Chapter 3 Gold Room Ruse

[Opening Scene – The Announcement]

The Great Hall of L'Institut de Lys was a spectacle of imposed order and simmering chaos. Morning light, pale and wintery, struggled through the high, stained-glass windows, casting fractured colours over the assembled student body. The air hummed with the dissonant chords of the school orchestra tuning up and the far more compelling symphony of whispered gossip. Uniforms-navy blazers, crisp white shirts, silk ties in house colours-were worn with a variety of affects, from Sofia Diaz's impeccable, almost severe neatness to Dami Adeyemi's artfully dishevelled collar and loosened knot.

Madame Laurent stood at the polished oak lectern, her voice a dry, precise instrument that required no microphone to reach the farthest corners of the hall.

"For your mid-term cultural project," she announced, her gaze sweeping over them like a searchlight, "you will explore the theme 'Identity Across Continents.' This is a collaborative effort. You will work in pairs to research, design, and present a comparative analysis of two cultural heritages, focusing on their intersection in a globalized world."

A low murmur rippled through the hall. Sofia, seated perfectly upright in the Lys section, allowed a small, confident smile to touch her lips. This was her territory. A research project? A structured presentation? It was an academic sanctuary, an easy win where logic and preparation trumped charm and chaos. She already had a mental list of potential partners-reliable, serious students from her history seminar.

Madame Laurent consulted her list. "The pairings have been assigned to encourage... diverse perspectives."

Sofia's pen was poised over her notebook, ready to jot down a name. Then, the world tilted.

"Sofia Diaz," Madame Laurent's voice cut clearly through the air, "you will be paired with Dami Adeyemi."

The pen slipped from Sofia's fingers, clattering onto the parquet floor with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden, rapt silence that followed. Every head in the Lys section swivelled towards her, then towards the Aetos contingent, where Dami was leaning back in his chair as if he'd just been served a particularly fine dessert.

Her voice, laced with a horror she made no effort to conceal, was a sharp, hushed whisper. "You've got to be joking."

Dami didn't even raise his voice, his words carrying on a wave of collective anticipation. "It's destiny, ma belle."

She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze across the sea of uniforms. Her dark eyes held a glacial fury that could, she was certain, melt the snow piled high on the windowsills. "Destiny," she retorted, her voice low and sharp, "has got terrible taste."

A wave of snickers and excited whispers broke the silence. The Diaz-Adeyemi saga had just been granted an official syllabus.

[Scene Two – The Gold Room]

Later that afternoon, they were summoned to their designated workspace: The Gold Room. It wasn't just a room; it was a statement. The oldest and most ornate study lounge in the academy, it was reserved for special projects and, legend had it, secret diplomatic meetings a century ago. Its walls were panelled in dark mahogany, interrupted by massive, gilded mirrors in rococo frames that reflected the light from a colossal crystal chandelier. Plush velvet sofas in a deep burgundy were arranged around Persian rugs, and in the corner, a grand piano of gleaming ebony sat like a slumbering beast, its surface polished to a liquid shine.

Sofia pushed the heavy, double doors open and strode in, dropping her armful of books and leather-bound notebooks onto a low lacquered table with a definitive thud.

"Right," she began, turning to face him, her arms crossed. "Let's establish ground rules. Minimal talking, focused work. No irrelevant anecdotes, no flirting, no-"

"No breathing?" Dami interrupted, strolling in as if he were the curator giving a private tour. "Because that's going to be a particularly challenging rule to follow." He ran a hand appreciatively over the polished surface of the piano. "They gave us the good room. They must be expecting a masterpiece."

She exhaled sharply, a controlled release of frustration, and took a seat in a high-backed velvet armchair, placing the table like a moat between them. He, in contrast, sprawled on the sofa opposite, his long limbs taking up far more space than was strictly necessary, as if claiming the very air around him.

"We need to pick a country to focus on," she stated, opening her laptop with a brisk click.

"Nigeria," he said without hesitation.

"Too predictable. 'Nigerian Prince teams up with Mexican Scholar'? The gossip blogs would have a field day. We need something less... on-the-nose."

"Fine. You pick, then."

"Mexico."

He tilted his head, a slow smile spreading. "Too spicy. All that heat might melt your icy composure, Princess."

"You're impossible."

"And you're indecisive. See? We balance each other out." He gestured between them with a lazy hand. "Yin and yang. Fire and ice. Chaos and order."

