Some wounds just don't heal.
And not all love is bulletproof.
In the aftermath of the disaster at Arrowsmith Institute for Excellency, Freya Arsov is left rattled to her core.
She had it all. Four best friends who would do anything for her. A boy...
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HEAD BOWED, MAYELLA SAT IN THE LONESOME cell of the Bishopsgate police department hours later.
She didn't plan to get arrested. She really didn't.
But in the glorious mess that was her life, it felt rather appropriate.
No one had come to talk to her, to ask her questions. They'd just read her rights, pushed her into the car, driven away from Harrods and here she was.
She really hoped none of her friends had told her mother yet. Meiko Vance was undoubtedly at home, preparing for Milan Fashion Week in a few weeks, and it had taken all of Mayella to convince her to stay put in California during Christmas break. Upcoming fashion week undoubtedly helped this decision, but the news of Maye's arrest would for sure bring her mother across the pond, fashion week be damned.
Maye leaned her head back, jet black ponytail brushing the filthy walls of the cell. She couldn't even find it in herself to care. She closed her eyes.
This situation was far from perfect. Meiko Vance was possibly sitting in her sewing room, stabbing pin cushions with needles and muttering in Japanese about how her pieces needed to be perfect. Mayella had chased perfection once. But, now, sitting in this cell, it was the last thing on her mind.
The dress her mother had made Freya for the Winter Ball had been perfect. And Maye had watched it grow red with Matthew's blood.
Maye was thinking about Matthew al Nassar, actually.
They'd sat at a table in the dining hall of Arrowsmith, the ever-present golden light of the room matching his gaze as they traced from Maye to the pictures she showed him on the tablet.
It was during a free period they shared. When they both knew Freya would be otherwise occupied with whatever it was they did up in those labs during Chemistry.
This was the day Mayella realised Matthew was an artist, much like her mother.
"These are beautiful," he'd commented, appreciation gleaming along the lines of his face.
"You should tell that to my mother," chuckled Maye. "She might fall in love with you for it."
Matthew laughed, leaning back onto his chair with that forever ease of his. "I'm spoken for, I'm afraid." The bright light in his eyes was startling to Mayella. She didn't think she'd ever seen someone look so in love in her life.
Maye cleared her throat. "Any specific colour?" She cocked her head. "The Parisian salesman who sells the fabric to my mom is visiting next week, I think."
