Ms. Deloera

𝓔ssay 8

The house is quiet in the way that tells me I'm alone.

Not the calm kind. The adjusted kind. The kind that has learned how to exist without someone and now does it too well.

I don't hear footsteps upstairs. I don't hear a drawer opening in the kitchen or the low murmur of a phone call drifting through the walls.

I don't need to check the time to know my dad isn't home again.

I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, counting nothing in particular. The quiet presses in but I let it. It feels easier than resisting it.

Thursday settles into my chest like a weight I recognise immediately. It doesn't surprise me. Thursdays always feel like this. Heavy in a quiet way. Like something unfinished.

I get out of bed and pad into the bathroom, movements slow, unhurried, like I'm trying not to disturb something fragile inside me.

The light is too bright. I blink a few times before turning on the tap and splashing cold water onto my face.

The shock helps. It anchors me. My hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening, and for a moment I just breathe.

I look at my reflection longer than I want to. I catalogue instead of judge. Tired eyes. Neutral mouth. Hair that needs effort I'm not sure I have today. I decide I look fine. Fine is manageable. Fine doesn't ask anything from me.

The sound comes before the image.

Metal folding in on itself. Not loud. Just sharp enough to cut through thought.

My stomach tightens instinctively and I close my eyes, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth.

I don't let it become more than that. I don't let it turn into glass or blood or the way time seemed to stop and then fracture all at once.

I don't think about the hospital lights. Or the smell. Or the way my name sounded when someone else said it like that.

I think about my mother instead. About her hands.

About how she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating.

About the way she would pause before answering questions, like she believed silence was allowed to exist. I wonder sometimes if that's where I get it from.

The quiet. The hesitation. The tendency to observe before acting.

She never got to see this version of me. The one who goes to university. The one who walks through crowded halls pretending she belongs. The one who has learned how to survive days like this without letting it show.

That thought sits heavy in my chest, but I don't push it away. I let it stay, just for a moment, before I turn from the mirror and leave the bathroom.

In the kitchen, I move on autopilot. I make something small.

Something safe. Something that doesn't require decisions.

I eat slowly, mechanically, telling myself I'll have more later.

That later always feels far away, but the promise steadies me anyway.

It feels like control. Or at least the illusion of it.

I check my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from my dad. I don't know if that disappoints me or relieves me. Probably both.

When I grab my bag and my keys, I pause by the door for a second longer than necessary. The house feels hollow behind me. Not abandoned. Just quiet in a way that echoes. I lock the door and step outside without looking back.

The air is crisp, cool enough to wake me up properly. I breathe it in deeply as I walk to my car, grounding myself in the present. Today is just a day. Classes. Work. Routine. If I keep it small, it feels manageable.

Still, as I drive toward campus, my thoughts drift where I don't want them to.

Celeste.

The realization comes softly, almost sheepish. She's already there, lingering at the edges of my mind. Not her face at first, but her voice. Calm. Precise. The way she said it last time, like it wasn't a big thing. Like she hadn't just altered something inside me.

You're doing really great.

The words replay without permission. I analyze them the way I analyze everything. The tone. The timing. The fact that she didn't soften it or decorate it with warmth. She hadn't needed to. Coming from her, it was enough.

I hate how much it mattered. I hate how part of me wants to hear it again.

I tell myself to focus. To listen. To do well. To stay invisible and impressive at the same time.

Celeste's class is later, but the anticipation sits with me anyway. I can already feel the pull of it. The awareness. The way my heart beats differently when I'm near her.

I don't name it yet.

I just carry it with me, quiet and persistent, like everything else.

By the time I park and step onto campus, the world feels louder. Students everywhere. Conversations overlapping. Laughter I'm not part of. I blend in easily. I always have. I walk with purpose, head down, bag slung over my shoulder, trying to feel like someone who belongs here without effort.

I spot Jade first.

She's impossible to miss when she wants to be seen, which is always.

She's leaning against one of the stone pillars near the lecture halls, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, talking animatedly to Marcus even though he's clearly only half awake.