She narrowed her eyes, recognizing the futility of arguing. "Fine. A Nigeria and Mexico cultural fusion. We can explore the parallels in colonial history, the resilience of indigenous traditions, and their modern global influences. A culture swap theme."

His grin was swift and triumphant. "Fusion. I like it. Sounds like a restaurant I'd take you to. Best jollof rice and tacos in Geneva."

Frustrated by his effortless ability to twist everything into a personal tease, she snatched a pen from her bag and threw it at him. It was an impulsive, juvenile act, one she immediately regretted. He caught it effortlessly, mid-air, without even shifting his languid posture.

"Reflexes, princess," he said, twirling the pen between his fingers.

"Arrogance, peasant," she shot back, her cheeks flushing.

[Scene Three – The Accident]

An hour later, a fragile, focused peace had settled over them. They were both leaning over her laptop, scrolling through image archives of traditional attire-a vibrant display of Nigerian aso-oke and colourful Mexican huipils side-by-side on the screen. The proximity was a necessary evil, the scent of his cologne-something with notes of sandalwood and amber-an unavoidable presence.

His sleeve, soft cashmere, brushed against the wool of her sweater. A tiny, almost imperceptible shock of static electricity jumped from him to her, shooting a jolt up her arm that made her flinch back.

"Move over," she muttered, her voice tighter than she intended.

"I did. You followed," he replied, not looking up from the screen. His voice was a low murmur, too close to her ear.

"I-what? That's ridiculous!"

"Admit it. You like my cologne. It's drawing you in. A siren's call in a bottle."

"I like peace and silence," she insisted, pulling back further into her own space. "Two things you are biologically incapable of providing."

"Liar," he whispered.

Feeling cornered and infuriated by the accuracy of his teasing, she stood up abruptly. The wooden legs of her chair scraped against the parquet floor with a sound that echoed like a scream in the quiet room.

He rose too, mirroring her movement, but closing the distance instead of increasing it. He was closer than she expected, close enough for her to see the faint shadow of his lashes on his cheeks, the determined set of his jaw. The space between them crackled with the same energy as the static shock.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, the question she'd been biting back finally escaping. "Ma belle."

He didn't smile. He just looked at her, his gaze intense and unflinching. He shrugged, a small, fluid movement. "Because it fits. You're all polished manners and perfect posture on the outside. But underneath? You're chaos dressed pretty."

The honesty of it, the raw perception, stole the air from her lungs. For a long, suspended moment, she forgot how to breathe, how to form words, how to do anything but stare into his knowing eyes.

Then-the door creaked.

Two students, first-years from the look of their wide-eyed expressions, peeked into the room. Their eyes darted from Dami's imposing stance to Sofia's flushed, startled face, and their mouths formed silent, scandalized O's.

"Oi, are they-?" one started to whisper.

"Working," Dami said, his voice snapping back to its usual casual confidence, though he didn't step away from Sofia. "Very. Hard."

The intruders snickered, sharing a knowing look before vanishing back into the hallway, the door clicking shut with a sound of finality that felt like a verdict.

Sofia groaned, sinking back into her chair and pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Congratulations. We're trending again. By dinner, the entire school will think we were... I don't even know what they'll think."

"Good," Dami said, resuming his seat on the sofa, a smirk playing on his lips. "Let them think what they want. Mysteries are more fun than truths."

In a fit of pure, unadulterated irritation, she snatched a velvet cushion from the sofa and hurled it at his head. He ducked, laughing, the sound rich and unforced, echoing in the gilded room as the cushion harmlessly thudded against the bookshelf behind him.

[Scene Four – Vulnerability Leaks]

As the afternoon bled into evening, the light in the Gold Room shifted. The cold white winter sun softened, melting into a deep, honeyed amber that set the gold leaf on the mirrors and frames ablaze. The room was bathed in a warm, nostalgic glow. They had been working for hours, and the evidence was scattered around them: sketches of combined textile patterns, pages of research notes, a half-finished slide deck open on the laptop.

The combative energy had subsided, replaced by a tentative, focused collaboration. Sofia was annotating a map of trade routes, while Dami was sketching a concept for their presentation backdrop. She glanced up and caught him not looking at his paper, but staring at a photograph of Lagos at sunset, the Third Mainland Bridge arcing over the glittering water, the city skyline a proud silhouette.

"Miss home?" she asked, the question softer than she'd intended.

