Ms. Deloera

𝓔ssay 7

I woke up before my alarm, the room still half-dark, the kind of quiet that felt held in place. The house was already awake in small ways. Water running somewhere downstairs. A drawer closing. My dad moving through his morning.

I stayed in bed for a moment, eyes on the ceiling, listening. Wednesday. The word settled in my chest without resistance.

In the bathroom, I turned on the tap and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto my face.

I washed slowly, methodical, watching myself in the mirror as I patted my skin dry.

My face looked calm. Awake enough. I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back, applied moisturizer with practiced movements.

Routine helped. It gave my hands something to do while my mind caught up.

Downstairs, my dad was already setting things on the table when I came in. He looked up immediately.

"Morning," he said, smiling.

"Morning."

Breakfast was simple. Toast. Yogurt. Fruit sliced neatly on a small plate. Nothing overwhelming. I sat across from him, wrapped my fingers around my mug, and took a careful sip. The warmth grounded me.

For a second, my attention snagged on the plate. The familiar thoughts surfaced quietly. You do not need all of it. You can stop halfway. You can control this.

I took a breath and picked up my spoon anyway.

My dad talked as I ate, about his day, about a patient who reminded him of someone we used to know. His voice was calm, steady. He had always been good at this. Filling space without crowding it.

"You have classes first, right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Around noon. Then work."

He nodded. "Busy day."

"I like it," I said, and meant it.

He watched me for a moment, not my plate but my face. "How are you feeling today?"

I paused, spoon resting against the edge of the bowl.

"Okay," I said. "A little tired. But okay."

"That makes sense," he replied easily. "You have been doing a lot lately. I'm proud of you, you know that."

My throat tightened just slightly. I nodded instead of answering, focusing on finishing enough. Not perfect. Just enough.

After breakfast, I rinsed my bowl and leaned against the counter, checking my phone. A new email sat at the top of my inbox.

From: Ava

Subject: Friday Event Details

I opened it.

Hi Ivy,

Here are the details for Friday evening.

Arrival time: 6:30 p.m.

Location: Pioneer Square

Dress code: Black, elegant, minimal accessories.

Celeste will pick you up.

You'll be assisting her directly throughout the event, so please stay close and take notes as discussed. Let me know if you have any questions.

Ava

I read it twice, then a third time. My stomach tightened, not unpleasantly. Nerves, yes. But also excitement. I told myself that firmly. This was about work. About responsibility. About doing well.

"You look focused," my dad said.

"Just an email from work," I replied.

He smiled. "You'll do great."

Upstairs, I got dressed carefully. The black silk skirt slid cool against my skin, long and fluid.

I fastened the belt at my waist, adjusted it until it felt secure.

The black sweater followed, tucked in neatly.

Clean lines. Controlled. I stepped into my kitten heels and stood for a moment, checking my reflection.

Put together. Calm.

At my vanity, I did my makeup slowly. Concealer. Mascara. Lip balm pressed lightly into my lips. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to feel like myself. The girl in the mirror looked composed. Capable.

I packed my bag next. Laptop. Charger. Notebook. Pen. Lip balm again, out of habit. Keys. Each item placed deliberately, like a checklist I could trust.

When I finally zipped the bag and slung it over my shoulder, I felt ready. Not fearless. Just steady.

The drive to campus was quiet. Late morning traffic had thinned out, the roads open enough that I did not have to think about every turn. I let the car move on instinct, hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward. Music played low, more texture than sound.

By the time I parked, the sun was higher. Everything looked sharper. Buildings. Pavement. People crossing the quad with coffees in their hands, backpacks slung over one shoulder. I adjusted my bag on my arm and headed inside.

My first lecture started just after noon. I took my usual seat, second row from the back, close enough to hear clearly without feeling exposed. The chair was cool when I sat down. I crossed my ankles, rested my notebook on the desk, and opened my laptop.

The professor began talking. Slides appeared. Words filled the screen.

I tried to follow.

For the first few minutes, I did. I typed notes, short phrases, things I knew I would understand later. Then my focus slipped, subtle at first. A thought arriving without asking.

Celeste.

Not her face exactly. More the idea of her. Her presence. The way work had started to rearrange my days around her without my permission.

I tightened my jaw slightly and forced my attention back to the screen.

This is not about her, I told myself.

This is about the job.

You are excited about the work.

The distinction mattered. I held onto it.

