Chapter 77 Porcelain Smiles

Chapter 77 Porcelain Smiles
Melissa nods quickly, keeping her head down. She flips to a fresh page in her notebook, desperate to keep a physical barrier between them. "F-fine. You go first. Or I can... I can ask the questions."

"Go ahead," Jeremy says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks entirely at ease, but his eyes are fixed on her face, analysing every micro-expression. "Ask away."

Melissa stares at her blank page, her pen hovering. "Name and... and family background. For the registry."

"Jeremy Black," he says flatly. "Father is Arthur, CEO of Black Infrastructure Tech. Mother is Eleanor Black, who sits on three hospital boards and is chair of the historical society. Born and raised in Toledo. No moves. No changes." He gives the summary with a practised, mechanical detachment, as if reading a corporate brochure about his own life.

"Question two," Melissa says quickly, breaking the moment before it can turn into something real. "Extracurricular history. What's your baseline?"

“Varsity basketball captain," Jeremy says, falling back into his detached rhythm. "Three years on the roster. Student council liaison for athletics. It keeps my father’s friends happy.”

Melissa writes it down, her handwriting neat but slightly shaky. "And... your lifestyle? The survey asks about the environment."

"Big house in the hills. Private security. Two cars I don't drive because I prefer my bike," Jeremy says, a faint, bitter edge cutting through his tone. He watches her write. "Your turn, Montenegro."

Melissa's heart does a familiar, frantic skip, but she forces her expression to freeze. She needs to maintain the lie. She needs them to believe she is exactly who they think she is: a nobody from nowhere, completely beneath their notice.

"M-Melissa Montenegro," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a whisper. "We... we moved from a smaller district outside of Austin, Texas." She uses the cover story her parents meticulously mapped out in their temporary living room. "My dad... he's a mid-level accountant. He got a transfer to a local branch here. Lower pay, but... but more stable."

Jeremy listens, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And your mother?"

"She's a... a nurse's assistant," Melissa lies smoothly, her voice steadying as the script takes over. She thinks of her mother, Dr Maria Montenegro, who had just spent four gruelling hours meticulously rebuilding a human spine across town. "She works irregular shifts at the county clinic. We... We live on the south side. The grey one with the overgrown lawn."

"An accountant and a clinic assistant," Jeremy repeats. He leans forward again, his jaw tightening as he rests his chin on his hand. "Sounds peaceful. Simple."

"It is," Melissa whispers, finally looking up to meet his gaze, trying to project total, boring normalcy. "We don't... we don't have a lot of drama. We just want to blend in."

"Right," Jeremy says, his voice dropping an octave, becoming entirely too intimate for the space between them. "Which is why your hands are shaking, and why you look like you're about to sprint out of this library if I breathe too loudly."

Melissa pulls her sleeves over her palms, hiding her fingers. "I-I'm just tired."

Jeremy doesn't push the lie. Not yet. He flips a page on his own clipboard. "Fine. Let's move to section two. The turning points. The real stuff." He looks at her, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, heavy intensity that makes the air in her lungs grow thin. "Yesterday in class, you told me your turning point was 'culture shock.' An adjustment to suburbia. You want to stick to that story, Montenegro?"

"Yes," she says immediately, her voice gaining a sharp, defensive edge. "It's my life. I get to decide what the turning point is."

"And I'm the one who has to present it to Miller," Jeremy counters, his voice low but firm. He reaches across the table, his index finger tapping the cover of her notebook. "Miller knows when someone is throwing garbage at him to protect their borders. He wants the moment the bubble popped. He wants to know why a girl with sun-kissed hair and bright blue eyes in a California photograph is currently wearing a dark beanie and brown contacts in Toledo, Ohio."

The words hit Melissa like a physical strike. Her breath hitches, her chest tightening so violently she feels a wave of pure vertigo. The library alcove suddenly feels entirely too small, the smell of old paper turning suffocating. He knows. He remembered the photograph that had fallen from her bag on Monday.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," she stammers, her voice cracking as the San Francisco girl tries to scream through the Toledo ghost persona. She begins to panic, her vision blurring at the edges. She cannot do this. She cannot let him pry. If he digs any deeper, the entire fortress falls apart.

She pushes her chair back abruptly, the wooden legs letting out a sharp, dissonant screech against the floor.

"I have to go," Melissa says, her voice high and erratic. She begins shoving her notebook and pens into her Fall Out Boy bag with jerky, uncoordinated movements.

Jeremy stands up with her, his massive frame blocking the immediate exit from the carrel. "Montenegro, wait. We're not done."

"W-we are," she gasps, refusing to look at his face. She hooks the heavy canvas strap over her shoulder, her hands trembling violently now. "I... I forgot. Um, the Principal, Mr Bennett want to talk to me. I'm totally late."

It's a clumsy, transparent lie, but she doesn't care. She grabs her phone and AirPods case and ducks past his shoulder.

Jeremy doesn't reach out to stop her, but his voice follows her into the narrow aisle of the history section. "Flex period isn't over for twenty minutes, Melissa."

She doesn't look back. She hurries down the aisle, her sneakers squeaking softly on the carpet, and practically flies down the spiral staircase. As she hits the ground floor of the library, the sudden shift in space allows her to take a ragged, desperate breath. She pushes through the heavy oak doors, escaping the quiet sanctuary and disappearing back into the safety of the crowded, noisy corridor, leaving the king alone in his quiet.

Jeremy remains in the dim alcove, the sharp screech of her chair still echoing in his ears. He lets out a slow, heavy breath through his teeth, the tension in his shoulders finally dropping as the forced academic mask slips from his face.

"Dammit," he mutters to the empty alcove, running a heavy hand through his dark hair.

He looks down at the table. In her absolute panic, she left behind a small, blue plastic cap from her ballpoint pen, rolling lazily against the grain of the dark wood. He picks it up, turning the cheap plastic over in his large hand. He didn't mean to break her. He just wanted a sliver of something real in a school built on porcelain smiles and corporate lies.

He slowly gathers his own papers, shoving them into his leather bag with a rare, heavy sigh. But as he stares into the space, he realises he has already become the monster she is running from.