A Scandal in St. Beatrice

Francis Fell is a man too wealthy to be honest, too handsome to be trusted, and too clever by half.

They call him the Golden Prince of the City, though no crown sits upon his brow, only the messy sheen of old money and newer sins. Born into steel dynasty, he is the last of the great industrial heirs who traded iron for ivory towers and smokestacks for skylines. His empire, an opulent lattice of luxury hotels, real estate, and old-money banks, spans from the metropolis to Mediterranean coastlines, and his face—always half in shadow, as if the light itself did not trust him—graces the cover of every magazine that mattered.

His name is whispered with reverence in boardrooms and bedrooms alike, because he likes to get in bed with powerful men and complicated women.

Still, none of them had ever made him lose sleep.

But that pretty thing on the balcony, Clark, kept him wide awake 'til dawn.

He sits at the edge of the grand king-sized bed, his hands steepled beneath his chin, staring out at the city skyline through glass that costs more than most people's yearly salaries. A view he's used to. A life he's mastered. And yet, all he can think about is her—how she leaned on the air like she owned gravity, how she smiled when she slipped her hand into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was terrifying.

And beautiful.

And unforgettable.

He breathes out a quiet curse and stands, stretching the tension from his back. The air in the suite still feels like her. That impossible weightless tension, like the room's holding its breath waiting for something to happen.

By noon, Francis has cancelled his meetings. He tells his team he'll be "working remotely for a few days," which really means don't bother me unless someone dies or one of the hotels explodes. Inez, one of his good friends turned executive assistant, tries to argue.

"What's so special about this suite?" she asks, standing at the door with her tablet in hand. "You own so many grander than this one, now you want to live here?"

Francis glances up from where he's lounging in the living room, tie undone, sleeves rolled up. "The view," he lies smoothly.

Inez narrows her eyes sizing up this sudden decision that seemed to come from nowhere.

"Right. You've seen that view a hundred times."

He smiles but not to her but on the window overlooking the balcony. "Maybe I like what I see now."

She squints at him already suspicious. "You're being weird."

"That's not new."

He waves her off, and she leaves, muttering something about him being insufferable when he's mysterious. As soon as the door clicks shut, Francis's façade softens.

He doesn't know what exactly he's doing. He suddenly decides to move into the penthouse, disrupting his perfect system of life.

Temporarily, he tells himself. Just a few nights, maybe she'll be back.

By evening, his things are already in the closet.

His preferred suits hang in precise order, his watch collection is nestled in a velvet-lined drawer, and his favourite whiskey sits on the bar shelf beside a single untouched glass. There are signs of him everywhere now. But even so, the suite still feels like it belongs to her.

He walks to the balcony, hands in his pockets. The same wind from last night whispers around him. Fifty stories up and the city hums below. He stares at the spot where she sat, legs dangling over the drop like she didn't care about death at all. Maybe she didn't. She certainly didn't act like someone who feared anything.

Francis leans on the railing and exhales.

"You're not coming back, are you?" he murmurs to the wind. "Hell of a hallucination, though."

He stays like that for a while. Long enough for the night to settle in, for the city to light up beneath him like a circuit board of the damned. Then, finally, he turns back inside.

And his eye catches something.

There, on the armrest of the couch, is a single item that wasn't there before.

A blue lollipop.

Francis's brow furrows. Slowly, he crosses the room, plucking it between two fingers. There's no note. No name. Just the familiar smirk tugging at his lips as he turns it over once, twice.

It wasn't there when he left the suite earlier.

"Hallucinations don't leave candy behind," he mutters.

But maybe she does.

—

The sun has the gall to shine a little too brightly for his taste. He's standing beneath the looming archway of St. Beatrice, one of the oldest Catholic schools in the city, all stained-glass windows and judgment. A holy fortress wrapped in ivy and secrets.

He's wearing a crisp suit—charcoal grey, not black, never black in public after a scandal—and beside him, Inez is tapping furiously on her phone like she's trying to resuscitate it.

"You're here to rebuild your image," Inez mutters, guiding him past the front gates. "Donate, smile, leave. Say the speech, no flirting with the nuns, no talking about the congressman. Just good PR."

He scowls, adjusting his sunglasses. "I haven't flirted with a nun since Prague."

She gives him a withering look remembering the incident.

"That nun sued."

They're halfway up the grand steps of the chapel when the wail of sirens cuts through the serene morning air. An ambulance has pulled up at the rear service gate, barely visible below through the iron balustrade. A student is being pulled onto a stretcher, pale and unconscious. The paramedics look unnerved.