He didn't startle. He just kept looking at the picture for a moment longer before turning his gaze to the snow falling outside the window. "Every day," he said quietly, the performance and the pretense stripped away. His voice was different like this-softer, younger. "But you get used to pretending you don't. You build a shell. It's part of the curriculum here, isn't it? The art of the flawless exterior."

She paused, her pen hovering above her paper. This was a side of him he kept locked away, the boy behind the crown. "That's... surprisingly honest."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Don't spread it around. I've got a reputation to keep. Brooding, unattainable, all that."

She smiled, a faint, genuine curve of her lips. "A bad boy with feelings. How tragically human."

"Don't mock me, princess," he said, but there was no bite to it.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied softly.

For once, the silence that fell between them wasn't charged with tension or rivalry. It was easy. Comfortable. They worked in tandem, the scratch of his pencil and the tap of her keys a companionable duet. The snow fell beyond the window, no longer a storm, but a gentle, silent cascade, like sugar dusting the darkening evergreens.

After a long while, she looked up again, her voice barely a whisper. "You know, ma belle isn't really my style."

He glanced up from his sketch, his eyes catching the amber light. "What's your style then?"

"Something less French," she said, holding his gaze. "Less... practiced. Something more real."

"Like what?"

A small, challenging smile touched her lips. "Earn it," she said quietly, "and I'll tell you."

[Scene Five – Rumour Reloaded]

The next morning, the school's digital ecosystem exploded. The blog, Le Canard Lysé (The Lys Duckling), lived up to its name. The headline was splashed across every student's tablet and phone:

GOLDEN LOCK-IN: Adeyemi & Diaz's Late-Night 'Study Session.' WHAT Were They Really Studying Until 9 P.M.? Exclusive Photos!

Beneath it were slightly blurry but unmistakable photos taken through the Gold Room's keyhole or window: one of them standing close, another of Sofia laughing despite herself after the cushion throw, a final one of them both leaning intently over the laptop, their heads nearly touching.

Dami scrolled through the article during breakfast, a half-amused, half-impressed smirk on his face.

He didn't have to look for long. Sofia stormed into the common room, her tablet gripped in her white-knuckled hand, her expression promising violent retribution.

"You!" she seethed, stopping in front of him. "You think this is funny?"

"Kinda," he admitted, zooming in on one of the photos. "They got my good side. The lighting in that room is impeccable."

"I am going to strangle you. With my bare hands."

"You'll have to catch me first, Trouble," he said, pushing himself up from the armchair with an infuriating grace.

He jogged off down the vaulted corridor, his laughter trailing behind him. After a moment of stunned fury, she gave chase, her own shoes slapping against the polished stone. They weaved through groups of startled students, him glancing back with a triumphant grin, her giving chase with a scowl that was rapidly failing to conceal a smile of her own. They were a spectacle, and they both knew it, both pretending with every fibre of their being that they hated it.

[Closing Scene – Foreshadow]

Later that night, the campus was blanketed in a profound silence, the kind only heavy snow can bring. In his dorm room in Aetos House, Dami lay awake in the dark, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face. He was scrolling through the project folder, past slides on textile trade and diaspora communities, until he stopped on a photo he hadn't realized Sofia had taken.

It was a candid, mid-action shot of him. He was mid-sneeze, his face scrunched up in a completely undignified, utterly unguarded moment. He had been complaining about the dust from an old book, and she had snapped the picture as a joke. In the background of the reflection in the window, he could just make her out, caught in a moment of genuine, unburdened laughter, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes crinkled at the corners.

He zoomed in on her reflected image, his thumb hovering over the screen. A slow, private smile spread across his face, one devoid of any smirk or artifice.

"Trouble," he whispered into the quiet of his room, the word laden with a new, disarming weight. "You're dangerous."

Across the snow-filled quad, in the warm glow of a Lys House dorm room, Sofia closed her leather-bound diary. The page was filled with her neat, sloping script, detailing project timelines and research sources. But at the very bottom, separated by a line, was a single, damning sentence:

He called me ma belle again today. And for some stupid, inexplicable, utterly infuriating reason, I didn't hate it.

Outside, the snow began to fall heavier, thick flakes swirling in the darkness against the windowpanes. Somewhere, a storm was beginning to brew-a tempest of rumours, of shared glances in a golden room, of challenges issued and vulnerabilities exposed. And it had nothing to do with the weather.