He's got his backpack slung over one shoulder and that distant look on his face, like his body made it to campus but his mind is still negotiating with his bed.

For a second, I just watch them.

There's comfort in the familiarity. The way Jade gestures too much. The way Marcus nods along even when he isn't really listening. The ease of it all. I don't feel like I have to perform anything with them. I don't have to be impressive or quiet in a strategic way. I can just exist.

"Ivy," Jade calls when she finally notices me, her voice cutting clean through the noise around us. She smiles immediately, wide and unfiltered. "You look like you've already lived through three days and it's not even ten."

I huff out a small laugh as I reach them. "Good morning to you too."

Marcus glances over and lifts a hand in a lazy wave. "She's not wrong."

"I am standing right here," I say, but there's no real bite to it. I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and fall into step beside them as they start walking toward the lecture building. "You're both way too energetic for this hour."

Jade scoffs. "I'm fueled by caffeine and delusion. Don't judge me."

We move with the crowd, students funneling toward different entrances, voices overlapping, shoes scuffing against the pavement.

I let their chatter wash over me. Jade is talking about something that happened in her dorm last night.

Marcus interrupts occasionally to add commentary that makes no sense out of context.

I nod and smile at the right moments, present enough to follow, distant enough that my thoughts keep drifting.

"Are you okay?" Jade asks suddenly, tilting her head to look at me properly. Her tone shifts just enough for me to notice.

I hesitate for half a second. Just half. "Yeah," I say. "Just tired."

It's not a lie. It's just not the whole thing.

Marcus studies me for a moment, then shrugs. "It's Thursday. Everyone's tired on Thursdays."

That makes something in my chest loosen a little. He's right. There's comfort in the ordinariness of it. In being one tired student among thousands.

We stop outside our first lecture hall, the doors already open, students filtering in. Jade groans dramatically.

"I cannot believe we have to think this early," she says. "Who decided this was acceptable."

"Society," Marcus replies. "Capitalism. Fate."

Jade rolls her eyes and grabs my arm briefly, squeezing. "We'll survive. And then we'll get food later. Real food."

I nod, even though the word food makes something twist low in my stomach. "Later," I echo, because that seems to be my answer to everything lately.

They peel off toward their seats and I head inside after them, choosing a spot a few rows back. As I sit down, I feel the familiar hum of campus life settle around me. The scrape of chairs. The low murmur of conversation. Someone laughing too loudly in the back.

I pull out my notebook and pen, even though my mind keeps skipping ahead.

Celeste.

I wonder what she'll teach today. I wonder if she'll look at me. I wonder if she'll notice anything at all.

The thought makes me straighten slightly in my seat, like I'm already preparing.

I hate that I'm aware of it.

The lecture begins, and I force myself to focus. I take notes. I listen. I participate when I have to. But underneath it all, there's a quiet pull, a sense of waiting. Like this is all just a prelude.

When the class finally ends and we file back out into the sunlight, Jade immediately links her arm through mine.

"One down," she says. "A million to go."

Marcus stretches his arms above his head. "I'm getting food before my next lecture. Anyone judging me can fight me."

I smile despite myself. The normalcy steadies me again.

Still, as we walk toward our next buildings, my gaze drifts instinctively toward the wing where Celeste's classroom is. I don't stop walking. I don't say anything.

But my attention is already there.

Quiet. Focused. Waiting.

The classroom is already half full. Low voices.

Chairs scraping softly against the floor.

I choose a seat slightly off-center, close enough to see everything without being obvious about it.

I place my notebook on the desk and align my pen carefully along the edge.

The small ritual calms me. Or at least gives my hands something to do.

I sit straighter than I need to.

I notice that first.

The door opens while I'm still pretending to read the syllabus, and the shift in the room is immediate. It's subtle, but I feel it anyway. Like the air tightens. Conversations quiet. People look up.

Celeste walks in without hurry.

She doesn't smile. She doesn't greet anyone loudly. She simply sets her bag down on the desk, places her notes beside it, and looks at the room like she's already aware of every single person in it. Her presence feels contained, deliberate. As if nothing about her is accidental.

