Genny:We’re in position. Waiting for the distraction.
I look at Clara. She nods, her face pale but set, eyes bright with that brave, terrified determination she wears when she’s about to go into a third-period tied game.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Tell them. Now.”
My fingers are trembling so hard I can barely type. I pull up Zoë’s contact.
Me:NOW.
I hit send.
A second later, from the far end of the building, I hear Zoë’s voice. It’s not a shout. It’s a shriek.
“You absolute PIG!”
Adrian winces, but a small smirk plays over his mouth. “And… scene.”
The sound is jarring in the quiet wing. It ricochets off the glass and polished wood. A door further down the hallway vibrates in its frame.
I hear Zoë’s voice rise, hysterical, a full Broadway meltdown.
“You told your MOTHER I was a PHASE?”
Gio’s booming, indignant roar answers her. “I never said that! You’re a psycho! You keyed my car!”
“You deserved it!”
Something shatters—loud, chaotic, the explosive sound of glass or ceramic meeting tile.
My body reacts before my brain does. I flinch, shoulders jerking, breath seizing. For a split second, I’m back in a different hallway, different voices, a different kind of fight.
No.
I drag in a breath, force my fingers to unclench. This is not that. This is ours. Our chaos. Our distraction.
“Jesus,” Clara whispers, eyes wide. “She really committed.”
“They’re a public hazard,” Adrian mutters, but he’s peering down the corridor, focus sharpened. “Okay, T. This is it.”
He’s right.
A door a few yards down opens, and Alistair Reid’s severe-looking assistant pokes her head out, her mouth already pinched with annoyance.
“What is that?” she hisses.
She sees us. Her gaze flicks over my hoodie, Clara’s knit sweater, Adrian’s Briarcliff jacket. Students. Harmless.
I tug my hood up further, angling my face away from the light. If she recognizes me—if she connects “Coach Addison’s daughter” to a disruption in the Donor Wing—this whole thing falls apart before it starts. I turn my shoulder, making myself small, anonymous.
“You three!” she snaps. “What’s going on down there?”
“I think they broke up,” Clara says, voice perfectly pitched—wide-eyed, innocent gossip. “Pretty loudly.”
The assistant glares, jaw tightening. She digs for her phone, heels clicking jaggedly on the tile. “I need security in the Donor Wing. Now.”
“They’re already running toward the lobby,” Adrian offers helpfully, pointing back the way we came. “I think the girl threw a planter.”
The assistant curses under her breath and storms off toward the noise, abandoning her post to manage the damage.
