Jack stays near—never inside the classroom unless he has to, but close enough that I can see him through the door window whenever my nerves spike.
The kids adore him.
They also have no boundaries.
“MR. SINCLAIR!” Levi yells at recess. “CAN YOU DO A BACKFLIP?”
Jack stares at him. “No.”
Levi looks personally offended. “WHY NOT?”
Jack’s gaze flicks to me, deadpan. “Because I’m not trying to die in front of your teacher.”
I clap a hand over my mouth to hide my laugh.
Evan watches from the edge of the group again—quiet, withdrawn, but not completely shut down. When I sit with him for a few minutes during independent reading, he whispers a full sentence about his favorite dinosaur, and I nearly cry.
By late morning, Hanover calls me to his office.
I straighten my blouse, smooth my ponytail, and remind myself I am a professional adult and not a woman who had sex with her bodyguard and then tried to pretend she can function normally.
Jack shadows me down the hall—two steps back, quiet and steady.
Hanover’s office smells like coffee and printer toner and polite disappointment.
He looks up from behind his desk, smiling like he’s about to tell me something wonderful.
“Stella,” he says. “Thanks for coming in. Have a seat.”
I sit.
Jack stays near the door, posture relaxed but eyes alert. Hanover’s gaze flicks to him, then back to me like he’s trying not to acknowledge the tall security man presence in his life.
“So,” Hanover begins, folding his hands. “I looked into your Safe Steps proposal.”
My heart lifts. “Yes?”
He gives me a tight smile. “We don’t have funding for it right now.”
The words land like a cold slap.
I blink. “But— I thought there was?—”
“Budget constraints,” he says smoothly. “We have to prioritize core instruction.”
My throat tightens. “It’s tutoring. It’s mentoring. It supports core instruction.”
Hanover’s smile doesn’t change. “I understand. And I appreciate your passion. But at this time, there’s just no money.”
I stare at him, trying to keep my face neutral.
Because I know therewasmoney.
I saw it.
Last month, in the staff notes. It wasn’t imaginary. It wasn’t a rumor. It was written down. A small line item. A community grant. Something.
Hanover keeps talking—about future opportunities, about maybe revisiting next semester—but my mind is suddenly loud.