My attention sharpens immediately. I hate that it does.

She waits until the room settles completely before speaking. She doesn't ask for silence. She expects it. And somehow, she gets it.

"Today," she says calmly, "we're going to talk about desire."

A few students shift in their seats. Someone lets out a quiet laugh near the back. I don't move. I feel something in my chest tighten, alert and immediate.

Celeste's gaze drifts briefly across the room. Not searching. Observing.

"Not romantic desire," she continues, like she's correcting an assumption before it fully forms. "Not in the way you're thinking."

Her eyes pass over me. I don't know if they linger or if I imagine it.

"In literature," she goes on, "desire is most powerful when it is restrained."

She writes the word on the board in neat, precise letters.

RESTRAINT.

The chalk clicks softly when she sets it down.

"Writers who explain everything weaken their work," she says. "The reader does not want to be told what to feel. They want to be invited."

I feel myself lean forward slightly without realizing it. My pen hovers over the page, forgotten.

Celeste picks up a book from her desk. She doesn't announce the title right away. She flips through it slowly, intentionally, as if she knows exactly what this pause is doing to the room.

"In this text," she says finally, "the author withholds more than they give. They let silence do the work. They let implication speak louder than confession."

She looks up then, eyes scanning the room.

"Tell me," she says, "why that works."

No one answers immediately.

The silence stretches. I can feel it pressing against my ribs. I know she's doing this on purpose. She wants someone to step into it. She wants to see who's paying attention.

My heart starts to beat faster. I glance down at my notes, then back up. I know the answer. Not in a rehearsed way. In a felt way. The kind that settles somewhere deep and insists on being spoken.

I raise my hand before I can talk myself out of it.

Celeste's gaze lands on me instantly. Sharp. Focused. Expectant.

"Yes," she says.

The word alone makes my pulse jump.

"It works," I begin, my voice steady even though my hands aren't, "because restraint creates tension. The reader fills in the gaps themselves. What's unsaid feels more personal than what's explained."

The room is quiet. I'm suddenly aware of how exposed I feel.

Celeste studies me for a moment longer than necessary. Not unkindly. Precisely.

"And?" she prompts.

I swallow. "And because it respects the reader. It assumes they're capable of understanding without being guided through every emotion."

Something flickers across her expression. Not surprise. Recognition.

"That's that," she says.

She turns back to the board without elaborating. No praise. No commentary. Just that single word.

That's that.

It hits harder than it should.

As the lecture continues, I find myself hanging onto every word she says. The way she dissects sentences. The way she points out what isn't there instead of what is. She reads passages aloud, her voice calm and controlled, and somehow every line sounds intentional in her mouth.

I take notes even when I don't need them. I underline phrases that feel important. I write things down twice, just to make sure they stay with me.

I'm aware of myself constantly. The way I sit. The way I nod slightly when something resonates. The way I try not to look too eager.

I want her to notice.

Not that I'm trying.

That I understand.

At one point, her eyes flick back to me. Brief. Assessing. I don't look away this time.

She doesn't either.

The contact lasts a second too long to be accidental.

Then she continues teaching like nothing happened.

The class ends without ceremony.

Celeste closes her book, gives a brief nod to the room, and that's it.

Chairs scrape back almost immediately, the spell dissolving unevenly as people reach for their bags and their phones and their lives outside this room.

I stay still for a beat longer, my notebook closed but my attention slow to detach.

Jade is the one who moves first. She slides her bag over her shoulder and leans slightly toward me, her voice low.

"You were locked in," she says. Not teasing. Observational.

Marcus snorts as he stands. "Locked in is generous. She looked like she was auditioning."

I shoot him a look as I get to my feet. "I was listening."

"That's what auditioning looks like," Jade says mildly, falling into step beside me as we head for the aisle. "You don't listen like that in other classes."

"I do," I say, but it comes out weaker than I intend.

We move with the crowd toward the door. I keep my gaze forward, even though I can feel the pull behind me. I don't look back. I tell myself I don't need to.

Marcus bumps my shoulder lightly as we step into the corridor. "Relax. If she hasn't expelled you yet, you're doing fine."

