Adler | The Aces of St.Sinclair BOOK 1.

Shutter | A TWENTY THREE

A silver luxury car was conspicuously parked by the academy entrance. The driver was a stone faced man who spared me an apathetic glance from where I stood scoping him out. It made me hesitant to approach until the dark tinted window of the passenger seats rolled down. Ms. Dion graced me with a reassuring smile, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

"Well, get in then. There's no ticket fee to pay."

I hurriedly heeded and joined her in the back. The driver didn't wait a second to take off after the respective door shut.

"I didn't pull you out in the middle of a big test or something?" queried Ms. Dion.

"Is there any point in asking that now?"

"I guess not," she admitted, crossing one leg over the other.

What I was doing was unlike me. I knew that. Contrarily, I couldn't seem to fathom what had become of me lately. The me who adored every second at St. Sinclair, a place where I felt I'd belong was suddenly up to skip without batting an eye. I had no idea what this meant.

I released a sigh, sinking back in the crème leather seats.

"Everything alright?" asked Ms. Dion.

No. "So, where are you taking me?"

"The person of interest I mentioned to you last night, he's taken up this new hobby in art and well, I pulled some strings to get an invite to this exhibition he's attending. I only finally cleared up my other business and today's the opening day."

"And possibly the final chance to make the cut?" I summarised.

She answered with a nod.

"Right, so what factor do I play in tagging along with this? How am I meant to spiritually guide you? My marks in art are average."

"Grades don't matter in this, silly. There's no certain way I want your assistance. As my guide, it should come naturally. All you have to do is be you."

I fought off a laugh. Had she really just said that? This was too uncanny. Of all the things she could've asked for.

How was I meant to be myself? What was the actual me? Had I ever truly known it before? My stomach churned at the panicking thoughts and I grew nervous. Yet in all this, I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the window where I found my lips curled upwards.

**

The car came to a standstill at a building, my brows knitted. The establishment was adorned with mannequins wrapped in high class threads stationed by the display windows. No matter how much I looked at it, it was a boutique shop.

"I thought we were going to an art exhibition. Why did we stop here?"

"I'm a designer, dear. You think I'll let myself be getting funny looks with you dressed in that?"

"But hasn't the exhibition already started?"

"And that's where the phrase fashionably late comes from," she stated. "Now, come on."

I complied to follow her inside. While I tailed behind, awed by the expensive, dazzling clothes at every corner and the strong scent of perfume in the air, Ms. Dion walked with head held high like she owned the place. Which I would've believed by the way she was swaying the employees with a few words and a smile, or a quick flash of her eyes when lowering her shades.

Whether they were previously occupied with another customer, they obeyed without delay. Soon I was stood in front of a full length mirror with all sorts of blouses, dresses, jackets and designer named jeans which I didn't even know was a thing being shoved my way.