Francis narrows his eyes. Something feels off.

"Minor accident," comes the clipped voice of the Mother Superior, who appears beside him like an apparition, hands folded primly. "The student cut herself during chemistry. She's anaemic, so we called an ambulance."

Francis tilts his head and sees the giant bloodstain on the front of her shirt, right over her stomach. "What exactly do these kids do in chemistry?"

She touches his arm, firmly. "We mustn't disturb the girls. This way, please."

But as they turn to enter the chapel, he sees them. Two students in crisp St. Beatrice uniforms: plaid skirts and white collars, walking briskly down the cloister corridor.

One of them. That walk.

He steps away from the Mother Superior mid-sentence and calls out, "Clark?"

The girl stops.

Turns.

And his stomach sinks.

She's still wearing the same face. The one that haunts the edges of his dreams. Only now she's in knee socks and regulation shoes and—

"Are you..." he stammers, looking her up and down, aghast, "Are you a minor?"

Beside her, Anya, prim and rosy, grins like a good straight A's student. "Who's the cutie pie?"

Clark gives her a side eye, and she bit her tongue.

"I'm here for work," she says in a no non-sense tone. She tries to walk past him.

Francis reaches out and catches her wrist. He's surprised his hand doesn't pass through, the way it's supposed to in ghost movies. She is solid and real.

He doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens.

"Can I see you later?"

For a moment, something flashes behind Clark's eyes, a flicker of a memory. It's vague and blurred, hits too fast to grasp but not fast enough to ignore. The air stutters in her lungs. Then it's gone.

She blinks, remembering where she is. Her gaze drops to his hand still wrapped around her wrist. She raises an eyebrow.

"You always see me," she says. "Even when I don't want you to."

That stings more than it should.

Before he can answer, Inez rushes back, heels clicking on polished stone. She sees the scene. Her boss holding onto a high school girl like the worst headline. Her frame turns rigid at the possible nightmare.

"Mr. Fell, sir," she says through a frozen smile. "The press just arrived. It might not be... a good idea to be seen with—students."

Her tone is 'professionally horrified.'

Francis doesn't look away from Clark. "Wait... you can see her?"

Inez blinks. "Yes? And her friend." She points to Anya, who graciously waves back.

Confusion settles on his face as he glances behind. "That's not—last time, on the balcony, you said you—never mind."

Francis stares back at Clark again, thinking. It seems she can make herself visible to everyone when she wants to.

"What are you, really?"

She meets his gaze. Cold and exhausted as if dealing with humans like him is such a chore.

"Not your problem," she answers as she pulls her wrist away. She grabs Anya by the arm and strides off.

Anya's still grinning. She recognizes the man. He's the owner of Halcyon Crown. "You have expensive taste in humans. You know fraternizing with the living is not allowed."

"No one is fraternizing with anyone." Clark hisses. "Keep walking."

They vanish into the hallway, shadows dancing behind them like echoes. And Francis stands there, stunned, while the distant sound of chapel bells begins to toll.

—

The good thing about Francis Fell's wealth, he not only has an absurd amount of it, he also likes to give it away.

He has donated to war orphans, art restorations, climate initiatives, and a temple in Bhutan he still swears was a money laundering front for retired monks. But this might be the first time he's thrown millions at an institution and still felt like he'd been robbed.

Not of money. No, money's expendable. He's been robbed of clarity.

"Mr. Fell! Can we get a few words for The Sentinel? Why St. Beatrice?"

Microphones are pointed at him like spears. Reporters flank the marble steps of the chapel, murmuring questions, snapping photos.

He stands beside the oversized donation check with his name spelled in full italics like a royal decree. Cameras click. He is supposed to smile. Say something noble. Maybe even squeeze out a tear about "our daughters' futures."

But all he can think about is her. Clark. In a Catholic schoolgirl uniform.

The kind that launched a thousand unfortunate internet searches and has been imagined by every man in a half-guilty fantasy.

"Sir?" Inez elbows him subtly. "You're drifting. You just said you love young girls."

Francis blinks. "I meant empowering young girls. I... love empowering young girls."

"Oh God," Inez mutters through clenched teeth.

He clears his throat, forces a half-smile, and turns toward the press. "St. Beatrice represents values we often forget in today's world—faith, discipline, tradition. I believe in giving back, especially when our young women are the future of this country."

The cameras flash. His mouth keeps moving. Words, words, empty words.

