When it was us
- Reads 31
- Votes 2
- Parts 5
At Saint Aurelia's Academy, perfection isn't a goal-it's a performance.
Elara Voss is the school's golden girl: a prodigy ballerina, flawless, disciplined, and untouchable. Every pirouette, every breath, is measured. Every secret, buried deep. Until the night she hears music pulsing through the forbidden wing-wild, electric, alive.
Adrian Blackwell is the last person she should want. A scholarship student with a smirk, a guitar, and no respect for rules. He's chaos wrapped in leather and poetry, and Elara can't look away.
When a masked ball blurs the line between rivalry and obsession, Elara's carefully curated world begins to fracture. Anonymous letters start appearing in her locker. Whispers spread through marble halls. And the deeper she falls for Adrian, the more she realizes someone is watching them-someone who knows their secrets, and wants them exposed.
In a place where reputation is everything and truth is dangerous, Elara must decide how much of herself she's willing to lose for the one thing she was never supposed to feel-love.
Because at Saint Aurelia's, everything beautiful hides something broken.
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In a town where secrets linger longer than the whispers that carry them, Elara Voss returns-not for redemption, but for answers. Haunted by a betrayal she no longer fully remembers, Elara is forced to confront the fractured pieces of her past when the specter of a long-missing person resurfaces. The town watches, judges, speculates. Their accusations burn deeper than truth, forcing her to ask the one question she has spent years avoiding: Did she really destroy someone's life? Or was she just a pawn in a story far greater than her own ego allowed her to see? But memory is fickle. Fear distorts. And love-love is the most dangerous illusion of all. Him, the one who knows her best, the one who taught her desire and devotion, holds the very secret that will either unravel her or set her free. If she can bear to face it. As the mystery coils tighter, Elara must navigate the labyrinth of her own identity. Was she the villain? The victim? Or simply another soul lost to the weight of misplaced ambition and forgotten guilt? Truth is not kind. Neither is acceptance. But running is no longer an option.
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