The Range

For a second, time stood still. The entire restaurant restaurant , with its velvet drapes and gold fixtures, seemed to freeze

The hush was deafening

Tessa's breath caught in her throat as the wine spread across Clinton's expensive wears like blood. Her hand still hovered in the air, fingers trembling, as the now-empty flute hit the marble floor and shattered.

He didn't say a word. Not yet.

He slowly looked down at himself, then raised his eyes—ice blue, piercing, unreadable. Tessa felt like the room was tilting. She opened her mouth, some apology on her tongue, but no sound came out.

Daniel, seated next to Clinton, let out a low whistle and muttered under his breath, "Well, damn."

Tessa stepped back instinctively, face flushed, her throat tight. "I—I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean—"

"Clearly," Clinton cut in, voice sharp and cold. He rose slowly from his chair, dabbing his jacket with a napkin, though the deep red stain had already bloomed across the fabric like a wound. "You didn't mean to, but here we are."

Daniel stood too, watching Clinton carefully. "It's not a big deal. It's a drink. Accidents happen."

Clinton turned his head toward his friend, then looked back at Tessa with a mixture of disbelief and distaste. "Accidents happen, sure. But they usually happen outside of five-star establishments. Not on my lap."

Customers nearby stared openly. A woman gasped. Someone whispered, "That's Clinton Alfred." Another murmured, "Oh, she's done."

Tessa's eyes welled, but she blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall.

The manager arrived in seconds, moving with urgency and forced politeness.

"Mr, Clinton ," he said, bowing slightly, his voice syrupy with panic, "please accept our deepest apologies. This is entirely unacceptable."

"I know it is," Clinton said evenly. "That's why I'm leaving."

The manager paled. "Of course. We will cover the dry cleaning—and comp your entire table, of course. Please, allow us to send someone to your home with a replacement meal—"

"I don't want a replacement meal," Clinton interrupted, brushing past the manager. "I wanted lunch without being bathed in Bordeaux."

Daniel gave Tessa a sympathetic look as he followed his friend toward the exit. "She didn't mean it, man."

Clinton didn't stop walking.

"That's the problem. No one means anything anymore."

The heavy glass doors swung open as they stepped outside into the hot weather, cool air rushing in behind them. Clinton's expression was unreadable, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Back inside, the manager turned to Tessa, his smile gone.

"In the kitchen. Now."

Tessa opened her mouth to speak, to explain, to plead, but the look on his face said it wouldn't matter. She cast one last look toward the door where Clinton had disappeared and walked toward the back, her shoes echoing quietly against the marble.

As she vanished behind the swinging doors, murmurs swelled again.

"She's done."

"Poor thing."

"I'd fire her on the spot."

But not everyone was cruel.

At a small corner table, a young couple exchanged a look. The man said quietly, "Everyone makes mistakes."

As she vanished behind the swinging doors, murmurs swelled again.

"She looked so scared " Daniel added after a moment. "Didn't even yell at you."

Clinton slid his phone out of his pocket and ignored the comment. "She shouldn't be in that job if she can't handle it."

"She's probably working to provide for herself, And you know that place hires girls based on how they look in uniform, not their resumes.

Clinton gave him a sideways glance. "You defending her?"

"I'm defending the fact that you acted like a dick in front of half the city's elite."

Clinton was quiet for a long second, then finally exhaled through his nose. "She dumped a full glass of red wine on a client wearing Dior. You want me to pat her on the back for it?"

Daniel smirked, tossing the ruined jacket into the back of the car. "Maybe just not make her cry."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"No," Daniel said, "you just said it like a man who doesn't know what kindness looks like."

Inside the restaurant, the manager stood at the staff entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed as Tessa stood in front of him, her head down.

"You've been warned twice already, Tessa. This is your last chance. If something like this happens again—"

"I understand," she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing his temples. "Go home. You're done for the night."

She nodded, stripped off her apron, and slipped out through the back entrance with quiet steps, the clink of the broken glass still echoing in her mind.

In her chest, her heart felt heavy, her pride bruised—but somewhere beneath all that, she felt something else beginning to harden.

 Tessa's home 

Tessa pushed open the door to her small apartment, her heart still pounding from the humiliation she'd just faced at the restaurant. The soft click of the door closing behind her felt like a momentary relief—a barrier between her and the world outside.

Inside, the scent of cinnamon tea lingered in the air. She hadn't expected anyone to be home, so when she turned the corner into the living room and saw Mirabel and her grandmother sitting on the couch, her heart skipped a beat.

