"Who?" I ask, though I already know.
"Jessica." Maya snips the thread, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Dean's office pulled her out first thing. Something about a 'review of her portfolio and financial aid eligibility.'"
My stomach drops. A review of financial aid in the second semester of senior year is a death sentence. If they pull her funding, she doesn't just lose the class. She loses Briarcliff.
"That's..." I trail off, searching for the right word. "Fast."
"Isn't it?" Maya glances at me, her expression unreadable. "One day she's sabotaging your hem, the next she's packing her bags. It's almost like someone made a phone call."
I set my coffee down on the table with a shaky hand. The ceramic clinks against the surface. I didn't make a call. I didn't file a complaint. I handled it. I cut the dress. I fixed the line. I earned the survival of this project on my knees with a bottle of solvent and a pair of shears.
But the problem is gone. Erased.
I look at Jessica's empty chair again. The victory I felt last night—the cold, diamond-hard determination—curdles into something sour. This isn't justice. It's a hit.
"Did you hear who filed the complaint?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"No names mentioned," Maya says, turning back to her machine. "Just that an 'anonymous donor' was concerned about the integrity of the program."
An anonymous donor.
I close my eyes for a second. Gio didn't yell at Jessica. He didn't threaten her, didn't get his hands dirty. He just opened his checkbook and used his influence to make a pest disappear. He fixed it.
The problem is, he didn't fix my problem. He removed my obstacle. He took a situation where I was the victim and turned me into the girl who needs her boyfriend to fight her battles. He just proved Jessica right.
I'm not an architect in this room anymore. I'm a protected asset. And that is infinitely more dangerous than being a target.
I find him in the hallway outside the locker room, leaning against the wall like he owns the bricks. He's got his phone in one hand, scrolling, but his head snaps up the second I turn the corner. His eyes sweep over me, assessing for damage. He sees the fatigue, probably. He sees the tension in my shoulders. He doesn't see the rage.
Gio straightens up, tucking the phone into his pocket. "You look like hell."
"Rough night," I say, stopping three feet from him. I don't touch him. I don't close the gap. "Jessica's gone."
"I know." His voice is flat. Unbothered.
"Of course you know." I cross my arms, hugging the fabric of my jacket against my chest. "Did it make you feel good? Writing that check?"
He frowns, a small crease forming between his brows. "What are you talking about?"
"The 'anonymous donor,' Gio. The sudden review of her financial aid." I keep my voice low, but the edge is razor-sharp. "You erased her."
"She was a distraction." He says it like he's discussing the weather. "She was wasting your time and fucking with your work. Now she's not."
The casual dismissal makes my blood boil. He doesn't get it. He really doesn't.
"I didn't ask you to handle it," I say, taking a step closer, forcing him to look at me. "I had it handled. I was fixing it."
"You were scrubbing dye off the floor, Zoë." He scoffs, shaking his head. "That's surviving it. There's a difference."
"I was reclaiming it," I snap. "I was turning a mistake into a feature. I was proving I could survive the hit without you swooping in to save me."
"Why the fuck would you suffer through that if you don't have to?" His voice rises, just a fraction. He's irritated now. "I have the resources. I used them. Problem solved."
"You removed the obstacle." I poke him in the chest, hard. "You took a situation where I was the victim and turned me into the girl who needs her boyfriend to fight her battles. You just proved Jessica right."
He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not bruising. He holds my hand against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel the steady, rhythmic thud.
"I don't give a fuck what she thinks," he says, his eyes boring into mine. "And I don't give a fuck about proving a point. I care about results. You're stressed. You're tired. You're losing sleep over some petty bitch with a dye pot. So I cut the line. I removed the variable."
