I lean back, stretch my legs, pretend I’m unaffected. “Just figured you’d appreciate the irony.”
She smirks—quick, surgical. “I appreciate preparation. Try that next time.”
“Careful,” I say. “That tone gets people in trouble.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat too long. Long enough to feel deliberate.
“I’m not the one skating on thin ice,” she replies.
Then she turns away.
Conversation over.
On her terms.
The absence hits harder than the exchange did. The room feels quieter without her attention angled my way. I don’t chase it. I let the space sit, tension humming under my skin where it doesn’t belong.
A few rows up, someone murmurs her name. Not subtle.
“Barnes already gets this stuff,” a guy says. “Probably has something lined up. Internships. Connections.”
Wrong.
Too clean. Too confident.
I don’t look at her right away. I watch the room instead—how easily people accept the explanation that makes excellence comfortable. How quickly competence gets reframed as advantage you didn’t earn.
When I finally glance her way, she’s still writing. Expression neutral. No correction. No defense. She lets the lie stand.
Not because it helps her.
Because correcting it costs time. Energy. Space she doesn’t owe anyone.
That’s when it clicks.
They don’t respect her because they think she’s connected. They respect her because she refuses to waste breath proving she isn’t.
That also means they’ll turn on her fast if the story shifts.
The professor asks a general question.
I answer without hesitation, voice steady.
“Leverage isn’t insulation,” I say. “Assuming someone’s protected is how you miss the real risk.”
A few heads turn. The room recalibrates again.
Zoë doesn’t look at me.
Which means she heard it.
Good.
Class ends in a rush of scraping chairs and relief. The room exhales like it’s been underwater.
I stay seated longer than necessary, pen idle in my hand, watching Zoë pack with the same efficiency she brings to everything else.
Then she stands.