Mirabel looked up immediately. "Tessa?" she asked, surprise evident in her tone. "What are you doing back so early? I thought your shift ended at ten."

Her grandmother, who had been stringing tiny beads onto a delicate bracelet, paused and looked up. "Is everything alright, dear?"

Tessa tried to hide the flushed look on her face, but the heat hadn't left her cheeks. Her shoulders sagged as she kicked off her shoes and dropped her bag on the floor. "I… I had to leave early."

Mirabel sat forward. "Why? What happened?"

Tessa hesitated, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "It was a mistake," she said softly, more to herself than to them. "I spilled an entire tray of drinks on a customer. A very rich and very important customer."

Her grandmother's eyebrows lifted slightly in concern, but she didn't speak. Mirabel, on the other hand, frowned. "Was it your fault?"

Tessa sank into the armchair across from them and shook her head. "I don't know. I mean… maybe a little? I was nervous. It was one of those private VIP tables, and he kept watching me like I was some sort of amusement. I tripped and—" She buried her face in her hands. "Ugh. I wanted the floor to swallow me."

Mirabel let out a sigh, rising from the couch and walking over to sit on the arm of Tessa's chair. "That sucks. But hey, accidents happen. You've been working nonstop, juggling two jobs and barely sleeping. Anyone would have cracked under pressure."

Tessa gave a weak nod. "My manager was furious. I don't even know if I still have the job. He told me to go home, and I didn't stick around to ask questions."

Her grandmother reached out and patted her knee gently. "You are not defined by your worst moments, darling. And no job—no matter how fancy—is worth your peace of mind if it doesn't treat you with kindness."

Tessa gave a small smile, grateful for the warmth of home and the two people who never judged her. "Thanks, both of you. I just feel… stupid."

"You're not," Mirabel said firmly. "You're tired, overworked, and human. Rest tonight. We'll figure out everything else tomorrow."

Tessa leaned back and closed her eyes, the sting of shame slowly beginning to fade. For now, she was home. And home was enough.

The room fell quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that felt like a warm hug. Tessa leaned into it, but before long, her stomach growled loud enough to be heard. She opened her eyes, embarrassed, only to see Granny and Mirabel exchange a look.

"Have you eaten today?" Granny asked softly, though the answer was written all over Tessa's face.

Tessa shook her head. "Just a granola bar this afternoon."

Granny exhaled slowly, then pushed herself up from the couch. "Alright. Sit down. I'll fix you something."

Tessa opened her mouth to protest, but Granny was already moving toward the kitchen. Their pantry was nearly empty—Tessa knew it. Most nights, Granny scraped meals together from whatever was left, refusing to let Tessa go hungry even if it meant she went without.

In the tiny kitchen, Granny lit the old gas stove and set a dented pot of water to boil. She dropped in a crumbled stock cube and added a handful of broken spaghetti pieces—leftovers from the bottom of a bag. She stirred it slowly, then added a sprinkle of pepper and a pinch of salt. No vegetables. No meat. Just what they had.

Meanwhile, Mirabel stood and slipped out quietly, saying nothing. Tessa slumped back in the chair, her body heavy with shame and fatigue.

A few minutes later, Mirabel returned, arms full of bags.

"I was going to wait till the weekend," she said, setting them on the floor in front of Tessa, "but I think now's the time."

Tessa looked up, confused. "What is this?"

"Just open them."

Inside was a soft green hoodie, a pair of fleece-lined leggings, and a brand new pack of socks. Another bag held a pair of sneakers—simple, sturdy, and clearly new.

"Mirabel…" Tessa's voice broke. "Why would you—?"

"Because you need them," Mirabel said, kneeling in front of her. "You never ask for help, but that doesn't mean you don't need it. You and Granny do everything you can, and I love you for it. But you deserve more than just scraping by."

Before Tessa could respond, Granny returned with a steaming bowl balanced in her hands. She placed it gently on the small table in front of Tessa. It was watery noodle broth with a few broken spaghetti pieces floating in it, and two crackers on the side.

"It's not much," Granny said with a small smile. "But it's hot. And it's all we've got."

Tessa stared down at the meal, then at the new clothes, then at the two people she loved most in the world.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You don't have to do anything, Tess," Mirabel said gently. "Just let us be here."

And for the first time that day, Tessa let herself feel everything—grateful, tired, safe. Poor as they were, in that moment, she had everything she needed.

 .…

Daniel got in beside him, not saying anything at first. He could feel the heat radiating off Clinton—not just from the sun beating through the windshield, but from the silent rage in his friend's chest.

Clinton turned the key with a sharp twist, and the engine growled to life.