My fingers moved again. Notes resumed. The room faded into a rhythm. Chairs shifting. Pens tapping. Someone coughing a few rows over. I grounded myself in the details, the ordinary noise of being a student among other students.

Halfway through the lecture, I caught myself adjusting my sweater, smoothing it against my waist. A flicker of awareness passed through me. How I was sitting. How I felt in the chair. The thoughts nudged at the edges of my focus, familiar and unwanted.

I inhaled slowly and let my shoulders drop.

Not now, I thought. Later.

When the lecture ended, I packed up carefully, sliding my laptop back into my bag, tucking the charger into its pocket. The motion was soothing. Orderly. I checked the time. Still enough space before work.

My second class passed more easily. Smaller room. Softer voice. I stayed present by anchoring myself to details. The scratch of my pen. The way sunlight fell across the desk in front of me. The faint scent of someone's perfume nearby.

By the time I stepped back outside, I felt steadier. The air had warmed. I paused near my car, adjusting the strap of my bag, and let myself stand there for a moment before moving again.

Student. Assistant. Both.

I slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, already shifting gears in my head as I pulled away from campus and headed toward the office.

CeltaDel came into view as I turned onto the street, the building all glass and clean lines, reflecting the afternoon light back at itself. I parked, checked my reflection quickly in the rearview mirror, then stepped out, the sound of my heels sharp against the pavement.

Inside, the air shifted immediately. Cooler. Quieter. Focused.

I signed in, nodded to the receptionist, and walked toward the open office area.

The familiar layout settled into place as soon as I saw it.

Rows of desks. Glass partitions cutting the space into precise sections.

And beyond them, unmistakable even from a distance, Celeste's office. All glass. Minimal. Always visible.

I felt it before I looked directly. That awareness. Like a line drawn through the room.

My desk sat directly in front of Ava's. Same row. Same alignment. I placed my bag down carefully, slid into my chair, and powered on my laptop. Ava looked up almost immediately.

"Hey," she said softly, smiling. "How were classes?"

"Good," I replied. "Long, but good."

She nodded, understanding without needing more. "Friday's coming up fast."

"I saw your email," I said. "Thank you. It was really clear."

She smiled again, the kind that felt encouraging without being overwhelming. "You're doing great already."

I felt something loosen slightly in my chest. "Thanks."

We fell into a quiet rhythm after that. Typing. Papers shifting. Phones vibrating and being silenced. Through the glass, I caught a glimpse of Celeste moving in her office, dark against the light, posture straight, phone at her ear. I looked away quickly, refocusing on my screen.

Printing. That was my next task.

I gathered the documents I needed and headed toward the smaller room near the PR section. The printer hummed as it warmed up, the sound filling the space. I waited, arms folded loosely, eyes on the machine as pages began to slide out.

"Let me guess," a voice said lightly behind me. "You're new."

I turned.

She stood there with easy confidence, dark hair pulled back, a tablet tucked under her arm. She looked relaxed, like she belonged exactly where she was.

"I am," I said. "Ivy."

"Mira," she replied, stepping closer and glancing at the printer. "PR. You're Celeste's assistant, right?"

I nodded. "Second day."

"That explains it," she said, smiling. "You still look calm."

I laughed quietly, surprised by how natural it felt. "I'm trying."

She leaned against the counter, watching the papers stack neatly. I noticed the way she spoke, measured but warm, the way she held herself like she didn't need to prove anything.

"Well," she said, "if you ever need anything PR-related, I'm usually around. Or buried in emails."

"Good to know," I said. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Ivy."

The printer beeped softly. I gathered the pages, thanked her, and headed back out, her presence lingering in my awareness longer than I expected. Not in a heavy way. Just noted.

Back at my desk, Ava glanced up as I returned. "Met Mira?"

"Yeah," I said. "She seems nice."

"She is," Ava replied. "Very good at what she does."

I filed that away.

I was reviewing my notes when her shadow crossed my desk.

"Ivy."

I looked up.

Celeste stood there, coat already on, keys in her hand. Her presence was immediate, contained, like the room had quietly reorganized itself around her. She glanced once at my screen, then back at me.

"Grab your things," she said. "We're going to see a designer."

"Yes," I replied, already reaching for my bag.

She turned without waiting. I shut my laptop, slid my notebook inside, and stood, smoothing my skirt as I stepped away from the desk. Ava looked up as I passed her, offering a small, encouraging smile. I returned it briefly and kept walking.

