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Adelaide was leaning against one of the ivy-covered columns outside the library, flipping through the pages of a new art history book. Her posture was calm, but the subtle tug at her lip betrayed her distraction.
"Someone's glowing," came a voice, smooth and cool.
Adelaide looked up.
Diana De La Cruz stood before her, hands in the pockets of her structured cream blazer, chin tilted in that casual way she did when she was trying not to betray too much.
"Good morning to you too," Adelaide replied, closing the book slowly.
Diana's gaze dropped—just briefly—to the edge of Adelaide's collar. Her jaw flexed almost imperceptibly.
"So it's true then," she said, her voice flat. "You and Monet."
Adelaide didn't confirm or deny. She simply waited.
Diana stepped closer, keeping her tone even. "You deserve someone who doesn't treat you like you're just a headline. Or worse, like a possession they can gloat about the morning after."
Adelaide blinked. "Is that what you think she's doing?"
"I think she's Monet De Haan," Diana said. "I think she knows how to play the game. And I think you've been hurt enough to convince yourself that playing along is love."
The words weren't cruel. But they weren't kind either. They struck somewhere in the center—sharpened by jealousy, softened by something dangerously close to care.
Adelaide crossed her arms. "You don't know her."
"I know people like her," Diana replied, her eyes narrowing. "She might have your attention now, but she doesn't have your trust. And she never will—not really. Not after what she did."
There was a long pause between them, filled only with the distant hum of students and the slow breeze that rustled the courtyard leaves.
Adelaide didn't answer immediately. Instead, she tilted her head. "Why do you care?"
Diana's mouth parted, but the answer didn't come right away.
Because the truth was too messy. Too close.
Because she'd come back to Constance and realized the girl she'd remembered—the one with the sharp tongue and the lavender crayon obsession—had finally bloomed into everything she once wanted.
And Monet had gotten to her first.
"I just do," Diana said finally. "And for the record—if she hurts you again, I won't be polite about it."
Then she turned and walked away, leaving Adelaide standing there, pulse ticking louder than any page could ever turn.
