Chapter Twenty-Seven
T he air in my classroom is filled with the familiar hum of ongoing work. Three girls are arguing in hushed tones about the proper use of an irregular verb, and one of my quieter boys is chewing the end of his pen as he concentrates on his worksheet.
For the first time in what feels like weeks, I feel like I’m in control.
Throwing myself into my work has always been my way of regaining balance. The whispers in the staff room have mostly quieted after our night out, and though some of my colleagues still shoot me curious looks now and then, they’ve been nothing but professional.
“Profe?” A voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to see Irene, one of my more confident students, standing by my desk. “Can you check this for me?”
“Of course,” I say, smiling as I take the worksheet from her.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of lessons and planning, and by the time the final bell rings, I feel a small sense of accomplishment.
But as I pack up my things and prepare to head home, I’m stopped by the deputy headteacher, Marcus, just outside my classroom .
“Olivia,” he says warmly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Do you have a moment?”
“Oh - hi. Yes, of course,” I reply.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “We’ve been discussing ways to engage the students over the summer break, and we were thinking about different programmes we could create. Then, we got thinking: what about a programme to help our students with their language skills? Especially the new ones who will be joining us at the end of August.”
“Yes, that sounds really interesting,” I nod.
“I’m glad you think so, too. You see, we - the senior leadership team, I should add - all feel that you’ve done such excellent work with your classes, and though I know Sarah will be back with us for the new term, I was wondering if you’d be interested in taking the lead on this initiative?”
I blink in surprise, the weight of his words sinking in.
“You’d like me to… lead it?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “We were thinking that we could offer a combination of English, French and German - link the language department together as one. Of course, we’d give you full support; but the creative direction would be yours.”
A combination of pride and nerves swirls through me. Carlos from the agency will be thrilled to hear about this!
“I’d love to,” I say, my voice steady. “And - thank you. For trusting me with this.”
“Excellent,” Marcus says with a broad smile. “I’ll let the others know, and we can all meet later in the week to discuss details. Have a good evening, Olivia.”
He walks away, and as I head home for the evening, my mind immediately begins to wander to thoughts of lesson plans, creative ideas and group projects.
A spark of excitement shoots through me.
This is exactly what I’ve needed.
∞∞∞
“I want you to meet my manager.”
I glance up from my glass of wine, surprised by the suddenness of Santi’s statement.
“Your manager?” I echo, trying not to choke on the words as I set the glass down.
He nods, his green eyes studying me intently from where he leans against the kitchen island.
“Javier. He’s been handling my media and PR for years. He’s the one who helps me navigate all the noise.”
“And why would your manager want to meet me?”
Santi’s lips twitch into a small smile, but there’s a seriousness behind it.
“Because he thinks it’s important. With everything that’s been happening lately - the media attention, the rumours - he believes it’s time to shift the narrative.”
“ Shift the narrative ?” I repeat, feeling a little defensive. “What does that mean?”
He pushes off the counter and takes a step closer, his voice softening.
“It means showing people who you really are, Olivia. Not just... the girlfriend , or whatever. Javier wants to help the world see the woman I see.”
“And what exactly do you see?” I ask.
His smile softens further, and he steps closer, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from my face as his green eyes search mine.
“I see someone smart, strong, and passionate. A woman who’s brave and dedicated to making a difference in the lives of her students. That’s the Olivia I know. That’s the Olivia I want the world to know, too.”
His words land with a weight I hadn’t expected, and I find myself looking away, overwhelmed.
“I don’t know, Santi,” I murmur. “It’s one thing to have my face put out there when I go to your matches, but actively engaging with the media...”
“It doesn’t have to be about anything to do with the spotlight,” he says. “It’s about reclaiming the story. Right now, other people are writing it for you. Why not make it your own? Claim it as yours, as it should be.”
“Do you think I’m interesting enough for that?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, the words betraying my nerves.
Santi’s eyebrows shoot up, and he lets out a soft, incredulous laugh.
“Are you kidding me?”
I glance at him, startled by the sudden intensity in his expression.
“Olivia, you’ve built an entire life for yourself in a new country. You’ve created something meaningful out of nothing. You’re shaping the futures of your students, helping them grow, giving them opportunities. And on top of all that, you’re… yo u . You’re funny, you’re kind, you’re -”
“Okay, okay,” I say, cutting him off with a small laugh, though my cheeks are burning. “I get it. You think I’m great.”
“I don’t just think it. I know it,” he says firmly. “And if we do this, then the rest of the world will know it, too.”
I search his face for any trace of pressure or expectation, but as is so consistent for him, all that I find there is patience and understanding.
“What would Javier even want to do?” I ask cautiously.
“He wants to highlight your work,” Santi says.
“So you’ve discussed this with him already.”
“Yes. He thinks that if we touch on your teaching, your students - the summer programme you’re starting - then all of that will be positive. He thinks if people see that side of you, they’ll realise you’re so much more than just... well, me .”
I let out a short laugh, though it’s laced with nerves. “So, what? He plants a few stories, and suddenly people stop whispering about me?”
“Maybe not overnight,” Santi admits, his grin turning sheepish. “But it’s a start, isn’t it? Besides, it’ll remind everyone that you don’t need my name to make you interesting. You already are.”
“You really think this will help?” I ask after a long pause.
“I do,” he says, his voice steady. “And I think it’s worth trying, if you’re willing.”
I nod slowly, still uncertain but feeling a small flicker of hope. “Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll meet him.”
The smile that breaks across Santi’s face is almost enough to chase away my doubts entirely .
“You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my forehead.
As he steps back and returns to the pasta he’s been preparing, I let out a slow breath, the knot in my stomach easing just a little.
“Do I at least get a say in what they write about me?” I ask after a moment, my tone teasing.
Santi glances back at me over his shoulder.
“You can say whatever you want. Just be prepared for them to ask about me too.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips.
“Fine. But if this goes terribly, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.”