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The halls of Constance glittered with gossip. Whispers curled around locker doors and between platforms of designer heels clacking down marble floors. But Adelaide Kingsley moved through it all like a crowned queen—above it, untouched, uninterested.
Mostly.
She walked beside Monet, perfectly composed, listening to Luna and Julien discuss the early drama already brewing in AP Gov, lips curled in a faint smirk. But her mind wasn't on the conversation.
It was on Lauren.
Or rather—the way Lauren had looked at Monet.
It wasn't overt. It wasn't leering. But it was the kind of look that lingered a beat too long. The kind that tried to read Monet like a poem instead of a warning. The kind Adelaide had seen a hundred times and never worried about... until now.
Maybe it was because they'd had the perfect summer. The Vineyard. The softness. The claiming. The everything. And now, they were back in a world that demanded masks and performances and perfect posture. Where too many girls thought confidence could be borrowed and boundaries could be tested.
Adelaide didn't say anything.
She didn't have to say anything.
Instead, she slid her hand through Monet's arm as they walked into class. Her touch was delicate, casual—but intentional. Claiming.
Monet glanced down, amused. "Something on your mind?"
Adelaide smiled, sugar-laced steel. "Not a thing."
But Monet could tell. There was a stiffness in her jaw. A clipped perfection to the way she'd adjusted her skirt as they passed a group of underclassmen. The kind of elegance that got sharper the more she didn't like something.
Or someone.
When they took their seats at the front of their shared seminar—Power & Identity in Global Institutions—Addy didn't even glance back. But she felt the eyes.
She felt Lauren's eyes.
Just two rows behind them. And when the professor asked Monet to introduce herself to the new students, Lauren actually smiled at her.
Adelaide's fingers curled lightly on the edge of her desk. Her voice, when she turned to respond to the professor's follow-up, was flawless. Crisp. Correct. Cool.
But beneath the table, she gently tapped Monet's thigh twice.