"I should've known better," Clinton muttered as he pulled out of the lot. "She was already shaky when the shift started."

Daniel glanced over. "It was an accident, man."

Clinton's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. "She dumped a whole glass on me in front of half the restaurant. Accident or not, she made me look stupid."

"You didn't look stupid. You handled it."

Clinton let out a cold laugh. "Yeah, by walking away with liquor dripping down my back."

Daniel looked out the window, knowing better than to argue. Clinton had a temper—not explosive, but icy, cutting. When he felt humiliated, he shut the door on sympathy. Especially when he thought someone had made a fool of him.

They drove in silence for a while, the hum of the engine and the rhythm of passing tires filling the car. Daniel's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Mum.

He answered. "Hello?"

Clinton didn't look over, still gripping the wheel like it owed him an apology.

"Daniel, where are you?" his mother's voice came through, crackly but warm.

"On the way home," he replied. "Just left work."

"Good. Come straight here. And bring Clinton with you."

Daniel blinked. "Clinton? Why?"

"Just bring him. There's enough food, and I have missed,I wants to see him."

"Uh… okay. I'll tell him."

He hung up and glanced at Clinton, who was still scowling at the road.

"My mum wants you to come to our place."

Clinton arched a brow. "Why?"

"She said there's food. And my uncle wants to see you."

Clinton hesitated. "I'm not exactly in a social mood."

"She'll take it personally if you don't show. You know how she is."

Clinton sighed, adjusting his grip on the wheel. "Fine. But I'm not staying long."

"Sure."

The rest of the drive was quieter, the rage in Clinton simmering under the surface but dulled by the familiarity of the roads. Tall gates, polished lawns, marble driveways—their world. The car pulled through Daniel's security gate and coasted up the smooth, tiled driveway. A uniformed guard opened the door before the engine was even turned off.

Daniel's mum was already at the door of their grand estate, her scarf tied elegantly around her head, gold earrings gleaming.

"Clinton," she said warmly, opening her arms. "You came. I heard what happened—come inside. You need to eat."

Clinton gave a strained smile but allowed the hug. "Thanks, ma'am."

They walked into the marble-floored foyer, cool and vast, with light pouring in through tall windows. The smell of roasted meat, spiced rice, and fresh pastries filled the air.

Daniel's uncle stood from the sitting room, grinning. "Ah! My favorite troublemaker."

Clinton chuckled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Evening, sir."

They all moved to the dining room, where the long table had already been set. Crystal glasses, polished silver, and a spread worthy of royalty.

Clinton sat down, finally removing his stained jacket and draping it over the back of the chair. He picked up a napkin but paused.

His thoughts were still with the girl who had spilled the drink. The way she looked—terrified, then ashamed—as she ran out.

But he shoved the thought away.

He wasn't the one who owed anyone an apology.

Come my darlings let's go eat, Mrs Daniella ( Daniel's mum) said which made Clinton jump ou from his thought.

The dining room sparkled with golden light from the chandelier overhead, casting a soft glow on the long mahogany table set with crystal glassware and polished silver. The aroma of freshly prepared food filled the air, warm and rich.

Dinner was a feast fit for the kind of lives they lived: steaming jollof rice with tender grilled chicken thighs, pepper soup with juicy chunks of goat meat, buttery yam pottage sprinkled with crayfish, and a medley of sautéed vegetables drizzled with olive oil. Thick slices of fried plantain were arranged on decorative trays beside freshly baked puff-puffs, and chilled fruit juice in tall glasses glistened with condensation.

Clinton, still in his stained shirt though his jacket was off, sat quietly across from Daniel and his uncle. Though the tension hadn't fully left his face, he ate steadily. His manners were intact—measured bites, no wasted movements—but his mind seemed elsewhere.

Daniel's mother fluttered between the kitchen and dining room, making sure everyone had what they needed, though her attention lingered subtly on Clinton. She didn't pry, didn't ask questions about his mood, but her warmth was there—in the way she topped off his juice, placed a fresh napkin by his elbow, and gave him an approving nod when he finished his first plate.

"You young men should eat like this more often," she said with a smile, clearing empty dishes with help from the house staff.

Clinton leaned back, full but still thoughtful. "If I had your cooking every day, I'd never leave the house."

Daniel's uncle chuckled from his end of the table. "That's why she doesn't cook for me unless there's company."

When the meal was over, Clinton wiped his hands with a warm towel and rose to his feet.

Daniel stood too. "You sure you don't want to stay a while longer?"

Clinton shook his head. "Nah. I've got a few things to sort out."

