Mia spent the day in quiet observation, dutifully documenting every session, noting the sequence of events, speaker transitions, audience engagement levels, and the occasional hiccup in schedule or tech. But more than anything—or anyone—her focus kept circling back to Kris.
She watched him with the eyes of someone who was no longer just participating in a bet. She wasn't collecting ammunition to mock him. She was, if she were being honest with herself, learning him.
He had a way of listening that was deceptively still, his brow drawn as though mapping solutions in real time. When speakers stumbled, he subtly shifted the audience's attention with a timely announcement or a well-placed joke. When a microphone popped mid-presentation, he crossed the stage without fanfare, calmly switching to a backup while the speaker continued—his movements graceful, rehearsed but not robotic.
He wasn't just running the event. He was holding it.
By midafternoon, a tension had crept in—like a wire pulled taut. The stakes were peaking. Judges were finalizing decisions. Contestants paced nervously in the wings. Mia noticed Kris standing alone near the back curtain, head slightly bowed, one hand resting on the wall.
He looked... human. Not just tired, but momentarily exposed. Like someone who'd been holding everything together for too long.
And before she could overthink it, Mia crossed the room, her steps slow but certain.
"Kris?"
His head jerked up, surprise flickering across his features. He blinked, as if unsure she was really there.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice instinctively hushed, gentle. "You look like you haven't breathed in an hour."
He let out a slow breath, more of a deflation than a sigh. "Just a moment," he muttered. "Trying not to implode before the curtain falls." He rubbed his temples again, the gesture oddly vulnerable. "It's all on me now. One missed cue and this whole thing cracks down the middle."
"You mean the event that's been running like clockwork all day?" she countered, folding her arms. "I've been watching. You've handled every curveball like it was planned."
There was a beat of silence. Then he gave her a long look—one of those rare, unguarded ones that stripped away the smirk and swagger.
"That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Don't get used to it."
But she smiled when she said it. And so did he.
He looked like he wanted to say something more—something personal—but was interrupted by the soft cue of music over the auditorium speakers, signaling the beginning of the final ceremony. His composure returned instantly, the mask slipping back into place. He straightened his suit jacket, cleared his throat.
"Duty calls, Princess."
As he walked toward the stage, Mia remained in the shadows, watching as he stepped into the spotlight. The lights caught the edges of his dark suit, casting long lines that made him seem taller, broader. And yet, she could still see the stress under the polished performance—the slight tightness in his shoulders, the quick glance at the cue cards, the way his fingers tapped once against his thigh before stilling.
But when he spoke, all of it disappeared. His voice was clear, resonant, practiced—but not impersonal. He thanked the judges, the faculty, the student teams. He highlighted standout moments, made the crowd laugh, and left them feeling like they had just participated in something meaningful. He even managed to weave in a quote from Shakespeare—because of course he did.
When the final winners were announced, the room erupted in applause. Students cheered, clapping each other on the backs, snapping group photos. Professors nodded appreciatively. Kris stood near center stage, flanked by the Dean and the lead sponsor, his expression measured—but in his eyes, there was something else.
Relief.
And maybe, just beneath it, pride.
Mia sat at the edge of the auditorium, a quiet witness to it all. She didn't cheer, didn't take pictures. She just watched. Something had shifted inside her, something that felt slow and inevitable.
The week had started with a silly bet. Seven days of sabotage and reluctant servitude. But now, she wasn't sure how to categorize what remained.
She hadn't just observed Kris Windsor today. She'd seen him.
And maybe, just maybe, that scared her more than any of his demands.