Jack's Story

Scene 1: The Headmistress' Address

"Welcome to a new year at St. Agnes."

The Headmistress' voice rang out, smooth and deliberate, filling the vast dining hall with the weight of tradition.

Her presence alone commanded silence, and she had yet to say a word.

She was tall. Her dark hair held in a perfect twist. Her face composed and her gaze assessing the students in front of her.

The navy jacket, high-collared and tailored, bore silver embroidery at the cuffs, ornamental, but not indulgent.

Every movement measured. Every detail controlled. No room for hesitation, or tolerance for weakness.

The surrounding girls sat still, composed, their attention fixed on her.

Waiting.

I sat on my front-row bench, pulse in my throat, hands folded. My back was straight, my uniform crisp. My body mirroring the behaviour of those around me.

The dining hall itself was a huge open space, the ceiling high and arched. It reminded me of a cathedral with dark wooden beams stretching over us. Massive stained-glass windows let in the last light of the evening. Artificial lights soon chased away the growing shadows.

Blue and gold. The colours of St. Agnes. The decoration was there to impress, to dwarf those inside it. And it did.

My powerful sense of smell distinguished polished wood, wax, and something sharper: disinfectant, starch, the crisp sterility of order. It reminded me of discipline. Conformity. Control.

Over a hundred bodies sat in silence, with heat contained under their fresh clothing, the air too fresh to betray the first hints of sweat.

I swallowed.

It was not the silence; it was the anticipation.

But for what?

Two long rows of tables ran parallel, splitting the room into a precise, organised structure.

We sat shoulder to shoulder, on four rows of benches, our gazes locked onto the woman standing before us.

At the very front, a third table, set apart from the rest.

It belonged to the Prefects.

Eleven. One for each dorm hall.

They were more than students.

They ruled the halls.

They enforced order, discipline, and obedience.

They commanded and punished.

They set the standard.

And tonight, they stood in a perfect line before Lady Montague, our headmistress.

Even from where I sat, I caught the familiar trace of her perfume. Sandalwood. Amber. It suited her. Precise. Unshaken.

Among these was my cousin Lily, her expression unreadable. She stood with the other prefects facing us.

"For decades," the headmistress said in a steady voice, "our finishing school has upheld the highest standards."

Her gaze swept the room, meeting each of our eyes.

"Our graduates do not simply leave educated."

A measured pause.

The kind that presses into your chest, making you breathe shallower.

"They leave prepared."

"To dominate."

"To submit."

"To pleasure."

Her voice didn't falter.

Each word deliberately falling into the silence.

"These are our pillars."

A pause.

"And yet..."

The shift was subtle. The weight of the room changing.

"Standards have slipped. Discipline has softened. Effort has waned."

A breath held.

"That ends tonight."

The energy in the room changed.

Everyone held their breath.

"The rules of St. Agnes are not suggestions. They are the foundation upon which this institution stands. Every rule will be enforced going forward."

The tension thickened, pressing in around me.

"You will wake at dawn. Your rooms will be immaculate. Your uniforms pristine. Your posture unshaken."

A calculated pause.

"If a single bed is unmade, you will be marked. If you are late, you will suffer the consequences. If you speak out of turn, you will learn the price of disobedience."

My fingers clenched beneath the table.

"No meal will wait for you. No lesson will slow its pace to accommodate you. Silence will be kept in the halls. Respect is demanded at all times."

Her eyes swept across the room.

"If a Prefect gives an order, you will follow it. If an instructor demands obedience, you will provide it. If you fail, you will be corrected."

I heard it then.

The faintest sound of breath catching at another table. A girl shifting, only to force herself still.

Not fear, but close.

"This school builds discipline, not weakness."

A beat of silence as she let it sink in.

"Stand, Jack."

Blood rushed to my ears.

The scrape of my chair against the stone sounded too loud.

Every head turned. Every eye fixed on me.

I swallowed. I hated being the centre of attention.

In front of the podium, Lily watched me. The prefects watched me.

Lady Montague's gaze was steady.

"This is my son, Jack."

Her voice did not reassure me.

The scent of sandalwood and amber was no longer comforting. It felt distant now.

"A special case."

A flicker of amusement passed through the hall.

They already knew.

"Jack is here for one purpose: to learn domination. No submission. No compromise. His task is to master control over himself and over others. He will stay here until he succeeds."

My stomach dropped.

This wasn't school. It was a prison.

I stay. Until I succeed.

I forced myself to breathe, to keep my face blank, but I noticed the surrounding shift.

Interest. Calculation. A new game beginning.

"He is one of you. Same rules. Same treatment."

A pause.

"But he is the only male."

A shift. An invisible reaction.

I felt it, even if no one spoke.

I clenched my fists beneath the table.

"No bullying. No abuse. I will stamp it out."

Her words were embarrassing me.

"At St. Agnes I am not his mother."

Something inside me twisted.

"He will receive no special treatment."

Silence.

"But that goes both ways."

Her gaze swept the hall.

"Single him out for being a boy, or because he is my son..."

She let it hang.