They walked together to the grand entrance. Outside, the soft purr of a powerful engine echoed faintly in the driveway where Clinton's car—a sleek, black coupe with smoked windows and custom rims—was waiting. It gleamed under the outdoor lights.

Daniel's mum followed them out, arms crossed but smiling softly. "Thank you for coming, Clinton. I hope you feel better now."

He gave her a polite nod. "Thank you, ma'am. I do. The food was… exactly what I needed."

She reached up and adjusted his collar like he was still a boy. "Next time, come without a frown."

Clinton gave the faintest smile before turning to Daniel. "Thanks, man. Tell your uncle I said goodbye."

"I will."

Clinton opened the driver's door himself, climbed in, and closed it smoothly. He didn't blast music or rev the engine like he sometimes did. This time, he simply started the car and pulled out slowly, the quiet growl of the engine carrying him down the long, tree-lined drive.

As he turned onto the main road, the streetlights reflected off his windshield in steady flashes. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh.

The anger was still there—not as loud now, but simmering beneath the surface. He could still feel the sting of embarrassment, the burning memory of Tessa's wide eyes and trembling lips after the drink had hit him.

"She didn't even say sorry," he muttered under his breath, though deep down, he knew she had.

Still, it didn't change the fact that he'd been humiliated. And Clinton never let things like that slide—not without something in return.

As he merged onto the quieter roads leading to his own gated estate, the city lights faded behind him. His house came into view—modern, cold, and perfectly silent.

He parked, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment, fingers drumming the steering wheel. 

He sat there for a moment, resting his head against the back of the seat, eyes closed, exhaling deeply. The day had been long, his anger even longer. Finally, with a low grunt, he pushed open the car door and stepped out. His dress shoes tapped lightly against the floor as he walked around the car and made his way to the door leading into the house.

The hallway light flicked on with a touch, casting a warm golden glow over the modern interior. He loosened his belt with one hand, his other tossing the car keys onto the console table by the wall. A soft thud echoed as they landed beside his watch, which he unclasped and dropped without a second glance.

Clinton headed straight to his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, each movement slow and deliberate. The silence of the house wrapped around him like a second skin—familiar, undemanding. By the time he reached the bathroom, his shirt hung open, and his cufflinks were forgotten somewhere on the hallway floor.

He turned the shower on, steam curling up instantly from the chrome fixtures. Shedding the rest of his clothes, he stepped inside, the hot water cascading over his skin. He let it soak through his hair, trail down his back, rinse off the residue of flirtations and false laughs. With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Clinton let the evening melt away. This was his ritual—quiet, alone, stripped down to nothing but breath and heat.

 6;00pm vague talent Agency 

The day had already stretched long for Natasha, but it was far from over. The modeling agency buzzed with activity as she walked in that afternoon, her heels clicking against the polished floors. Her phone vibrated for the third time in ten minutes—another reminder of her 9 p.m. shoot. She barely glanced at it. She knew the schedule by heart.

Her manager, Carina, spotted her from across the lobby and made a beeline toward her, tablet in hand, brows already drawn tight. "You've got two meetings upstairs," she said, her voice brisk. "The editor from Blanc wants a preview of your walk, and we need to review wardrobe changes for tonight's shoot. You've also got two endorsement approvals pending. Can you breathe?"

"Barely," Natasha said with a half-smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'll manage."

She always did.

The next few hours blurred. She breezed through a portfolio review, changed into and out of five different outfits for the stylist's approval, and squeezed in a call with her professor in between. A full-time student juggling a professional modeling career wasn't easy, but Natasha had mastered the rhythm: multitask, delegate when necessary, and most importantly, never lose her cool in front of a camera—or a client.

Carina was the secret weapon. As Natasha focused on fittings and final approvals, Carina was behind the scenes managing calls, shifting minor appointments, and sending assistants flying. When Natasha's phone threatened to die, Carina handed her a portable charger without a word. When a designer's assistant ran late, Carina adjusted the schedule in real-time to keep Natasha on track.

By 6:45 p.m., Natasha finally had a thirty-minute break. She sat on the agency's rooftop terrace with her laptop open, rushing through a marketing paper due at midnight. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pausing only to sip a smoothie Carina had someone deliver. Her body was tired, but her mind was sharp. She'd come too far to let the pressure swallow her.

At 8:15, they were en route to the shoot location—a glass-walled studio downtown, lit like a dream. The concept was high fashion meets midnight cityscape, and Natasha was the centerpiece. The stylist was already waiting with the first look, and the creative director barely gave her a moment before motioning her to the platform.

