Jay's POV (same chapter)
By Monday, the school had learned how to look at me differently.
Not openly.
Not boldly.
But carefully.
Carefulness was new.
I felt it the moment I stepped through the gates—the slight pause in conversations,
the way bodies shifted to make space without being asked, the way eyes followed me and then quickly looked away.
Fear would have been obvious.
Curiosity would have been loud.
This was something else.
Recognition without understanding.
I walked at my usual pace, posture relaxed, expression neutral. The same uniform, the same bag, the same shoes I had worn for years. Nothing about me looked different.
And yet everything was.
I didn't look for Section E.
I didn't need to.
I knew exactly where they were, the same way I knew where Kiefer would be without seeing him. Old habits didn't disappear overnight. You just stopped acting on them.
Morning assembly began.
The principal spoke too carefully, like someone rehearsing lines in front of a mirror all night. Two men in dark suits stood behind him—not teachers, not parents, not guards.
Corporate.
I didn't react.
Names don't surprise you when you've heard them in boardrooms far from here.
"—funded by J & 'Elvara Global," the principal announced.
The name rippled through the crowd like electricity.
I kept my eyes forward.
Hands folded.
Breathing steady.
People always reacted the same way to that name: awe, curiosity, ambition. They never thought about the humans behind it. Only the power.
That was the point.
I felt Kiefer glance at me.
Not sharply.
Instinctively.
I didn't look back.
Jay Jay and global corporations did not belong in the same sentence in his mind—and I intended to keep it that way.
Assembly ended.
The halls filled again.
I walked to class alone, not because I didn't have people to walk with, but because solitude gave me clarity. Chloe would meet me later. Aurora and Mateo too. There was no need to cling to familiarity anymore.
In class, I chose the same seat I had chosen days ago.
Away from everyone.
Not in defiance.
In decision.
I opened my notebook and began taking notes.
For the first time in years, I wasn't studying to escape.
I was studying to sharpen.
The teacher spoke. Chalk moved. Words formed patterns I had mastered long ago.
But this wasn't about grades.
It was about discipline.
I could feel Kiefer's presence without looking.
Some people took up space.
Others altered it.
He was watching—not openly, not rudely—but with the quiet intensity of someone trying to understand something slipping out of reach.
I didn't acknowledge it.
Silence was a language too.
And I was fluent.
During the break, I passed Section E in the hallway.
Their voices dropped instinctively.
Ci-N's eyes were red again.
David looked away.
Yuri pretended to check his phone.
Kiefer stood still.
I walked past them without slowing down.
Not because I wanted to hurt them.
But because I no longer needed to explain myself.
Explanations were for people who still had access to you.
Lunch came.
I went to the cafeteria.
Permission had already been arranged—not by me personally, but through proper channels. Adults respected paperwork more than emotions.
Chloe was already there, waving slightly when she saw me. Aurora joined us seconds later, Mateo scanning the room with that quiet, observant gaze of his. Sebastian arrived last, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
We didn't sit like a spectacle.
We sat like people who knew exactly who they were.
I listened more than I spoke.
That was another thing people misunderstood about power—you didn't have to dominate a room. You only had to control your reactions inside it.
I knew Section E was watching.
I didn't look.
The announcement came later in the day.
A seminar.
Sponsored by J & 'Elvara Global.
Mandatory attendance.
The reaction was immediate—whispers, excitement, speculation.
I wrote the date in my planner.
Nothing more.
People expected visible reactions to big names.
They never understood that the ones who stayed calm were the ones already accustomed to rooms much bigger than this.
After classes, I packed my bag slowly.
Kiefer stayed behind, leaning against a pillar near the exit. I felt his presence before I saw him.
I walked past him.
Close enough to feel the pause in his breathing.
I didn't look.
Not because I was afraid.
But because I was done giving him pieces of myself for free.
Outside, the air felt lighter.
The school behind me buzzed with imagined futures, fantasies about being noticed, being chosen, being lifted out of mediocrity.
I didn't share those fantasies.
I had learned long ago that being chosen was fragile.
Choosing yourself was permanent.
That night, back in my room, I reviewed schedules and timelines—not written, not digital, but mental. Two weeks was not a long time. It was enough to observe. To prepare. To finalize.
Kiefer was going to London.
He didn't know I knew.
That knowledge gave me leverage—not emotional, but strategic.
I didn't hate him.
Hate required energy.
I had redirected mine.
Somewhere far away, decisions were being made. Contracts signed. Futures shifted by signatures no one here would ever see.
And here, in this small school that thought it mattered more than it did, people whispered about a company they would never truly understand.
I closed my notebook.
Tomorrow, the seminar would happen.
Representatives would speak.
Students would dream.
And I would sit quietly, listening, observing, remaining exactly what I needed to be—
Unseen.
Unclaimed.
Untouchable.
Because the most dangerous people were never the loudest.
They were the ones everyone underestimated.
And I had learned how to live inside that shadow perfectly.
....