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The hallways of Constance buzzed like a live wire. Weekend gossip still lingered in the air, paired with the ever-refreshing churn of Gossip Girl commentary. But no headline held as much gravity as the silence between two girls who used to burn too brightly to look away from.
Monet stepped through the marble archway, dressed in head-to-toe Chanel, her expression polished and unreadable. But beneath the gloss—her chest ached.
She hadn't spoken to Adelaide since the meeting with their mothers.
Not really.
There had been public nods, posed photos, vague gestures. But the connection—theirs—had fractured.
She saw her before Adelaide saw her.
Standing at her locker, Adelaide Kingsley was every inch the queen she had rebuilt herself to be. Pleated Saint Laurent skirt, a perfectly ironed blouse, collar buttoned just so. Her hair was sleek, her gaze clinical.
Unbothered.
Distant.
Monet's heart kicked.
She crossed the hallway, drawing immediate attention from their peers—phones lifted discreetly, whispering like wind through trees.
"Addie," she said softly.
Adelaide didn't flinch.
Didn't even look.
"I need to talk to you."
A long pause. Then Adelaide shut her locker with a firm click and turned to her—finally.
"Yes, Monet?" Her voice was velvet, but not warm. Polished but not kind.
"I just wanted to check in. After the meeting. I know it's been—"
"I don't need checking in on," Adelaide replied, adjusting her bag. "We're fine. Everything is proceeding according to plan."
Monet blinked. "Is that what we are now? A plan?"
Adelaide gave a tight smile. "We've always been a plan. You just forgot that."
She started to walk away.
Monet's hand twitched toward her, but she let it drop.
"Do you want to come over tonight?" Monet asked quickly, desperate for something.
Adelaide paused but didn't turn around. "For what? A scene?"
"No," Monet said, swallowing. "To talk."
Adelaide finally looked back—only slightly. "I don't talk about my personal life anymore. You taught me not to."
Then she walked off down the hallway, head high, heels precise, a thousand eyes on her and none of them Monet's.
