Page 72 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I force a tight smile. “I’d love to stay and chitchat, Aria, but I really need to get back inside.”

I step forward to brush past her.

She shifts, blocking the narrow space between the vanity and the door. “Yeah, you would want to do that.” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “I’m just wondering what the principal will say when she sees the picture of you and Mr. Volkov together.”

The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. My ears ring. Is she serious?

But Aria reads me like an open book. She reaches into her tiny clutch, pulls out her phone, and taps the screen once. Then she turns it toward me.

There we are, frozen in high definition. Leonid whispering something in my ear, my head tilted toward him, smiling like he hung the sun. His arm is around my waist. There’s no angle, no lighting trick that makes this look platonic. Even a stranger would know we’re together.

My mouth goes dry. “How did you get that?”

Aria’s perfectly shaped brows shoot up, offended. “That’s what you have to say?” She snatches the phone back, clutching it like a trophy. “I’ve had eyes on Mr. Volkov for years. And then you come along, throwing yourself at him like a whore!”

The pieces snap together. She likes him. And now she sees me as the thief who stole what she thinks should be hers.

“A woman like you,” she continues, voice dripping disdain, “doesn’t deserve a man like Mr. Volkov.”

My mind spins in every direction at once. I can’t lose my job. If she shows that photo to anyone at school, or worse, to the principal…

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Before I can force a single word, her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen, answers with a clipped “Yes, Mother,” and strides out of the restroom without another glance at me.

I follow on autopilot, heart hammering, but she’s already moving fast down the hallway, away from the ballroom, not toward it. She’s leaving.

I’m still staring after her when a familiar hand catches my elbow.

“I was coming to look for you. You were taking too long. Everything alright?” Leonid asks, concern etched between his brows.

I blink, forcing my face into something neutral. “Yeah… just a situation with my dress. It’s sorted.”

He studies me, those blue eyes searching mine. “You alright?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he slides his hand to the small of my back and guides me back toward the ballroom.

We slip into our seats just as the lights dim for the first speaker. Applause ripples around us. Someone steps to the podium. Words about charity, impact, and futures fill the room, but none of it registers.

All through the night I don’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Aria’s smug smile, that photo glowing on her screen.

I want to call him and spill everything. He’d fix it. I know he would. But that’s exactly why I can’t. This isn’t his fight. I’ve spent years taking care of myself, paying my own bills, handling my own messes, building a life no one handed me.

If I tell Leonid about this, he’ll immediately say I should just quit my job and become his full-time girlfriend or get another job. But I’m not ready to give up teaching. I genuinely love my work and the kids at Prudence. So for now, I want to handle it myself first and see if there’s another way to fix this without blowing up my entire life.

By the time the alarm goes off, my eyes are gritty and my stomach is knotted so tight I can barely breathe. I drag myself through a shower, pull on a plain blouse and skirt, and head to school. My plan is simple: find Aria before first bell, talk to her, beg if I have to. Convince her not to tell or show anyone the picture. She’s petty, but maybe she’ll listen to reason.

The second I step through the staff entrance, I know it’s already too late.

The hallway feels narrower. Heads turn. Eyes linger. Mrs. Carter from third grade gives me the coldest once-over I’ve ever received, lips pressed into a thin line. Mr. Patel glances up from his coffee, then quickly away. Two teachers near the copy machine, Ms. Reynolds and Mrs. Kim, stop mid-sentence, stare, then burst into hushed snickers.

As I pass, I catch the word.

“Whore.”

My steps falter. Another teacher, someone I’ve shared lunch with, swapped lesson plans with, mutters it again under her breath as she brushes past.