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22
I’m not gonna lie, starting the day in a canopy bed with high thread count sheets, in a room so swanky it’s more like a luxury suite than an academy dorm, feels like a dream.
And after making good use of the spa-style bathroom with the super-size shower stall and the impressive collection of pricey soaps, lotions, perfumes, shampoos, and conditioners not found in drugstores, I head into a huge walk-in closet that’s crammed with so many designer dresses, shoes, and accessories, it barely all fits.
And the best part is, everything’s in my size.
I wander over to a rack filled with the sort of fancy dresses normally reserved for fashion shoots or celebrities attending A-list parties—all of them with labels from the most coveted brands—Gucci, Balenciaga, Dior, Louis Vuitton. And as I begin to sort through them, I’m not at all embarrassed to admit I actually squeal with delight.
I pull a slinky black Valentino cocktail dress from the rack and shimmy it over my hips. Then I toss a silvery tweed Chanel jacket over my shoulders, slip on a pair of sky-high Louboutin pumps, sling a satin Prada evening bag over my arm, and strike a power pose before the full-length mirror that puts the Hadids and the Crawfords to shame.
This is literally every high fashion fantasy I ever had come to life, and I’m happy to say the reality does not disappoint.
And yet, as much as I’m enjoying this glitzy new version of me, there’s a nagging voice in my head that insists none of this grandeur is actually free.
I mean, maybe I’m just being cynical. Unappreciative. Overly suspicious of a trillionaire’s startling display of generosity.
I tend to be wary and guarded by nature, so it’s not like those traits are at all out of character.
But as I teeter on my five-inch heels across an expanse of soft woven rug to a large picture window overlooking the grounds, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a lot more to this academy than I was originally told.
I raise a hand to the glass, only to be met by a shock of blistering cold. Remembering how the island looked when I arrived—a stark and desolate chunk of rock bounded by a wind-whipped sea—I’m guessing the near frigid temperature is normal for Gray Wolf. And as someone used to much warmer weather, the thought alone fills me with dread.
I pull my jacket tighter around me, push onto my toes, and peer down several stories below to see a cloaked figure moving through a labyrinth of hedges toward a glimmering crystal sphere that sits at its center.
Well, that’s a bit…odd.
I squint, trying to get a better look at the scene, when from somewhere behind me the small bulbs on the crystal chandelier begin to crackle and wink as the floor beneath my feet starts to shake.
Great, just what I need—an earthquake. I can’t believe I traveled all the way from California only to deal with them here at Gray Wolf, too.
I shake my head, turn away from the window, only to find my feet are suddenly locked in place and the entire room is falling away.
Oh no… Oh crap… Please let it be an actual earthquake…please.
Let it be—
The green-paneled walls and white coffered ceiling begin to crumble and fade. Which means no amount of pleading will change the fact that the weird thing that sometimes happened back when I was a kid—the thing I haven’t experienced for nearly a decade—is now happening again.
The Unraveling.
The name my dad used for those terrible moments when reality tips on its side.
According to him, it’s part of a lineage that’s been passed down for centuries. And though he spoke about it only once, I distinctly remember him telling me there were two rules I needed to follow whenever I found myself caught in the middle of one.
One: No matter what, hold on, keep calm, and wait for the reveal.
Two: You must never, under any circumstances, tell your mother or anyone else about this weird thing that happens to you.
Of course, what sounds easy in theory is nearly impossible to put into practice. So when the entire room has fallen away, reducing my world to little more than the small patch of wood at my feet and the sound of my own wildly thudding heartbeat—I’m definitely not keeping calm.
And as I watch the cloaked figure reach the center of the maze, press a finger to the sphere, then vanish as though they never were—only to watch as that same person reappears a few seconds later—I’m barely holding on.
With unblinking eyes streaming with tears, I focus on the small brown object clutched in the cloaked figure’s hand—an object that definitely wasn’t there before. An object that I’m thinking might be a book, or maybe even…
From out of nowhere, a hand clamps down on my arm.
A familiar voice calls out my name.
The vision fades.
My room reassembles.
And I turn to find Braxton’s face pressing toward mine.