Carina stood just off set, eyes scanning the scene, giving nods of approval and occasional silent instructions. Natasha slipped into the role effortlessly—her pose, her eyes, the angles of her body all speaking a language of elegance and control. Every flash of the camera captured her brilliance, every take was better than the last.

By the time the shoot wrapped after midnight, Carina handed Natasha a protein bar and a water bottle as they walked out together. "You pulled it off again," she said.

Natasha gave a tired but triumphant smile. "Told you I would."

The shoot had wrapped just after midnight, but there were still goodbyes to say, a quick post-session debrief with the creative director, and a few promotional behind-the-scenes clips to film for the agency's socials. Carina made sure everything wrapped smoothly, keeping things efficient so Natasha wouldn't lose more sleep than she already had.

By the time she changed back into her own clothes, thanked the team, and slid into the backseat of the waiting car, it was already 12:50 a.m. The city lights flickered past the tinted windows as she leaned her head against the seat, eyes heavy but mind still replaying the poses, the lighting, the camera clicks. She checked her phone one last time—dozens of messages, most of which she ignored—then finally tucked it away.

She stepped into her apartment at exactly 1:31 a.m., kicked off her shoes, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The silence of home was the sweetest luxury she'd felt all day.

  Sparkle high Academy 

The next morning at Sparkle High Academy buzzed with an energy that had nothing to do with exams, deadlines, or the usual drama. The halls were alive with voices, laughter, and the occasional gasp as students huddled over their phones, scrolling through Vogue talent Agency's latest post—the midnight cityscape shoot featuring none other than Natasha.

The pictures were mesmerizing. Natasha stood like a goddess under the shimmering lights of downtown, her silhouette flawless against the dark skyline. One shot had her in a sculpted satin gown that hugged her curves like it was designed just for her—because it was. The deep emerald fabric shimmered with every pose, catching the light and drawing every eye to the perfect hourglass of her waist and the long, lean grace of her legs. Another photo showed her in a black velvet suit, cut just sharp enough to blend edge with elegance, the jacket cinched in a way that highlighted her slim waist and soft hips.

In motion, she was even more striking. The videos showed her walking with a fierce confidence—every step measured, every glance effortless. She didn't need to overdo it. Her poise spoke volumes. When she turned toward the camera, her eyes carried a quiet intensity, as though she knew exactly what she was worth, but didn't feel the need to announce it. It was power in silence. And Sparkle High noticed.

By mid-morning, the Vogue post had been shared in nearly every group chat on campus. In the courtyard, in the hallways, even in the library, Natasha was all anyone could talk about.

"Did you see the video where she turned and the wind caught her dress? That wasn't a shoot—that was a movie," one girl gushed, showing the clip to her friends.

"She looked like a queen," another said, shaking her head in disbelief. "And her body in that gold gown? Snatched. Perfectly sculpted."

"I've never seen anyone wear clothes like that," someone else chimed in. "It's like the fabric just knew where to fall on her. That's a gift."

But not everyone was on the same page.

A few feet away, Pearl sat at her usual table, flipping through the same Vogue post with an expression of bored disinterest. Her followers were still loyal—many students admired Pearl's boldness, her fierce walk, her no-nonsense attitude. She had her own set of fans, and they didn't hesitate to defend her.

"Natasha's sweet, yeah, but Pearl's got attitude," one of her friends said with a shrug. "She owns the camera in a different way. Natasha's the soft beauty. Pearl's the storm. It just depends what you like."

Pearl gave a small smirk, brushing her nails against her phone case. "Ugly shoot," she said, not looking up. "I've done better."

Still, even she couldn't deny the attention Natasha was getting. The agency had tagged her in every post, and Natasha's follower count was climbing by the minute. Comments poured in from stylists, photographers, even a few minor celebrities praising her elegance, her body, her grace. The school had never seen one of their own shine quite like this.

Back in the art room, Natasha sat quietly with her sketchpad open, pretending not to notice the way people peeked through the door or whispered her name as they passed. She was used to being noticed, but this was different. This wasn't just about beauty—it was about respect.

Her friend leaned over the table, wide-eyed. "Tasha… Vogue. Vogue! Do you even realize how huge that is?"

Natasha gave a modest smile, her fingers still moving across the page. "It was just a shoot."

"No," her friend said firmly, "It was the shoot."

Natasha's body, always graceful, had become more than just a canvas—it was a statement. The clothes didn't just sit on her; they lived through her. Every outfit in that shoot told a story, and she was the author of every scene.

At Sparkle High, the lines were being drawn. Team Natasha. Team Pearl. Elegance versus edge. Sweetness versus spice. But in the end, it didn't matter which side people stood on—because everyone was watching. And Natasha had arrived.