"That's not reassuring," I say.

Jade hums. "I think it is. She doesn't seem like the forgiving type."

We walk down the hall together, the noise swelling around us. Lockers slamming. Voices bouncing off the walls. I feel myself slowly re-entering my body, the tension easing in increments instead of all at once.

"You do realize," Jade adds casually, "that you try very hard to look like you're not trying."

I stop walking for half a second, then keep going. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Marcus grins. "That's the point."

We reach the doors that lead outside, sunlight spilling in through the glass. The day feels brighter than it did an hour ago, sharper somehow. Real.

"This is us," Jade says, already veering off toward their next lecture. She glances back at me. "Don't overthink it."

"I don't overthink," I reply automatically.

She smiles like she knows better. "See you later."

Marcus lifts a hand in a lazy wave and follows her, already talking about something unrelated. I watch them disappear into the crowd before stepping aside, letting the flow of students pass around me.

When I finally move, it's slower.

I don't replay the class in full. Just fragments. Her voice. The pause before she spoke. The finality of it. I tell myself it doesn't mean anything. That it was just a class. Just a moment.

Still, my shoulders stay a little too straight as I walk.

Still, my thoughts feel tuned to a higher frequency than usual.

I head toward my car with purpose, already thinking ahead. Home. A brief pause. Then work.

The day isn't done with me yet.

I drive home with the windows cracked open, the air cool against my face. The movement helps. The quiet helps more. I let the road stretch out in front of me and try to loosen the tightness I'm still carrying in my shoulders. It takes longer than it should.

The house greets me the same way it did this morning. Still. Unbothered. I set my keys down carefully instead of dropping them like I usually do. I notice that too. Everything feels slightly deliberate today, like I'm choosing each motion instead of letting it happen.

I make coffee even though it's late enough that I probably shouldn't.

The smell fills the kitchen, grounding. I drink it standing up, one hand around the mug, eyes unfocused on the window.

My reflection stares back faintly in the glass.

I adjust my posture without thinking. Then I stop myself and exhale.

I eat something simple. Not rushed. Not ceremonial. Just enough to feel steady. I clean up immediately after, as if leaving the space untouched will keep my thoughts from wandering.

When I go to my room to get ready for work, the shift is subtle but real. Student Ivy fades. Assistant Ivy steps forward.

I shower and take my time with it, letting the heat unwind the last of the class from my body.

I dry my hair properly. I choose my outfit slowly.

Clean lines. Modern. Neutral but intentional.

Something that feels like me, only sharper.

I slip into my kitten heels and walk a few steps, listening to the sound they make on the floor. Controlled. Quiet. Confident enough.

In the mirror, I pause.

I smooth concealer where I don't need much. A careful line of lip liner, blended so it looks natural but precise. Bronzer, light, measured, like I'm sculpting rather than decorating. I tilt my head, studying myself not for beauty, but for composure.

I look capable.

I look like I belong.

That matters more than I want it to.

I grab my bag, check it twice, and leave the house with purpose. The door clicks shut behind me, and this time, I don't linger.

Work waits.

By the time I pull up in front of the building, the coffee has done nothing except sit heavy in my stomach.

I notice that too.

I tell myself I'll eat later. I always do. Later has become a flexible concept, something I keep in my back pocket like reassurance instead of intention. Right now, I just need to be clear. Focused. Hungry enough to stay sharp.

The thought makes me uncomfortable, so I don't sit with it. I step out of the car instead, adjusting my bag on my shoulder and smoothing my jacket without meaning to. The glass doors reflect me back in fragments as I approach. Heels. Straight posture. Controlled expression.

I look like someone who knows where she's going.

Inside, the space feels cooler than outside, quieter in a way that sharpens attention. I breathe it in and let work mode settle over me like a second skin. It's easier than feeling. It always is.

As I walk, my thoughts drift anyway.

I think about how my mother used to insist on proper meals, on sitting down, on not rushing through things that were meant to be taken seriously.

I remember her setting plates on the table, telling me to eat slowly, to notice flavors.