But all he's seeing is her. The knee socks. That school tie. Those supple, innocent lips.

Lips he shouldn't be imagining the taste of, since that would be a crime if she really is in high school.

—

Francis arrives back at the empty suite. He strips off the suffocating suit jacket, loosens his collar before pacing in front of the balcony where Clark should've appeared by now.

It's where he first saw her.

Perched on the balustrade like some tired angel who was already too old for miracles. She had that wild look in her eyes. Like she knew too much and cared too little. And now?

She's gone again.

He presses his fingers to his temple.

"Damn her," he murmurs. Because she keeps bleeding into his thoughts. Like a dream that won't fade. A wound that refuses to clot.

The door opens sharply behind him.

Inez storms in with a tablet and a face like she's ten minutes away from setting the press on fire.

"Sir," she says tightly, "the Board is calling for an emergency meeting."

Francis barely turns. "Mm."

She glares. "Every media outlet is running with the 'young girls' headline. The Catholic board is asking for a sit down. We've already lost two brand deals. The words 'litigation' and 'restraining order' are trending—"

"Fix it."

Inez blinks. "Excuse me?"

Francis finally turns to her, jaw tight, eyes somewhere far from the present.

"Handle it," he says. "That's why I pay you."

"I'm not a warlock, sir. I can't erase the internet."

Francis sits down on the couch, eyes still on the balcony, the wind outside brushing the curtains like something about to return.

"Then bury it. Distract them. Leak something. Buy a puppy. You know how this works."

Inez stares. "You're not even listening."

"No," he says softly, "I'm waiting."

And he is.

Every minute that passes, he thinks he hears her footsteps. Sees her dark hair whip through the wind. Feels her silent judgment curling into his furniture like incense.

He even thinks, at one point, that he sees her sitting on his couch again.

Legs crossed. Brows raised. Waiting to say something caustic.

He blinks.

Empty cushions.

No Clark.

Inez sighs, her fury simmering to a slow burn.

"You're obsessing over a high school girl you might've hallucinated to be here the other day, while I'm out there putting out PR fires you lit with a blowtorch."

"She's not a high school girl," Francis corrects, eyes never leaving the open balcony door. "She's not a girl at all."

Inez folds her arms, tight. "Whatever she is, she's going to ruin you."

He exhales and smiles quietly, thinking how right she is.

A call comes through her phone; she gives a quick affirmative before turning to Francis. "Miss Juilliard is here to see you. I already told the lobby to send her up."

That finally catches his attention. "You called her?" he accuses.

"I had to bring reinforcements. You're getting yourself into a scandal every other day—I need some divine intervention to stop you."

Divine.

At some circle in Hell, a few demons probably laughed. Whatever she was, it's not divine.

She leaves with a muttered curse and a slammed door.

Francis is still sitting on the couch when the door opens again, and in walks Maggie Juilliard.

"Inez is very upset. I haven't seen her this livid since you slept with a senator's daughter and his wife on the same night." She greets him and hands over a paper bag. "Eat something. Maybe you'll grow some dignity after a bowl of soup."

Francis takes the bag. She probably cooked it herself, so he can't not accept it.

"She shouldn't have called you, though. I don't need anyone checking up on me. You're not my mother."

She drops onto the couch beside him, staring at him thoughtfully. "Well, thank heavens for that. Because your mother is insane."

That earns a laugh from him. Francis shifts in his seat, leaning closer, breathing in her scent. That and her presence settles him.

"How are you? The police investigation is done, I heard. Thaddeus West is in jail, and the brand's search for a model has been cancelled. I'm sorry."

She looks away. And he understands, something's happened again.

Francis gently takes her wrist, ignoring her protest. He lifts the sleeve of her coat and sees distinct red marks from rope burns. Not from the kidnapping. These are new. Raw.

"Maggie—"

She yanks her hand back and presses it to her chest.

"It was a big deal, Francis. We needed that brand, and they pulled away because of the incident."

"But it's not your fault. He needs to stop doing this to you. You're his bloody daughter! This is abuse."

"Stay out of it," she warns.

"How can I? You're about to be my sister!"

Maggie goes still, her head lowering.

Francis sighs, defeated. He draws her into his arms, cradling her like a secret. "Why do you think I'm letting this marriage go through between our sinister parents? I want you out of that house, Maggie."

Helena Marquis-Fell and Bartholomew Juilliard announced their engagement months ago. Together, they'll own half the city. It isn't so much a marriage as it is a merger—power consolidating beneath the shroud of lace and champagne.