 The hallway 

The hall was already alive with murmurs when Natasha and Lisa rounded the corner, books in hand, heading toward class. The air shifted—like something electric had passed through the corridor. Phones lowered. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Natasha didn't flinch. She was used to the stares by now. Vogue had made sure of that.

But Lisa felt it. The tension. The kind that coils before something snaps. She leaned closer to Natasha. "Keep walking," she whispered. "Ignore them."

Too late.

Pearl stood from her seat at the far end of the hallway, her friends flanking her like shadows. The glint in her eyes wasn't admiration—it was ice. Beside her, Olivia stepped forward first, heels tapping sharply against the floor. Her jaw was set, mouth tight, eyes locked on Natasha like a threat she planned to extinguish.

Then Pearl's voice cut through the hallway, calm but edged with poison.

"Well, now that you're the topic of the day…" she said, her arms folding across her chest, "Are you happy?"

A hush fell over the crowd. Students edged closer, forming a semi-circle of anticipation. Some lifted their phones, recording quietly. Others held their breath. Drama like this was rare—especially between the top two names in the academy's social orbit.

Natasha stopped walking, her face still composed, unreadable. She turned to Pearl slowly, her eyes meeting hers without fear.

"I didn't realize being appreciated made people angry," Natasha said gently, voice soft but clear. "But if it does… then I must be doing something right."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Lisa, by her side, gave a proud little smirk.

Olivia scoffed. "Don't act so innocent. You know what you're doing. Posting pictures. Acting like you're better than everyone now."

"I didn't post anything," Natasha replied, not breaking eye contact. "The agency did. It was their shoot. Their story. I just showed up and did my job."

Pearl stepped forward now, her arms unfolding. Her tone was sharper, and the smile on her face didn't reach her eyes. "Right. Always the humble star. You pretend not to care, but you love the spotlight, don't you? All this sweetness? Just a mask."

Natasha tilted her head slightly, her voice still calm. "I don't need a mask, Pearl. And I don't need to dim anyone else's light just to shine."

The words landed like a stone in water—silent for a beat, then echoing out in stunned reactions from the crowd. A few students nodded. Others whispered. The hallway suddenly didn't feel so much like Pearl's kingdom anymore.

Pearl's lips parted as if to snap back, but the sharp retort never came. She stood there, caught between rage and disbelief.

As Natasha turned with quiet grace and took the first step away, the hallway seemed to freeze in place. Lisa walked beside her, chin slightly raised, casting one last glance over her shoulder—half daring anyone to follow, half daring anyone to speak.

Pearl stood still, her nails digging into her palm, rage simmering just beneath her skin. Her jaw clenched, her pride stung. She wasn't used to being the one silenced. Especially not by Natasha. Not by the girl everyone used to overlook—until now.

"Walk away, then," Pearl hissed, loud enough for Natasha to hear, but low enough to carry a bitter edge. "Just know this—one post doesn't make you royalty."

Natasha didn't even turn around. She kept walking, her voice floating back like silk in the wind.

"I don't need a crown, Pearl. I never asked for one."

The crowd reacted instantly—some students gasped, others laughed under their breath. A ripple of reactions spread through the hallway. One girl near the lockers whispered, "She really said that?" Another guy let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Pearl just got humbled."

Pearl's expression twisted for a moment—something between a sneer and a scowl. She wasn't used to losing the room, and she could feel it slipping from her fingers. Olivia stepped beside her, whispering something quickly, trying to reel the moment back in, but it was too late. The crowd's attention had shifted, and all of it was following Natasha.

Some students still watched Pearl, waiting for her next move. But she didn't say another word. She simply stood there, arms crossed, trying to keep her posture strong—trying to pretend it didn't sting. That her throne hadn't just been shaken.

But everyone knew.

As Natasha and Lisa disappeared around the corner, the hallway erupted—not into chaos, but into whispers, grins, glances. Natasha had walked in like a model and walked out like a legend.

_______

The classroom buzzed with low chatter as the students settled into their seats, the first period of the day dragging its feet. The English teacher walked in with a stack of worksheets and a calm nod, launching into a lesson about narrative voice that only half the class truly absorbed.

 Most of them were already thinking ahead—Friday evening, freedom, and fun. When the bell finally rang and the teacher exited with a quiet "Have a good weekend," the classroom exploded into energy.

Clinton leaned back in his chair, stretching, a mischievous grin forming on his face. He nudged Daniel, who sat just one desk over.

