Chapter 5
Zoe
Friday morning comes with fluorescent lights and a line.
A plain line. A bureaucratic one. A quiet, obedient line of students clutching phones and portfolios and coffee like talismans, waiting their turn to be told yes or no by someone who knows their name only as a file.
The administrative wing of the design building smells like floor wax and quiet power. The kind of clean meant to read as professional and ends up reading as predatory. Glass walls. Nameplates. A reception desk that feels like a checkpoint.
And there it is—exactly where it’s always been.
The Aldridge plaque. Brass and polished and permanent.
THE ALDRIDGE FAMILY — IN GRATITUDE FOR THEIR GENEROUS SUPPORT OF THE ARTS.
The letters catch the overhead light like a warning.
I don’t stop to stare. I catalog it anyway. My reflection ghosts across the glass beside it—sharp, defined, thoroughly replaceable.
My phone buzzes. A group text lights the screen like a hand pressed to my back.
Clara: You’re going to eat them alive.
Genny: You already did the work. Don’t let their faces make you forget it.
Maya: If they say no, we riot.
Talia: Breathe. You don’t have to be polite to survive.
Clara: Text when it’s done.
My throat tightens once—fast—like my body is testing whether it’s allowed to feel anything about being seen. I lock it down.
The desk clerk calls the next name. A student steps forward, signs a sheet on a clipboard like she’s checking in for jury duty, then gets handed a card with a number on it.
Small stations line the wall—privacy screens, a webcam, a headset, a laminated instruction sheet written to strip the human out of the process.
I step up when my name is called. I sign in. The pen scratches loud in the quiet.
Zoe Barnes.
Proof I showed up. Proof I can’t say they ghosted me. Proof I took my place in line and waited to be judged.
The clerk slides a number card toward me without looking up. “Station four.”
Station four is a narrow cubicle with a chair bolted to the floor and a laptop already open to a portal page. The webcam stares back like an eye. The headset hangs from a hook. The screen asks me to confirm identity.
My hands stay steady. My pulse doesn’t.
I sit. Adjust the headset. Click through the prompts. The portal buzzes—an indifferent sound pretending this is neutral.
It’s theater.
Milan doesn’t fly administrators across the ocean to break students in person. They do it clean. Remote. Efficient. A screen. A name. A decision.
The subject line flashes: Milan Design Internship Results.
My heart flutters—a nervous tic I can’t afford. I click to join.
The screen fills with sterile text and the administrator’s face, devoid of warmth. Framed by a backdrop from another building, another city, another time zone.
“The selection has been finalized.”
I blink once. The edges blur, then snap back. Reality settles, cold and exact.
“So this is a no,” I say. My voice holds. Edged with restraint.
“Yes,” the administrator replies, clinical. “This year, yes.”
The words slice with precision. Deeper than anything emotional ever could.
I nod, mechanical. My mind races through implications. Through nights poured over sketches that will now be tucked away, unseen.
“I’ll need the feedback,” I say. Firm. Demanding. I refuse to let this end without knowing where I was deemed insufficient.
“Feedback will be sent in due time,” they reply, already shifting focus like I’m a completed task.
The call ends.
The quiet afterward is worse than the no. It’s the part where the world expects me to swallow it privately and keep walking like nothing happened.
I remove the headset. Stand. Push the chair back until it bumps the cubicle wall with a dull, unforgiving sound. My pulse keeps sprinting, then recalibrates—my body deciding what it can afford to feel and what it has to do instead.
I step out of the station row and back into the hallway.
The Aldridge plaque is still there. Of course it is. The kind of backing carved into walls never has to earn itself twice.
I’m halfway to the exit when voices slip through a door left slightly open. Just ajar enough to leak.
Soft. Confident. Careless.
“—strong fit—she has the right support,” someone says, like they’re discussing fabric weight.
Support.
My steps stop without asking permission. I don’t move closer like I’m sneaking. I drift, like I belong here. Like I’m not a student with fresh rejection bleeding behind my ribs. Like I’m inevitable.
Through the crack, I catch fragments—an administrator’s voice, another murmuring approval. Paper shuffling. A laugh that doesn’t bother hiding itself.
“Industry exposure,” someone adds. Casual. Like the weather.
I stare at the Aldridge plaque across the hall and feel something inside me go very still. Grief can wait. Collapse can wait. A boundary just drew itself.
“Her father is a major donor,” the voice continues, lower now, but not low enough. “We want to keep those connections sweet.”
My jaw locks. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms—proof I’m still here. Still solid. Still mine.
I knew.
It’s that they said it out loud like it was normal. Like merit is a cute story you tell students to keep them working while real decisions get made elsewhere.
I turn away before the door opens and catches me standing there with murder in my eyes.
My phone buzzes again.
Clara: ???
Maya: Say the word.
Genny: Zoe.
Talia: I’m here.
I don’t answer. Breath stays sharp. My face settles. Anger gets packed into something useful.
I push through the glass doors and step into the cold air outside.
And he’s there.
Gio Rossi, leaning against the brick like he owns the space between the entrance and my exit.
Hoodie. Sweats. Hands in his pockets. Too relaxed for someone who hits like a weapon for a living.
His hair is still damp at the edges, like he showered fast and didn’t care how it dried. His posture tries for casual.
His eyes ruin the lie.
He looks like he hasn’t slept since last night. Like the game didn’t end when the horn blew—like it followed him into whatever morning ritual the team pretends is normal. I see it in the tightness around his mouth, the way he shifts his weight like something aches.