I wonder what she would say if she saw me now, running on caffeine and resolve.

Probably something gentle. Probably something I would ignore.

I straighten as I near the main workspace, aware of how lightheaded I feel in a way that's easy to dismiss. It's not dramatic. Just a faint hollow feeling, like something is missing but manageable.

I can manage.

I check my reflection one more time in the polished surface of a display case. Lip liner still neat. Bronzer blended. Nothing out of place. That matters. If I look put together, I feel like I am. Or at least like no one can tell the difference.

I step fully inside, the sound of my heels echoing softly against the floor, and immediately become aware of movement. Voices. Fabric rustling. The quiet efficiency of people who know exactly what they're doing.

And then I feel it.

That familiar awareness. That shift in gravity.

Celeste is here.

I don't see her right away, but I feel her presence as clearly as if I do. My attention sharpens instinctively. My posture adjusts before I give it permission. I hate that my body reacts faster than my mind.

I remind myself to breathe. To focus. To do my job.

Still, as I move toward my desk, my thoughts keep circling.

Did she notice the way I answered in class?

Did she mean it when she ended it so abruptly?

Was that dismissal or restraint?

The questions don't have answers yet, and part of me knows that's the point.

I reach my desk and set my bag down carefully, nudging it so it lines up with the edge. I'm more aware of my hands than usual. Of how precise I'm being. Like if everything around me stays orderly, I will too.

Ava is already there, seated across from me, scrolling through something on her screen. She doesn't look up right away. When she does, it's brief.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I reply.

Something in her tone feels flatter than usual. Not hostile. Just closed. I register it immediately and pretend I don't. I open my laptop and pull up the file I was working on earlier, letting the familiar structure pull me in.

For a few minutes, we work in silence. The kind that normally feels companionable between us. Today it doesn't. Today it feels... edged. Ava types faster than usual. Her jaw tightens once, then relaxes. She doesn't glance over again.

I wonder if I did something.

I wonder if she's just tired.

I don't ask.

I finish updating the schedule Celeste sent over, double-checking dates and names, then cross-reference it with the other file. I'm careful. Almost meticulous. I want this done before anyone can point out a mistake.

That's when Mira stops by my desk.

Not abruptly. Deliberately.

She leans one hip against the edge of the table beside me, arms crossed loosely, posture casual in a way that feels practiced. I look up, startled despite myself.

"You always look like you're negotiating with the universe," she says lightly.

I blink. "What?"

She smiles, just a little. "Like if you concentrate hard enough, nothing bad will happen."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I settle for honesty. "I just like things done right."

"Mmm," she hums. "So does Celeste."

Her eyes flick past me for a fraction of a second, toward the glass-walled office behind us. I follow the movement without meaning to.

Celeste stands inside, tablet in hand, her reflection faint against the glass. I know immediately that she can see us. Not just see. Observe. The angle is wrong for coincidence.

I straighten unconsciously.

Mira notices. Of course she does.

"You're doing fine," she says quietly, her voice shifting. "Relax."

The word feels loaded. I nod anyway.

Before I can respond, Celeste looks up from her tablet and meets my eyes through the glass.

She doesn't wave.

She doesn't smile.

She lifts one finger and curls it slightly, a subtle gesture meant only for me.

Come.

My stomach tightens.

I close my laptop and stand immediately, smoothing my jacket once as I step away from the desk. Ava finally looks up then. Our eyes meet.

Something passes over her face. Surprise, maybe. Or something colder. I can't tell. She doesn't say anything.

I walk toward Celeste's office, heels quiet against the floor. The glass door opens before I reach it.

"Come in," Celeste says, already turning back toward her desk.

I do, closing the door behind me.

The office feels sealed off from the rest of the world. Muted. Controlled. Celeste stands near the window now, posture relaxed but alert, like she's always aware of everything at once.

"We need to discuss the schedule changes," she says. "There's a conflict I want to resolve before it escalates."

I nod, pulling my notebook out. "I flagged the overlap. I had a suggestion, but I wasn't sure if-"

"Tell me," she says.

