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The sleek Constance marble floors echoed under Monet's Louboutins, but it wasn't the confident, sharp rhythm of a queen in command. It was slower, uncertain—like she wasn't sure if she was being followed or avoided.
She was right to wonder.
The students parted when she walked past, not out of reverence but discomfort. The posters had been taken down. The whispers had taken root. Her name, once synonymous with power, now tasted like tension.
Julien and Luna sat side by side in the courtyard, their laughter carefully curated to sting. Audrey passed by with Max, offering nothing more than a polite smile. Even the teachers—those who once admired her precision—had started addressing her with clipped formality, the kind that signaled suspicion.
But the coldest blow wasn't public. It was personal.
Adelaide.
They hadn't spoken—really spoken—since that night. Since Adelaide had peeled off her satin slip dress with trembling resolve and Monet had chosen control over connection. Since Monet had kissed her like a promise and ignored every word Adelaide said like a warning.
Now, Monet could feel the distance like a fog between them. And yet...
In the hallway, Adelaide brushed their hands together in passing. A feather-light touch. In the locker room, she leaned in a bit too close, whispering, "You forgot your ring," before slipping it onto Monet's finger herself. At lunch, Adelaide sat beside her—not across. Their knees touched. Her eyes lingered.
It was enough to drive Monet mad.
She wanted to lean in. To fall into her. To say "I'm sorry." But Camille's words wouldn't stop echoing.
Don't let comfort turn you soft.
So she pulled back. Wore sharper heels. Sharper eyeliner. Sharper words.
And it only made the silence louder.
----
The echoes of heels against marble were as familiar as breath now.
Constance was under her rule. The restored uniforms. The color-coded hall passes. The curated playlists piped through the speakers during lunch—Monet de Haan's Constance was polished, orderly, and unapologetically elite.
And yet, she didn't feel powerful.
Not like she should've.
Not with Adelaide avoiding eye contact in the courtyard, casually laughing with Julien and Audrey, acting like Monet hadn't lit her world on fire just weeks ago. Acting like the night Monet had wrapped her arms around her and whispered she'd never hurt her wasn't still smoldering between them.
"Focus," Monet muttered under her breath.
She flipped open her phone, gaze locked on a series of texts from Tiff Myers.