"Since it's Friday," Clinton said, voice low but excited, "why don't we throw a house party tonight? You know—music, food, good vibes?"

Daniel raised his brows, then nodded sharply. "Clinton's place?"

Clinton smirked. "Obviously."

Without wasting time, Daniel pulled out his phone, opened the school's group chat, and began typing.

Daniel: Party at Clinton's tonight! 7 p.m. sharp. Don't be boring—bring your energy. Invite-only, so check your DMs!

Daniel: Party at Clinton's tonight! 7 p.m. sharp. Don't be boring—bring your energy. Invite-only, so check your DMs!

The message was out in seconds.

Reactions came instantly.

Pearl: Yesss finally some fun!

Olivia: Clinton's parties are legendary, I'm in, and I can't wait to see Daniel in my hot outfit, he won't deny me today. Olivia whispered.

Melissa: Already planning my outfit!

Bryan: Say less.

A wave of excitement rippled through the school's digital space. Phones dinged. Screens lit up. Conversations broke out in every hallway as word spread fast. Even students who rarely showed interest in parties started asking questions, wondering if they'd get the invite.

In just ten minutes, the party wasn't just an idea—it was the event of the night. And with Clinton behind it, everyone knew it wouldn't be just any party. It would be unforgettable.

 8;30am Steam And Sip Cafe

Tessa arrived at Steam & Sip Cafe just before 7 a.m., the air still crisp with morning chill. She pushed through the door, the little bell above it jingling softly. The familiar scent of roasted beans and vanilla syrup wrapped around her like a worn sweater. Despite the early hour and the tight pinch of sleep in her eyes, she smiled. She always did.

She tied her apron quickly, pulled her hair into a neat ponytail, and slid behind the counter just as the first rush of customers began to trickle in. By 7:15, the café was humming with life—orders coming fast, machines hissing, voices blending into a low but constant din.

Tessa moved with quiet focus. One hand worked the espresso machine, loading fresh grounds and pulling perfect shots, while the other frothed milk with smooth, practiced rhythm. She took orders with a polite smile, her tone gentle even with the customers who didn't know what they wanted—or changed their minds halfway through their sentence.

"A large vanilla oat latte, extra foam?" she confirmed sweetly to one customer.

"Actually, can I make that a hazelnut instead? Sorry!"

"No worries at all," she said with a calm grace. "Hazelnut it is."

She handed the drink over moments later with a napkin and a small compliment on the customer's earrings. It was just how she worked—grace under pressure, soft in tone, fast with her hands. Even when the blender jammed briefly or when a double order of cappuccinos came in back-to-back, she never let it rattle her.

But Richard, the café manager, wasn't easily impressed.

He hovered behind the counter for most of the shift, arms crossed, watching with his usual critical eye. Every once in a while, he'd snap, "That foam's a little thin," or, "Speed it up, Tessa, we're not running a charity here."

Tessa never snapped back. She just nodded and adjusted. She knew Richard was harsh with everyone—cold, sharp, and impossible to please—but she refused to let him shake her rhythm.

By 9:00 a.m., the rush began to thin out. Tessa wiped down the counter, refilled the syrups, and restocked the pastries with precision. A regular customer, Mr. Alden, waved at her from the corner table and lifted his cup in thanks. She gave him a soft smile.

Just as she turned back around, she found Richard standing there, arms still folded but face unreadable.

"You kept the line moving," he said flatly. "No complaints. Customers seemed happy."

Tessa blinked, surprised at the almost-compliment.

Then, as if catching himself, he added with a grunt, "Try not to take so long with the foam tomorrow. You're not painting clouds."

And he walked off.

Tessa let out a quiet laugh once he was out of earshot. From Richard, that was practically a gold star. She turned back to the register as a new customer approached, smile already returning to her lips. Another cup, another chance to get it right.

Tessa took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the espresso machine soothe her nerves as she prepared the next order. Her hands moved instinctively, measuring, steaming, pouring—each motion calm and deliberate

The soft hum of jazz from the speakers filled the space between orders, grounding her in the moment. Even with Richard's cold demeanor lingering in the back of her mind, she refused to let it taint the energy she brought to the counter. As she handed over another perfectly made drink with a gentle "Enjoy," the customer's smile reminded her why she showed up every morning—with grace, not bitterness. 

 The House party 

The sky had turned a soft gradient of orange and purple, casting a golden glow over Clinton's backyard as the pool shimmered under the lights. 

The speakers were already set, soft music playing while the scent of grilled snacks wafted through the air. 

Students began pouring in, laughter rising like steam off the water, and the party vibes began to build, electric and expectant.

