Chapter Three The Girl Who Didn’t Move - The Cage He Called Love

Anneliese’s POV

St. Gabriel High School looked less like a school and more like a place built to remind students how fortunate they were to enter it.

The main building rose behind tall iron gates, its pale stone walls covered partly in ivy. Arched windows reflected the morning sunlight, and a clock tower stood above the central courtyard. Beyond it, glass-walled science laboratories connected to an older library whose carved wooden doors looked as though they belonged to a cathedral. Students crossed the grounds in perfectly pressed uniforms, some stepping from ordinary family cars and others emerging from vehicles that cost more than our house.

I tightened my fingers around the strap of my schoolbag.

“You worked for this,” Dad reminded me from behind the steering wheel.

“I know.”

“Then why do you look as though we are dropping you into enemy territory?” Mom asked gently.

I turned toward her. “Because everyone already seems to know where they are going.”

“They are probably pretending,” she said. “Most confident people are simply nervous with better posture.”

Dad nodded seriously. “That is medically accurate.”

Mom looked at him. “It is not.”

“It sounded convincing.”

Their familiar teasing loosened some of the tension in my chest. I smiled, then looked through the window again. This was the place I had prayed for, studied for and dreamed about during countless late nights. The scholarship letter was folded safely inside my bag, though I had checked for it so many times that I could almost feel its exact position without looking.

Mom reached forward and touched the small silver cross around my neck. “You do not have to prove your worth to anyone today.”

“I know.”

“You belong here,” Dad added. “Not because St. Gabriel accepted you, but because you earned the opportunity to be here.”

I took a slow breath and nodded. “I will remember.”

Before leaving the car, we joined hands. Dad thanked God for the opportunity and asked for wisdom, courage and good friendships. I silently added one more request of my own.

Please help me remain the same person inside these gates.

Mom hugged me first, and Dad followed with such enthusiasm that my schoolbag became trapped between us.

“You are crushing the future doctor,” I told him.

“A physician should understand the healing value of affection.”

“A physician also needs functioning ribs.”

He released me with a laugh. “Have a good first day.”

I stepped onto the pavement and waved until their car disappeared beyond the gates. Then I faced St. Gabriel alone.

The entrance hall was even more impressive from inside. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows onto polished stone floors. Portraits of former headmasters lined the walls, and display cabinets contained trophies, medals and photographs of students who had gone on to prestigious universities. Near the staircase, a brass plaque listed the families who had funded different parts of the school.

Some names appeared more than once.

I followed the signs toward the senior classrooms and reached Room 12A nearly twenty minutes before the first bell. The classroom had high windows, dark wooden desks and a digital board large enough to cover most of the front wall. A row of university banners hung near the ceiling. Only a few students had arrived, and most were already speaking in small groups.

I chose a seat in the second row, close enough to see the board clearly without appearing desperate to sit directly beneath the teacher’s desk. After placing my books down, I checked my timetable for the third time.

“Biology, chemistry and advanced mathematics on the same day,” a male voice said nearby. “Either St. Gabriel respects intelligence or hates happiness.”

I looked up.

A tall boy with warm brown eyes stood beside the desk across the aisle. His uniform was immaculate, though his shoes were older than those worn by most students around us. He carried several carefully covered textbooks and a folder filled with neatly arranged papers.

“I think both possibilities can be true,” I replied.

He smiled. “That is not the reassurance I was hoping for.”

“Then perhaps you should not ask strangers for reassurance before eight in the morning.”

“Fair point.” He placed his books on the desk and extended his hand. “Henry Bennett.”

“Anneliese Grace.”

Recognition entered his expression. “Bellmere’s other famous result.”

I blinked. “Other?”

“I topped Bellmere Secondary,” Henry explained. “Ninety-six point eight percent.”

“That is wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. You were at Rosewood, weren’t you?”

I nodded. “Ninety-eight point seven.”

Henry stared at me for a second, then slowly sat down. “I suddenly regret introducing my percentage with confidence.”

I laughed. “You came first too. I think your confidence is safe.”

“Good,” he said with exaggerated relief. “I worked very hard for it.”

“So did I.”

