Afternoons in Montclair Hall had their own rhythm, a quiet elegance that seemed spun from the marble floors and velvet drapes themselves. Students came and went, voices softened by the hush of wealth and privilege, but at the center of it all sat Dorian Fairfax. He never needed to raise his voice to command attention; his presence was enough. The faint clink of crystal against polished wood, the measured tilt of his head, the smirk that promised both charm and ruin — each detail was calculated, ...