I do. Carefully. Clearly. I watch her face as I speak, the way her expression barely shifts, the way her attention doesn't waver. When I finish, she's quiet for a beat.

"That works," she says. "Good catch."

The words land solidly. Heavier than they should be.

There's a knock on the door.

Celeste doesn't look away from me. "Come in."

The door opens and a man steps inside, presence immediate but warm. He looks comfortable here. Familiar. His eyes land on me with open curiosity.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't realize you were mid-meeting."

"You're fine," Celeste replies. "Ivy, this is Armando. Head stylist."

Armando smiles. "So you're Ivy."

I stand instinctively. "Hi."

He looks me over once, quick but thorough, then leans in just slightly as if to say something private.

"Relax," he murmurs. "If Celeste trusts you, that already tells me enough."

The words catch in my chest before I can stop them.

I glance at Celeste.

She's watching us.

Her expression hasn't changed, but her eyes sharpen just enough for me to know she heard every word. She doesn't comment. She doesn't interrupt. She simply lets the moment exist.

Armando straightens and turns back to her, already shifting gears.

"So," he says, "about the fittings."

Celeste nods, attention redirecting smoothly. "We'll go over them now."

I sit back down, pulse still a little too fast, hands folded tightly in my lap.

I don't know why that moment mattered.

Only that Celeste saw it.

And didn't stop it.

Celeste shifts her weight slightly, one hip resting against the edge of her desk.

It's a small movement, almost unconscious, but I notice it immediately.

The way her posture loosens when she's not performing authority for a room.

The way her shoulders stay straight even when she relaxes.

The way her presence still feels contained, even in stillness.

She scrolls on her tablet, eyes moving steadily, calmly. Her face is unreadable in the way I'm starting to recognize. Not blank. Controlled. Intentional. Every expression filtered before it reaches the surface.

I sit across from her, notebook resting on my knees, pen held too carefully between my fingers. I'm aware of my breathing. Of how still I am. Of how much space she occupies in the room without moving.

Her eyes lift.

They meet mine again.

Not accidentally. Not briefly.

Deliberately.

There's something different now. Not warmth. Not coldness either. Awareness. Precision. Like she's adjusting her attention on purpose.

"You were very focused today," she says lightly.

Not neutral. Not formal. Almost conversational.

I feel it in my chest before I think about it.

"In class," I reply, even though it isn't really a question.

Her gaze doesn't leave my face. "Yes."

The silence between us stretches just enough to feel intentional.

I notice everything about her in that moment.

The way her lashes cast a faint shadow on her cheekbones.

The way her mouth holds a natural line of control, even when she's not speaking.

The stillness in her hands.

The authority that feels internal, not performed.

"I tend to notice effort," she continues. "Especially when it's... disciplined."

The word lands carefully.

Not praise.

Not accusation.

Recognition.

My spine straightens instinctively. I hate that my body reacts before my mind does.

"I was just paying attention," I say.

Her mouth curves slightly.

Not a smile.

A suggestion of one.

"That's rarely just that," she replies.

Her eyes drop briefly to my notebook. My pen. My posture. Then back to my face.

She glances back down at her tablet, breaking eye contact like she's done nothing at all. My pulse keeps racing anyway.

"For future reference," she adds lightly, "trying to impress me isn't necessary."

Heat rises to my face so fast it feels undeniable.

"I wasn't-" I start, then stop myself. I don't know how to finish that sentence without making it worse.

Celeste looks up again.

"I notice everything, Ivy"

She doesn't say anything afterwards. She just gives me a narrowed look with those teasing blue eyes.

Celeste lets the silence bloom after it, lets me sit in it, lets me wonder whether she's letting me off the hook or tightening it.

I realize then that she's watching me react. Not with curiosity. With control.

My fingers curl slightly around my pen. I force my expression back into something neutral, something composed. Inside, everything feels too bright. Too sharp.

Celeste's gaze flicks to my notebook. "You handled the schedule change well," she says, shifting seamlessly back to work. "Efficient. Clean."

The praise is subtle. Professional. And it lands harder than the comment about class ever could.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

Her eyes lift again. Hold mine for half a second longer than required.

