffened slightly.

Late night. Mia was sound asleep, her steady breathing filling the dormitory room. I couldn't sleep, so I turned on the reading light and sat up in bed, beginning to draw diagrams—relationship maps connecting Adams, Vera, my father, Carlo, and the shell companies. The clues were too fragmented, with the crucial link still missing.

Were Adams and Vera really in a romantic relationship? Where had Vera transferred that eight million euros? And what role was Carlo really playing in all this? He'd said my father had sent him a final package, that he'd promised to look after me—but why would he risk so much to help me? Simply because of my father's influence? I didn't believe it. There was no such thing as unconditional kindness in this world, especially not on Valdoro Island.

I closed the notebook and tucked it into the pillowcase lining. Turning off the light, I continued staring at the ceiling. The dormitory ceiling was quite low, painted with cheap white paint. The guest room ceiling at the estate had been much higher, with ornate plaster molding, and the bed had been larger and more comfortable. Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly noticed a cedar scent in the air.

Realizing what was happening, I quickly rolled over and stopped that train of thought. My phone lay beside my pillow. I stared at the dark screen for a moment, then unlocked it and opened my contacts, my finger hovering over the capital letter "C." The screen's cold light illuminated the back of my hand. After lingering there for half a minute, I exited the chat window, tossed the phone face-down on the nightstand, and closed my eyes again.

Just as I was drifting off, my phone vibrated once. The screen lit up, displaying a message from Carlo.

C: [Coming to the school tomorrow.]