Celeste was waiting by the elevator. She stood straight, one hand resting at her side, gaze forward. I took my place beside her, close enough to be aware of her without touching.

The doors closed. The elevator descended. Silence filled the space, not awkward, just precise.

Outside, the car was already waiting. The driver opened the back door. Celeste got in first. I followed, settling beside her. The door shut softly, sealing us inside.

The city moved past the windows as the car pulled away. I rested my hands in my lap, posture careful, aware of everything. The hum of the engine. The faint scent of her perfume. The way she sat without shifting.

"You're doing well," Celeste said after a moment.

I turned my head slightly, surprised by the timing more than the words.

"At work," she added. "You're observant. That's important."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

She inclined her head once, as if the subject were closed. The silence returned, heavier now, charged in a way I couldn't name.

I looked out the window instead of at her, watching the streets blur together. My reflection overlapped faintly with hers in the glass, two outlines moving through the same space.

The car slowed and came to a stop in front of a discreet building, modern and understated. The driver stepped out first.

"We're here," Celeste said, already opening her door.

I followed her out, notebook secured under my arm, heart steady, attention sharp.

Work first, I reminded myself as we walked toward the entrance.

Always work first.

The building was quieter inside, the kind of quiet that felt intentional.

Polished floors. Muted light. The air smelled faintly of fabric and something clean, almost metallic.

Celeste walked ahead of me without looking back, heels measured, pace unhurried.

I followed half a step behind, adjusting instinctively to match her rhythm.

The designer's office opened into a wider space at the back. Racks of garments lined the walls, spaced carefully, each piece wrapped in translucent covers. A long table stood in the center, sketches arranged in clean rows. Everything felt curated. Controlled.

The designer greeted Celeste first. Familiar. Respectful. Their exchange was brief and professional.

"This is Ivy," Celeste said, turning her head slightly toward me. "My assistant."

His gaze shifted to me. Quick. Assessing. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you," I replied.

They moved into the collection. One garment at a time was revealed, fabric slipping free of its cover. I wrote as he spoke. Texture. Cut. Movement. Color. I learned quickly what Celeste responded to. A pause meant interest. A question meant potential. Silence meant no.

At one rack, she stepped closer, studying a dress in deep black, the fabric heavy, structured. I noticed the way her fingers hovered near the sleeve without touching it.

"Thoughts," she said quietly, not looking at me.

The word landed softly, almost like an invitation.

I stepped closer, careful to keep my voice low. "It's strong," I said. "But it might read severe under bright light."

She glanced at me then. Brief. Considering.

"Too much," she murmured.

"Possibly," I replied. "Unless it's styled simply."

She nodded once, decision already forming. "Noted."

I marked it.

Another dress followed, softer this time, fabric moving more freely. As the designer spoke, Celeste leaned slightly toward me.

"This one," she said under her breath. "What do you see?"

I hesitated just a fraction of a second, then answered. "Movement. It feels intentional without trying."

Her mouth curved almost imperceptibly. Not a smile. Something close.

"That's what I thought."

My pen hovered for a moment before I forced it back to the page. My focus wavered, just briefly, not on the dress but on the way she stood beside me, close enough that I was aware of her warmth, her presence.

I caught myself and looked down quickly, grounding myself in the weight of the notebook.

Stay sharp.

She glanced at me then. Quick. Neutral.

Enough to make my pulse stutter.

"Mark that one," she said calmly.

I nodded immediately, pen moving. I focused on the words forming on the page, on the clean lines of my handwriting, on the task at hand.

Work. Only work.

The designer continued. Time moved strangely, stretching and collapsing. When the last garment was returned to its cover, Celeste stepped back.

"That will be all for today," she said.

The finality in her tone closed the meeting cleanly. As we turned toward the entrance, the tension eased slightly from my shoulders. I had kept up. I had not missed anything.

In the hallway, she slowed just enough for me to walk beside her.

"You have a good eye," she said quietly. Not praise. Observation.

"Thank you," I replied.

The car was quieter on the way back. Not tense. Just still.

Celeste leaned back in her seat as the driver pulled away from the curb. I kept my notebook on my lap, fingers resting along the edge, waiting without meaning to.

"I didn't really like most of it," she said finally. "It felt overworked."

I nodded. "I thought so too."

She glanced at me briefly. "Except for two."

"The second and the fifth," I said.

"Yes." Her attention shifted back to the window. "Those were the only ones that felt honest."

We sat with that for a moment. The city passed in slow fragments. Storefronts. Corners. Reflections layered over glass.