“Full scholarship?”

“Yes.”

Henry’s smile became more genuine. “Me too.”

Something immediately became easier between us. Neither of us needed to explain what the scholarship meant or how much work had been hidden behind the numbers printed on our result cards. While several students around us discussed summer holidays in Europe and new cars received as graduation gifts, Henry and I understood the quieter kind of happiness that came from earning an opportunity our families could not simply purchase.

“My parents read the scholarship letter five times,” Henry said. “My mother cried during all five.”

“My father carried mine around the house as if he had received it himself.”

“That sounds familiar.”

Before I could answer, a woman entered carrying a stack of folders. She wore a dark green dress beneath an academic gown and had silver-framed glasses balanced near the end of her nose. Conversations faded as she placed the folders on the desk.

“Good morning. I am Mrs. Whitmore, your form teacher and senior biology instructor. Before we begin, please take the seats assigned on the screen.”

Names appeared across the digital board beside desk numbers.

I found mine quickly. Second row, middle seat.

Henry checked his number. “Same row,” he said. “You are beside me.”

“At least one familiar face,” I replied.

We moved our books to the assigned desks. My seat was at the end of a three-person row, Henry’s in the middle. The chair on his other side remained empty.

Mrs. Whitmore began taking attendance. Nearly every student answered until she reached the final name.

“Benjamin Hawthorne?”

Silence followed.

Mrs. Whitmore looked toward the empty chair beside Henry. Several students exchanged knowing glances.

“He is probably deciding whether school begins today,” a girl behind us whispered.

Another student quietly replied, “My father says the new science centre is being funded by his family.”

Before I could wonder what one fact had to do with the other, the classroom door opened.

A boy entered as though arriving late had been planned for maximum effect.

He was tall, dark-haired and perfectly composed. His uniform had been tailored so precisely that it looked different from everyone else’s despite being technically identical. An expensive watch showed beneath his cuff, and he carried no books—only a phone and the calm expression of someone who had never expected a locked door to remain closed.

Through the windows, I could see part of a black Rolls-Royce parked near the main entrance. A second dark vehicle waited behind it.

Mrs. Whitmore removed her glasses. “Mr. Hawthorne, classes at St. Gabriel begin at eight.”

The boy glanced at the clock. “Then I appreciate everyone beginning without me.”

A few students laughed.

Mrs. Whitmore did not. “Your appreciation is unnecessary. Your punctuality is not.”

“I will remember that tomorrow,” he replied.

“See that you do. Take your assigned seat.”

Benjamin Hawthorne looked toward our row. His eyes moved first to Henry, and a small trace of familiarity appeared in his otherwise indifferent expression. Then he noticed me sitting on Henry’s other side.

He stopped beside my desk. “You’re in my seat.”

I looked at the number displayed on the screen and then back at him. “According to the seating plan, it is mine.”

“I always sit beside Henry,” he said.

His tone was not openly rude. It was almost worse than rude because it carried complete certainty that I would move after hearing what he wanted.

I folded my hands over my notebook. “Then today may be an opportunity to experience change.”

Henry pressed his lips together, clearly fighting a smile.

Benjamin looked at him. “Do you find my suffering entertaining?”

“A little,” Henry admitted. Then he gestured toward the empty chair on his other side. “Sit there.”

Benjamin glanced at the chair. “That seat has an inferior view.”

“It faces the same board,” I pointed out.

He looked at me again. “I meant the company.”

Henry failed to hide his laugh this time.

I raised an eyebrow. “You have known me for less than a minute.”

“It has been an eventful minute.”

Mrs. Whitmore tapped her pen against the desk. “Mr. Hawthorne, sit down before your first contribution to St. Gabriel becomes a detention.”

Benjamin finally moved to Henry’s other side. “You see?” he said to Henry while taking his seat. “The school is already separating us.”

Henry looked between us. “You are approximately two feet farther away.”

“Distance destroys friendships.”

“You ignored seven of my calls yesterday.”

“That was different. I was asleep.”

I opened my notebook, though the corner of my mouth threatened to rise. Their conversation made it obvious they had known each other for years. Henry’s patience seemed practised, while Benjamin’s arrogance carried the ease of an old habit.