Francis would've put up a fight. He always does when his mother brings home a new man, trying to reshape one into the role of "father." But this time, he didn't resist.

This time, he said nothing.

Bartholomew isn't just another suitor. This one is a monster, and monsters—real ones—don't require introductions. Francis knows the weight of Bartholomew Juilliard's name. So did Maggie.

His only daughter. His possession.

She speaks rarely of him, and when she does, her voice carries the quiet calm of someone who has already survived the fire. Bartholomew isn't strict. That word is far too small. He is precise, cold, and merciless—like a scalpel in the hands of a god who's grown bored of mercy. There is no room for failure beneath his roof, and even the faintest blemish to his reputation is met with a punishment so exacting it left echoes.

Francis had insisted, quietly but firmly, that the prenup include a single clause: once the ceremony is done and the blood signatures dried, Maggie will leave. Not the house. The city. Bartholomew will never own her again.

As for Helena, well.

She's no gift from the heavens, either. Maggie called her insane—and perhaps she is. Helena's madness is the kind worn like a string of pearls: gleaming, elegant, generational. The kind passed down through inheritance and polished by isolation. She was born too rich to understand consequence. In her world, people are furniture. Everyone has a price, and she has the coffers to pay it. Besides, anyone willing to marry Bartholomew is probably not in their right mind.

It's the perfect union of darkness, really. A match made not in heaven—oh no, you can't blame the angels for this one. And Hell is pleading the Fifth.

"I'm the one who's supposed to make you feel better," Maggie whispers into his chest.

He smiles, lips brushing her hair. "You know, their prenup is taking an awfully long time. It'd be faster if we just got married in their place."

Maggie shoves him back, rolling her eyes. "That would be a different form of punishment altogether." She hits him lightly in the chest and takes the paper bag to the kitchen.

Francis laughs softly. They've been friends since university, even though she's quite a bit older than he is. She's the only one who puts up with him without ending up in his bed.

She finds an untouched glass of whiskey and a blue lollipop on the counter as she sets down the bag, "Did you have someone over?" she asks.

"No, no. Don't touch that." He stops her, "Just leave it."

It's the glass he offered Clark last time she was in his penthouse, and that candy he still believes she left for him.

"An odd combination," Maggie says, eyeing the items. "It's like you met a child with a drinking permit—wait, are the headlines... are you dating a kid?"

He rubs the bridge of his nose as he sits at the table. "Don't insult me, Maggie. I'm a proper bastard—I know my limits. I only go for older women... and the married ones."

"You're..." Maggie trails off, speechless. "You should give Inez a raise. The fact that she's still working for you is beyond me."

"I'm naming her in my will, don't worry." He picks up the bowl and starts to eat.

Maggie watches him for a moment, then settles into the seat across from him. Her tone shifts, more thoughtful now. "Francis, I've been having strange dreams lately."

He tastes the soup. It's perfect, like her. She really is good at everything.

"Are you finally having dreams of me naked?"

She throws a crouton at his face. It hits him in the nose and drops into his soup.

"Okay, sorry." He grins. "What is it then?"

"Like it's from another life. It's me, but also not me. In a different time."

They started when she was in the hospital. The doctor said it must be because of the trauma she suffered during the kidnapping. But the dreams feel more real every time.

"Have you ever had those dreams—like you were someone else entirely? Not the version of you you've always known?"

Francis keeps eating, but he is listening, "You mean another me who is pious and poor?" he tries to jest but Maggie kept her eyes on the table, deep in thought.

He sets the bowl aside and leans in closer. It's clear from her face how deeply the dreams trouble her. "What else do you remember from these dreams?" The question slips from him, thoughtful.

"I can't remember the faces. When I wake up, I forget most of it. I only recall what I felt in the dream."

"What did you feel?"

Maggie goes quiet for a second, hesitation flickering in her expression.

"Mags?"

She looks up, "Vengeful," she says with a straight face.

—

Night falls, but Clark doesn't come.

Francis lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep. The sheets feel cold, devoid of the familiar warmth he's used to from the women he sleeps with.

Inez made it clear he needs to lay off models and politicians' wives for now, to avoid any further damage.

He should've asked Maggie to stay, he thinks. But then again, she's fighting demons of her own. It would be too cruel to introduce her to his.

After much sighing and shifting, exhaustion eventually wins. His breathing slows. His body calms.

And the dreams begin—not of Clark.

But of women who look like her.