The air in the hall felt heavier. The polished wood, the wax, the sweat of too many bodies sitting still. It pressed down on me.

"Believe me..."

She stepped forward.

"... If you step out of line, you will find yourself here, bound and caned before the entire school."

No one spoke.

The warning hung in the air.

I stood there, heat crawling up my neck, face burning. I wanted to sink into the floor.

My thoughts scattered. I couldn't hold onto a single one.

I looked for Rose, but she was staring at Mother.

The silence stretched.

"Have I made myself understood?"

The response was instant.

"Yes, Headmistress."

A single voice. A single will.

"Good. Sit down, Jack,"

I sank back into my seat, legs unsteady, relieved.

I struggled to breathe normally again. I could smell my sweat. My body was betraying me.

The weight of my mother's words settled like iron.

The hall remained still.

I avoided making eye contact.

Around me, the girls sat motionless.

I didn't know them yet. Not really.

But I had noticed some.

The redhead seated closest to me. Her name was Chloe. Her eyes flicked toward me, assessing, more amused than anything.

The poised Asian girl was still. Something unreadable in her expression.

The blonde, farther down the table. Her posture straight, composed. Calculating, weighing.

Apart from Chloe, who had stuck herself to my side, I didn't remember their names yet.

Across the hall, at a different table, my twin, Rose, sat relaxed, arms folded, looking in my direction.

Not surprised.

At the front, Lily, with the other prefects, waiting.

Her fingers tapped against her thigh, slow and deliberate.

I forced my hands still.

A movement beside me. Chloe.

She leaned over, her voice a whisper.

"Try not to look so lost."

The brush of her knee against mine was fleeting.

I swallowed.

I could think of nothing to say.

This was not over.

It had not even begun.

Scene 2.1: The Show

As the hum of voices thickened, Lady Montague's voice cut through the air once more.

"Prefects. Step forward."

The eleven prefects turned in perfect rhythm, their movements smooth as they climbed the podium and aligned themselves with precision on the side.

I watched them move, each one a show of confidence. Some with their heads held high, a flicker of pride in their eyes, others with a serene, knowing calm.

I didn't understand what I was seeing.

But they did.

Around me, the girls sat straighter, watching the prefects with something bordering on reverence. The main act of the evening's entertainment.

At the front, on the raised platform, stood my aunt Diana, my mother's sister and Lily's mum.

She was strict and quick to discipline, unyielding. Here, she was more than that. She radiated power.

She wore the traditional black of the staff, a high-collared blouse, long skirt. Severe with every detail controlled. Nothing soft or indulgent.

Her eyes swept the room, cold and assessing. They landed on me.

I saw the displeasure in her gaze, in the slight press of her lips. I was not supposed to be here. I stained the school's legacy. She turned away.

Even here, I caught her scent. Not floral. Not soft. Leather. Spice. Sharp. Lingering. Not welcoming.

"You know why you stand here," miss Diana said, addressing the prefects. "Tonight, as every year, you will bear the mark of your rank. You have been given the highest honour. You have been entrusted with authority. But authority comes at a price."

The prefects remained still.

"A St. Agnes prefect does not give what she cannot take."

"Discipline is not just given. It is earned."

By their lack of reaction, I deduced the prefects already knew this.

I guessed they had known it since the moment they were chosen.

An Asian Girl at the end of the line moved first.

She walked with a fluid motion, carrying herself like royalty. Her dark hair pulled into a tight braid.

She reached the centre of the podium and turned to face us.

A hush settled over the room.

She unbuttoned her blazer, sliding it from her shoulders and folding it neatly before placing it on a nearby table.

Her skirt and her underwear joined the pile next.

I saw girls shifting in their seats and leaning forward, enraptured by the show.

Her body was lean and toned. I imagined she was one of our better athletes.

She stepped forward and leaned over the punishment bench, her bottom facing us. She gripped the wooden edge with both hands.

"Prefect Sharvani, do you accept your discipline?" Miss Diana's voice rang out.

"Yes, Miss."

Her voice did not waver.

She answered with pride.

Sharvani and my aunt moved like it was ritual. Practiced. Precise. Nothing here was accidental.

Some girls watched with admiration. Others shrank slightly, cringing at what was to come.

Aunt Diana's lips curled, not in approval, but in enjoyment.

She relished this moment, this tradition.

She switched the cane in the air.

The room held its breath.

The motion disturbed the air. A faint whiff of polished rattan reached me, cutting through my aunt's perfume. Leather and spice, edged now with something bitter. Chemical. Cane wax.

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening against the edge of the bench.

I wanted to look away. But something deeper held me there. Still. Watching.

My Aunt turned to Sharvani.

She let the cane rest lightly against her bare skin.

"You will count each stroke in a clear voice."

The sound of the impact ripped through the air, through my skull, through my chest.

"One," Sharvani said, unflinching.

The first stroke had landed, and I noticed a faint change in the air. Sweat, Sharvani's. But something else too. The start of exertion.

A tightening in my gut. I averted my eyes, escaping the spectacle.

The sound of the cane stayed with me, sharp and final. I wanted to look away.

Instead, my mind slid back to the start. To why I was here.