Breakfast. Team breakfast. I remember him mentioning it yesterday in class like it was nothing—like today wasn’t a blade hanging over my head.
When he sees me, he straightens. Focused. Locked on.
“Zoe,” he says, like my name is a decision.
The sound hits wrong. The timing hits worse.
I keep walking.
He pushes off the wall and steps into my path with a lazy, deliberate move. Deliberate. A claim.
I stop because if I don’t, I’ll slam into him—and I refuse to give him contact I didn’t choose.
“Step aside,” I say.
His mouth twitches. Something sharp flares. “Did you get it?”
There it is. Clean. Direct. Like he has the right to ask.
I tilt my head, slow. “Do you usually wait outside buildings to collect other people’s outcomes, Rossi?”
“I usually mind my business,” he says evenly. “You made this one mine when you told me about Milan and then acted like you didn’t care if it killed you.”
My throat tightens again—fast, angry. He’s too close. I can smell him: soap, caffeine, that clean-metal edge that never leaves men who live in rinks.
“You don’t get to talk like you know me.”
“I don’t,” he agrees immediately. Calm. Steady. His eyes stay on mine. “So tell me.”
That should piss me off more than it does. It lands somewhere else—low and hot and humiliating. Like my body recognizes a challenge before my brain does.
I step to the side. He mirrors me. My pulse spikes.
“Move,” I repeat, softer, because my voice does something traitorous around the word.
He leans in just enough that I feel it in the air between us. “No.”
The single syllable lands like a hand at my throat.
I laugh once, sharp and ugly. “You’re really committing to being a problem.”
“Always have,” he says. Then, quieter—still controlled—“Did they say yes?”
I hold his gaze and let him sit in the silence I’m choosing on purpose.
“No.”
The word tastes like blood and floor wax and brass plaques.
Something shifts in his face—a tightening, a realignment, like the world just handed him a target.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, and it isn’t for me. It’s for whoever made the call. “That’s—”
“Don’t,” I cut in.
He stops. Fully. Like my boundary matters enough to register.
I step closer without meaning to. Not enough to touch. Enough to turn the space electric.
“You don’t get to stand here and feed me a line about how I ‘deserved it,’” I say, voice low. Controlled. “This isn’t a pep-talk moment.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then returns to my eyes like he caught himself and chose restraint.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m here for something else.”
“Then why are you here?”
His jaw flexes once. “Because you said it mattered. Because you’re the kind of person who doesn’t ask for space when you need it. And because I knew the results were today and I didn’t like the idea of you walking out of here alone.”
The last part lands like jurisdiction. My skin prickles.
I glance past him—through the glass, to the plaque visible from this angle, catching light like a crown. He follows my look without prompting.
“That,” I say, sharp enough to cut. “That’s what wins here.”
His eyes narrow. “A name.”
“A name,” I confirm. “A wall. A donation. A family that gets thanked in metal while everyone else lines up in booths to be told no.”
His expression hardens, heat sharpening into something violent and focused. “They picked wrong.”
I laugh again, smaller, because if I don’t I’ll do something worse. “Welcome to Earth.”
He steps closer. Close enough that my breath catches. Close enough that my body forgets, for one humiliating second, that I’m furious.
“You’re not done,” he says. A statement. Like weather.
My eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me what I am.”
His mouth tilts. “Fine. Tell me what you are.”
My pulse kicks. I hate him for making this feel like sparring instead of consolation. I hate him for making me stand here with my fists clenched and my chest tight and my mouth too aware of how close his is.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
He doesn’t move. He looks at me like he’s deciding how far he’s willing to push.
“Text your girls,” he says, casual enough to be deniable. “Let them know you’re upright. Then do whatever you’re going to do.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flick to my still-clenched hand, then back up. “Don’t make them spiral.”
I should bite his head off. Instead, my phone is already in my hand, because he’s right and I hate that too.
I type one line.
Me: No. I’m fine. I’m going home.
Three dots appear instantly.
Clara: That’s not “fine.”
Maya: Drop location.
Genny: Call me.
Talia: Proud of you for not going quiet.
My throat tightens again. I lock the screen before it turns into something I can’t hold.
Gio watches me like he’s reading the choice I just made. “You done?” he asks.
“I’m done with you,” I say, stepping around him.
His hand comes out fast—controlled. Two fingers hook the strap of my bag for a second, stopping me without touching my skin.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
My body lights up like I’m the problem.
I turn my head slowly. “Let go.”
His fingers loosen, but he doesn’t step back. His voice drops. “I’m not your enemy, Barnes.”
I drag my gaze over his face—slow, deliberate. The bruised exhaustion. The control. The restraint doing real work.
“You’re something,” I say. “I’ll give you that.”
His eyes darken. “Yeah?”
Heat crawls under my ribs, unwelcome and alive. I smile without warmth. “A complication.”
His mouth twitches. “Story of my life.”
I step free of his fingers and force my feet to move. “Goodbye, Gio.”
He doesn’t follow.
But I feel his attention between my shoulder blades like a hand I never consented to—steady, unbroken—and it tightens my chest just enough to keep me walking.
The cold air cuts across my skin, sharp and grounding. The decision settles like steel.
I’m done performing gratitude for scraps.
If they want to keep their connections sweet, they can choke on the taste when I stop going quiet.
This continues.