"The rest tried too hard," she continued. "There was no restraint."

"I wrote something similar," I said. "The structure was strong, but the intention got lost."

"That's exactly it."

The conversation ended there, naturally. No need to stretch it. The work spoke for itself.

Back at CeltaDel, the driver pulled up to the curb. Celeste stepped out first and headed straight inside. I followed, heels quiet against the floor, the office folding back around us.

She disappeared into her glass office. The door closed.

At my desk, I opened my laptop and reread my notes, refining the language until it felt precise. When I was satisfied, I opened a new email.

To: Celeste Deloera

Subject: Designer notes

Attached are my notes from today.

I highlighted the second and fifth pieces as discussed.

Let me know if you want anything expanded.

Ivy

I read it once, then sent it.

Ava leaned back slightly in her chair, peering at my screen from behind.

"Sent already?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "While it's fresh."

She smiled, amused. "You know you don't have to be perfect for her."

I glanced at her. "I'm not trying to be."

"Mm," Ava said lightly. "Sure looks like it."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "I just want to do a good job."

"I know," she said gently. "You are."

Her tone was warm, not teasing now. Supportive. I exhaled without realizing I'd been holding my breath and turned back to my screen, the day settling into place again.

The office thinned out gradually. Chairs rolled back. Voices lowered. Screens dimmed one by one. At five-thirty, I shut down my laptop, slid it into my bag, and stood. The day released me slowly, like it wasn't entirely convinced I was done with it.

Ava was already pulling on her coat. "See you tomorrow," she said.

"Tomorrow," I replied.

Outside, the evening air felt cooler against my skin. I drove home without music, letting the quiet stretch. When I pulled into the driveway, the house looked calm, unchanged, like it had been waiting for me.

The house was quiet when I stepped inside, the kind of quiet that let my shoulders drop without me noticing right away. I kicked off my shoes by the door and stood there for a second longer than necessary, bag still on my shoulder, letting the day unhook itself from me piece by piece.

Upstairs, I changed out of my work clothes carefully. Folded the skirt. Hung the sweater. I washed my face, watching the makeup disappear down the sink, my skin underneath looking softer, younger. Less composed. I didn't dislike it.

Hunger flickered again, subtle but persistent. I opened the fridge, closed it, then grabbed a banana from the counter. Something small. I ate slowly at the counter, not distracted, paying attention to the act itself. Chewing. Swallowing. Stopping when I felt steady enough.

Not full. Just grounded.

I checked the time, then got dressed again. Jeans this time. A fitted black top. Jacket. I brushed my hair, reapplied a little mascara, pressed lip balm into my lips. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't critique. I noted. The way I stood. The way my shoulders had relaxed.

At the mall, everything felt brighter. Louder. Music threaded through the air, not quite songs, more like movement. Jade was waiting near the entrance, weight on one hip, scanning the crowd like she always did. She smiled when she saw me, immediate and familiar.

"Someone looks great ," she said.

"I feel quieter," I replied.

"That counts more."

We walked side by side, conversation weaving in and out of silence. The day loosened its grip as we moved. By the time we stepped into Gucci, my steps had slowed without me telling them to.

The store felt different from the mall around it. Softer light. Thicker air. Everything spaced just enough to feel intentional. I ran my fingers along a rack without looking at the tags yet, just feeling fabric. Silk slid cool beneath my touch. Wool felt structured, almost stern.

I pulled one dress free and held it up in front of me. Black, but not flat. The fabric caught the light in a way that shifted as I moved it. I turned it slightly, watching how it responded.

Jade stayed quiet. She knew better.

I tried it on.

In the fitting room, the mirror reflected me back in fragments first. Shoulder. Waist. Legs. When I stepped fully into view, I stopped.

The dress didn't cling. It followed. The skirt fell clean and long, brushing my ankles. The belt defined my waist without squeezing. When I moved, the fabric moved with me, not against me. I straightened without thinking, spine aligning, chin lifting just a fraction.

Armor, Jade had said earlier.

I understood it now.

I turned slightly, watching the line of my body shift. Not judging. Just observing. I didn't feel exposed in it. I felt contained. Intentional.

I stepped out so Jade could see.

She didn't speak at first. Just looked at me, eyes sharp, familiar.

"That one," she said finally. "You stopped breathing in the others. You didn't in this."

I nodded. She was right. I had felt it too.

We bought it without second guessing. The bag felt heavier than it should have as we left the store, like it carried more than fabric.

