Serenya's POV
Celestine strides out of the café like she owns the pavement, already fishing for her keys before we’ve fully cleared the doorway. Her car waits at the curb—a sleek, predatory thing in polished black, low enough to look impractical but expensive enough to broadcast status. She gestures for me to get in, not out of courtesy but because she assumes the world naturally falls into place around her.
My heart thrums in my ribs, steady but forceful. I lock it down, smoothing my expression as she slides behind the wheel and immediately begins talking. Not conversing—talking. About the new designer who personally begged her to wear his collection. About the professor who “accidentally” let slip that she’s the most promising pianist in the department. About how exhausting it is to be