Mrs. Whitmore began the introductions. Rather than asking every student to speak, she briefly read information from the admission files.

“Anneliese Grace,” she said, looking toward me. “First position at Rosewood Secondary School, recipient of the St. Gabriel Academic Excellence Scholarship and intending to pursue medicine.”

Several students turned toward me. I smiled politely and wished my face did not become warm so easily.

“Henry Bennett,” Mrs. Whitmore continued. “First position at Bellmere Secondary School, also attending through the Academic Excellence Scholarship. His interests include biology, engineering and computer science.”

Henry nodded respectfully.

Mrs. Whitmore looked down at the next folder. Her expression changed almost imperceptibly. “Benjamin Hawthorne. Bellmere Secondary School.”

She stopped there.

A few students laughed quietly.

Benjamin leaned back in his chair. “A remarkably efficient introduction.”

Henry lowered his voice. “She had limited positive material.”

“I passed.”

“Barely.”

“History remembers survivors, not percentages.”

Mrs. Whitmore closed the folder. “Since Mr. Hawthorne is eager to participate, we will begin with a diagnostic exercise.”

Benjamin looked at Henry. “This feels targeted.”

“It is the first sensible decision anyone has made today,” Henry whispered.

Mrs. Whitmore divided the class into groups of three. As our seats had already decided the matter, I found myself working with Henry and Benjamin. A set of questions appeared on the board, combining biology, chemistry, logic and mathematics.

“This is not graded,” Mrs. Whitmore explained. “It allows me to understand how you approach unfamiliar problems. Each group must submit one set of answers.”

Henry immediately pulled the worksheet toward us. “We should divide the sections.”

“I’ll take biology and chemistry,” I offered.

“I’ll take mathematics and logic,” Henry said.

We both looked at Benjamin.

He leaned back and folded his arms. “I will provide moral support.”

“We already have chairs for that,” I replied.

Henry looked down, but his shoulders moved with suppressed laughter.

Benjamin turned slowly toward me. “Do scholarship students receive special training in hostility?”

“Only toward unhelpful group members.”

“I arrived less than ten minutes ago.”

“And you have already mastered the role.”

Henry placed the worksheet between us. “Could both of you delay the war until after we finish?”

“There is no war,” Benjamin said. “She attacked an innocent volunteer.”

“You did not volunteer for anything,” I reminded him.

“Exactly. My innocence remains intact.”

Despite his behaviour, Benjamin began reading the questions. Henry and I worked through the first sections quickly. We agreed on most answers, though Henry approached problems through formulas while I preferred writing out each step. Benjamin watched without writing a word.

When we reached the final logic question, Henry frowned.

A laboratory contained three sealed samples. One carried a virus, one contained a harmless culture and one was empty. The labels were all incorrect. Only one sample could be tested before the correct labels had to be assigned.

Henry read the conditions again. “We need to identify all three from one test.”

“The sample labelled empty cannot actually be empty,” I said. “But it could contain either culture.”

Henry nodded. “Testing it gives us the first identification, but the remaining labels still depend on—”

“The sample marked ‘empty’ is the only one you test,” Benjamin said casually.

Henry and I turned toward him.

Benjamin reached across the desk and pointed at the diagram. “Every label is wrong. If the container marked empty tests positive for the virus, that identifies it. The one marked virus cannot contain the virus, and it cannot be empty if the third label is also wrong, so it must contain the harmless culture. The last container is empty. The same elimination works if the first test reveals the harmless culture instead.”

For a moment, neither Henry nor I spoke.

Benjamin looked between us. “You both appear surprised.”

“You knew the answer,” I said.

“I usually know the answer.”

“Then why have you done nothing for the last fifteen minutes?”

“Writing answers down is where my relationship with education becomes complicated.”

I took the pen and added his solution to the sheet. “Perhaps effort is the subject you actually failed.”

Henry nodded solemnly. “Finally, someone understands my suffering.”

Benjamin looked betrayed. “I expected loyalty.”

“You slept during the mathematics examination I prepared you for,” Henry replied.

“You made calculus excessively calming.”