Dinner came after. Somewhere warm. Comfortable. We slid into our seats and ordered easily. I ordered lobster pasta, Jade ordered a burger with fries. When the food arrived, I took my time. Not counting. Not rushing. Listening to Jade talk about her day, about nothing, about everything.

Halfway through, a presence announced itself before the voice did.

"Wow," Marcus said. "You two look expensive."

Jade rolled her eyes. "Sit down."

He did, stealing a fry without asking. The table shifted, energy expanding to fit him. Conversation layered over itself. Laughter came easier. I leaned back slightly, watching them both, noticing the way my chest felt lighter than it had all day.

For a few minutes, I forgot to hold myself so carefully.

It didn't last forever.

But it lasted long enough to matter.

Marcus leaned back in his chair, fork already in hand, eyes flicking between me and Jade like he was piecing something together he already half knew.

"So," he said, casual but not careless. "How was Celeste today?"

There it was. No teasing. No mystery.

I cut into my food carefully, watched the steam lift, then answered. "Busy."

Jade snorted softly. "Busy is Ivy code for intense."

"It was work," I said, automatically. I hated how fast the words came out. "We went to see a designer."

Marcus nodded. "And?"

"And she didn't like most of it," I added. "Two dresses. That was it."

"That tracks," he said. "She hates excess."

I glanced up at him. "You sound like you know her."

"I do," he said simply. "Not personally. But enough."

Jade tilted her head, watching me now. "Did she ask your opinion?"

I hesitated. My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

"Yes," I said.

Jade's mouth curved slightly. "And?"

"I gave it," I replied. "She listened."

Marcus smiled, just a little. "That's not nothing, Ivy."

I took a bite then, grounding myself in the taste, the texture. The familiar thoughts brushed the edges of my mind, quiet but persistent. I ate anyway. Slower. Present.

Jade watched me for a second, then shifted the conversation gently. "The dress you picked. Tell him."

Marcus's eyes dropped to the bag by my chair. "Ah. So that's what that is."

"It made me stand differently," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I didn't feel like I had to pull at it. Or disappear in it."

Jade nodded immediately. "Exactly."

Marcus leaned forward. "You're choosing things that hold you instead of things you hide in. That's new."

I didn't answer right away. I took another bite, chewed, swallowed.

"I'm trying," I said finally.

No one rushed to fill the silence. That mattered.

Jade reached across the table and nudged my wrist lightly. "You're doing good tonight."

I looked at her. "I am?"

"Yeah," she said. "You're here. Not halfway gone."

I let myself sit with that. With the noise of the restaurant. With the warmth of the food. With my friends across from me, watching without watching.

For once, I didn't feel the need to leave early.

We stayed a little longer than I expected. Long enough for the plates to be cleared, for Marcus to steal the last sip of Jade's drink and get threatened for it, for the restaurant to thin out around us without me noticing right away.

When we finally stood, I felt pleasantly tired. Not drained. Just used.

Outside, the air was cooler, the kind that brushed against my skin and reminded me I still had a body. Jade hugged me first, tight and familiar.

"Text me when you get home," she said.

"I will."

Marcus leaned in next, quick and solid. "Drive safe."

"I always do."

The drive home was quiet. Streetlights blurred past the windshield, reflections stretching and snapping back into place. I didn't turn the music on. I let the hum of the road fill the space instead.

My thoughts drifted, loose now. The dress. Jade's words. Celeste's voice in the car earlier, calm and measured. I caught myself lingering there and gently redirected.

Not tonight.

At home, the house was dark and still. I kicked off my shoes by the door, hung my jacket on its hook. The silence wrapped around me, familiar and unthreatening.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water and drank it slowly, feeling it settle. Hunger flickered again, softer this time. I noted it without judgment and moved on.

Upstairs, my room felt like a cocoon. I changed into pajamas, folded my clothes instead of dropping them on the floor. Small care. Intentional.

In the bathroom, I showered. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, applied moisturizer with slow, practiced movements. I watched my reflection, not critically. Just noticing. The way my eyes looked less guarded. The way my shoulders had dropped.

In bed, I lay on my back, hands resting on my stomach, breathing steady. The day replayed in fragments. My dad's voice that morning. Ava's smile. The weight of the Gucci bag against my leg. Celeste's quiet approval.

That one lingered longer than the rest.

I let it pass.

When I finally turned onto my side and closed my eyes, the house remained still around me.

I had made it through the day.