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Adelaide made it through the rest of the school day without flinching, each step through the Constance halls deliberate and icy. She held her head high as Monet stared after her like she'd been slapped—confused, betrayed, and silent. Everyone else stepped aside, unsure which one of them was the villain now.
But the moment Adelaide's penthouse door clicked shut behind her, the facade collapsed.
She didn't kick off her shoes or take off her coat. She just stood there in the quiet, breathing hard, as if the air itself might shatter her.
She had tried. God, she had tried to be composed. To be indifferent. To hold onto whatever thread of dignity she had left after weeks of giving Monet pieces of her—her skin, her voice, her trust—and getting nothing but chaos in return.
But seeing her again.
Hearing that voice.
Feeling the betrayal flicker across Monet's face like a wound Adelaide had delivered herself—it unspooled something she hadn't realized was still hanging on.
She stumbled to her room, sank down onto the floor by the window, and finally let herself fall apart.
The tears came without warning. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet and aching, like her body was mourning something it couldn't explain.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, trying to slow her breathing. To control the sobs building in her chest. But it didn't work.
She missed her.
She hated that she missed her.
But even worse—she still loved her. And that was the most unbearable part of it all.
----
The headlines had shifted.
"Adelaide Kingsley Moves On? Enter Diana De La Cruz." "From Cold Shoulders to Close Companions: Are Diana and Addie More Than Friends?" "The New Power Pair at Constance?"
And for once, Adelaide let them run.
She let the tabloids spin their narratives, let Gossip Girl speculate in all-caps—because the alternative was facing what was unraveling inside her.
Diana made everything easier. Simpler. Safe.
Where Monet was fire, Diana was clarity. Steady hands and warmth in quiet corners. She didn't push. She didn't pry. She showed up at Adelaide's door with matcha and almond croissants and books on political theory she knew Adelaide had already read—but brought anyway because she wanted to talk about them.
They went on long walks in Central Park.
They attended UN youth meetings together.
They sat through brunches without once raising their voices.