I looked at Henry. “He slept during the examination?”

Henry pointed toward Benjamin. “Halfway through it.”

“The room was warm,” Benjamin explained.

“And he finished last in our class,” Henry added.

Benjamin turned toward him. “Some details are unnecessary in new friendships.”

“I would not call this friendship yet,” I said.

Benjamin looked directly at me. “Then I still have time to improve the first impression.”

“You would need to begin.”

His expression changed slightly—not embarrassment or anger, but interest, as though people did not often answer him without hesitation.

Mrs. Whitmore called time. She collected the worksheets and reviewed them while we waited. A few minutes later, she looked toward our row.

“Group six achieved the highest score. Miss Grace and Mr. Bennett, excellent reasoning.”

Benjamin said nothing. He simply leaned back again, apparently content to let the praise pass over him.

“The final problem was Benjamin’s solution,” I said.

His head turned toward me.

Mrs. Whitmore looked mildly surprised. “Was it?”

“Yes. Henry and I had not completed it when he explained the correct method.”

Benjamin studied me as though trying to determine why I had spoken. I had no reason to hide his contribution. The answer belonged to him, regardless of how little interest he had shown in earning credit for it.

Mrs. Whitmore nodded. “Then well done, Mr. Hawthorne. Perhaps participation is not entirely beyond you.”

“It appears I have hidden depths,” Benjamin replied.

“You hide them exceptionally well,” Henry said.

The class laughed, and even Mrs. Whitmore’s expression softened.

When the bell rang, chairs scraped against the floor and conversations began immediately. I gathered my books while checking the map in my student folder.

“Do you know where the scholarship office is?” Henry asked me.

“Beside the library, I think. I need to submit my final documents before lunch.”

“So do I. We can go together.”

Before I could answer, Benjamin looked at Henry. “You said we were having lunch.”

“We are,” Henry replied. “After we submit the documents.”

Benjamin glanced toward me. “Is she coming too?”

Henry turned back to me. “Would you like to join us?”

I hesitated only briefly. Henry was kind, and despite Benjamin’s confidence occupying nearly as much space as a fourth person, their friendship was entertaining.

“All right,” I said. “But I need to visit the library first.”

“Of course,” Henry replied.

Benjamin picked up the only object he had brought—his phone. “Does the library serve food?”

“No,” I said.

“Then I have already identified its greatest weakness.”

“It contains books.”

“I am familiar with the concept.”

“From personal experience?”

Henry covered his mouth, pretending to cough.

Benjamin looked at me. “You have formed a very low opinion of me.”

“You arrived late, tried to remove me from my seat and volunteered to contribute nothing.”

“When you present the evidence like that, it sounds unfavourable.”

“It was not favourable before I presented it.”

Henry laughed as we left the classroom together. In the corridor, several students greeted Benjamin by name, though he barely seemed to know theirs. Others watched him pass with obvious curiosity. His surname moved ahead of him like an announcement.

At the staircase, Henry and I turned toward the library.

“I’ll meet you both in the courtyard,” Benjamin said. “I need to speak to the administration.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“My timetable.”

“We have been here for one lesson.”

“And I have already discovered several problems.”

“You mean classes you dislike?”

“I mean opportunities for improvement.”

Henry shook his head. “Do not have the entire school rearranged before lunch.”

“No promises.”

Benjamin walked toward the administrative wing without looking back.

I watched him for a moment. “Is he always like that?”

Henry followed my gaze and smiled with the weary affection of someone who had been answering that question for years. “Usually he is worse.”

“Why are you friends with him?”

“Because he is not always what he appears to be.”

I remembered the logic problem, the answer he had given without effort and the silence with which he had allowed Henry and me to receive the praise.

“Perhaps,” I said.

Henry and I continued toward the library. I had treated Benjamin Hawthorne exactly as I would have treated any unhelpful student assigned to my group. I had not cared about the car outside, the expensive watch around his wrist or the surname engraved across half the donor plaques in the entrance hall.

At the time, it seemed like the most ordinary thing in the world.

I did not yet understand that very few people had ever made Benjamin Hawthorne feel ordinary.