"You're learning," she says.

Then she turns toward Armando as if the moment is finished. "Now. The fittings."

The shift is abrupt enough to make my head spin.

She turns slightly toward the window, attention fully on her tablet now, posture resetting into something closed and authoritative again. The line is drawn. The moment is sealed off like it never happened.

And that's when it hits me.

Armando is still in the room.

The awareness comes all at once, sharp and embarrassing and unavoidable.

I turn my head slightly.

He's watching me.

Not directly staring. Not obvious.

But his eyes are on me.

And there's a look there.

Not curiosity.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

His mouth lifts at one corner in a subtle smirk, the kind that says everything without saying anything at all.

A look that says:

I saw that.

I know what just happened.

I know what both of you are doing.

Our eyes meet for half a second.

He doesn't look away.

The smirk deepens just slightly, then he turns back to his tablet like nothing happened, attention shifting back to work.

But it's too late.

Heat floods my face instantly.

My stomach drops.

My chest tightens.

I look down at my notebook, suddenly very aware of myself. My posture. My expression. My reactions. The fact that I've been completely transparent without meaning to be.

My fingers tighten around my pen.

I feel exposed.

Not because of Celeste.

Because of being seen.

Because someone else witnessed it.

Celeste doesn't look at me.

She's already moved on. Already working. Already composed.

But I know she knows.

She always does.

And I'm left sitting there, cheeks warm, heart unsteady, pretending to take notes while trying to breathe through the quiet realization settling in my chest:

They both saw it.

And I didn't hide it well enough.

Celeste steps back behind her desk, picks up a folder, and opens it with the same calm precision she does everything else with. The shift is subtle, but I feel it immediately. Like a current changing direction.

"Stay," she says to me, already scanning the page.

Not a request. Not a command she needs to emphasize. Just an expectation.

Armando pauses, glances between us, then nods once. "I'll pull the samples," he says, already moving toward the door.

As he leaves, the office feels smaller. Quieter. More concentrated.

Celeste doesn't look up right away. She reads for another moment, then closes the folder and finally lifts her eyes to me. The look isn't sharp this time. It's measured. Considered.

"Ava sent you the details for Friday," she says, eyes still on her tablet.

"Yes," I reply. "She did."

"I'll pick you up," she continues calmly. "6:30 sharp"

My breath shifts, just slightly. "Okay."

She nods once, like the matter is closed. Then her gaze lifts, deliberate, steady.

"You've already chosen a dress," she says.

It's not phrased as a question.

How does she know everything?

"Yes," I admit. "I have."

Her eyes move over me slowly, thoughtfully, like she's picturing it rather than me standing here now.

"Black," she says after a beat.

I blink. "Yes."

The corner of her mouth curves, almost imperceptibly. Not a smile. Something quieter. Satisfied.

"Good."

The approval is subtle, but it lands anyway. I feel it in my chest before I can stop myself.

"You won't need much else," she adds, already turning back to her tablet.

Then she pauses.

"And Mira."

My attention sharpens instantly.

"She tends to test boundaries," Celeste says evenly. "Ignore it."

"I don't think she was-"

"I know," she interrupts, calm but final.

Her gaze lifts again, locking onto mine.

"I don't like distractions," she finishes. "And I don't tolerate interference."

Something settles heavy and warm in my chest at the same time. Not fear. Not exactly comfort either.

"I can manage," I say carefully.

Celeste's mouth curves faintly.

"I'm sure you can," she replies. "But you won't have to."

She turns away, signaling the end of the conversation without needing to say so.

"Go," she adds. "Finish your work."

I stand, notebook pressed lightly to my side, pulse still uneven. As I reach the door, her voice stops me once more.

"And Ivy."

I turn.

"Be ready Friday," she says. "I don't like waiting."

"I will be," I answer.

She nods once, already looking back at her screen.

I leave the office quietly, the door closing behind me, the realization settling in slowly and unmistakably.

She already knew about the dress.

She's picking me up herself.

And she drew a line around me without asking.

None of it felt optional.

It felt like being chosen.