The headmistress ripped up the poor boy’s note with a sharp, dry tear — never realizing the school’s owner was watching from just a few steps away.

THE SOUND OF PAPER TEARING

It was a short, dry sound.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just the clean rip of paper between manicured fingers.

Lucas froze.

His hands remained suspended in midair, as if he were still trying to save something that had already fallen.

The folded voucher—creased carefully into four, stamped crookedly in blue ink—fluttered down in pieces across the polished marble floor of the hotel lobby.

The headmistress didn’t blink.

High heels. Perfect posture. Expensive perfume.

A thin breath escaped her nose.

“Next.”