Then came the girls.

One by one, they emerged from the house in colorful, stunning bikinis, turning heads and stealing breath. The clack of heels on the tiled poolside echoed with confidence. Shimmering lip gloss, styled hair, toned legs, and radiant skin—it was a show before the show.

Pearl stood out like a goddess carved from temptation itself. She wore a deep crimson bikini that hugged her pear-shaped figure perfectly. Her hips curved wide and bold, cinched at the waist with a gold chain that drew attention to every sway of her body. 

Her toned legs glistened under the lights, and her chest sat proudly, supported by the intricate cut of her bikini top. Her confidence made her the centerpiece—owning every glance like it belonged to her.

Raymond stood across the pool, holding a drink he hadn't touched, eyes fixed on Pearl with open, raw hunger. Lust flickered across his face with every curve she turned, every glance she didn't give him. 

He bit his bottom lip, hoping—just hoping—for eye contact. But Pearl, cool as ice, didn't even glance his way. She laughed with her friends, tossed her hair, and let him melt in his longing.

Moments later, Natasha arrived.

Her entrance was quieter, but no less powerful. She wore a soft lilac bikini that contrasted perfectly with her smooth, glowing skin. Her shape was graceful and feminine—subtle curves that fit perfectly in all the right places.

 Her waist dipped in gently, her hips rounded with delicate elegance, and her legs were long and lean beneath the gentle sway of a light cover-up. She walked with the calm confidence of someone who didn't need to try—because her beauty simply existed. And the boys noticed.

Several of them paused mid-conversation, their eyes tracking her like she was slow motion. Whispers passed like wind between them.

"Bro… look at Natasha."

"Man, she's so fine."

"She doesn't even try… that's the killer."

It was a jab wrapped in silk, but the envy in her eyes betrayed the truth—Natasha had the attention, and Pearl hated it.

Then, the energy shifted again.

Clinton and Daniel stepped out side by side, dressed down in pool shorts and designer slides. Clinton wore a simple white tank that clung to his chest, and his confident smirk alone sent half the girls into giggles. 

Daniel, his wingman and the heartthrob with the dimples, followed with sunglasses on, sipping a drink like he'd just walked off a runway.

The girls couldn't stop staring.

"Daniel looks so good tonight."

"Clinton's chest, though—he's been working out."

The music cranked up, the bass pulsing through the floor. The pool rippled as people dove in. Drinks clinked. Laughter erupted. Games started. Someone began a limbo contest. 

The lights flickered between colors, bathing everyone in wild pinks and deep blues. It was a night of teenage freedom, energy, and flirtation.

Pearl didn't wait. She spotted him the moment he came in, his white tank clinging to his chest, his chain glinting under the lights, and that signature smirk that sent girls wild. 

Without hesitation, she handed Olivia her drink and strutted through the dancing crowd like she owned the night.

Her hips swayed, her gold waist chain glittered with each step, and her eyes were locked on him—only him.

"Clinton," she said smoothly as she reached him, not waiting for a response.

Before he could even get a full breath in, Pearl turned, backed into him, and began dancing—slow, sultry, deliberate. Her body rocked against his, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, the other sliding into her hair as the beat dropped. She moved like she wanted the whole party to see, and they did.

Cheers erupted, and a few whistles broke out.

"Pearl's not wasting time!"

"Look at her go!"

Clinton chuckled low, he did not resist. He placed his hands on her waist, letting her lead the rhythm, his face cool, unreadable—but amused. 

He knew Pearl was putting on a show. She always did when the attention started to shift. And tonight, that attention had been on Natasha. Until now.

Around them, the party exploded—students jumping into the pool, couples dancing under the fairy lights, others playing drinking games by the bar. Music boomed. Laughter echoed. It was wild, youthful chaos.

But then—without warning—the music cut off mid-beat.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd.

The students turned one by one toward the back entrance of the house, where the sliding doors had just opened with a sharp clack.

There stood Mr. Alfred—Clinton's father.

He was dressed in a sleek, charcoal suit despite the heat, his face locked in a look of disgusted disapproval. His eyes scanned the party slowly—lingering on the girls in their bikinis, the boys shirtless, the drinks, the chaos.

Then they locked on Clinton.

"Why are you barging in on my party like this?" he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Mr. Alfred's voice was deep and cold as ice.

"So this is what you're doing with your name? This nonsense?"

Clinton said nothing, his jaw tight, fists clenched.

And then Mr. Alfred added, his tone louder—enough for every single person to hear.

"You have a betrothed."

 The Range 

For a second, time stood still. The entire restaurant