Chapter 163 Not Temporary
Chapter 163 Not Temporary
The Founder’s Ball did not arrive like an event. It arrived like a warning dressed in satin.
One day, Fletcher Academy was still pretending to be a school. The next, every corridor looked like it had been quietly surrendered to silk garment bags, gold-edged invitations, and students speaking in low, serious voices about things no normal seventeen-year-old should have to discuss before calculus.
Portrait timing.
Family entrances.
Legacy seating.
The emotional hazards of bad lighting.
I paused outside the Assembly Hall, where a new cream-colored schedule had been pinned beneath the glass notice board. Students kept stopping in front of it like it held exam results, execution times, or both.
Across the top, in elegant black lettering, it read:
FOUNDER’S BALL — FINAL ARRIVAL AND FORMAL PORTRAIT SEQUENCE
Of course there was a sequence.
Krizzy appeared beside me with two pins between her teeth and a strip of pale blue ribbon looped around her wrist. She looked like she had survived a craft store explosion with dignity.
“Don’t stare too long,” she said, taking the pins from her mouth. “It starts staring back.”
“I’m trying to understand why a dance needs a portrait sequence.”
“Because rich people don’t take pictures,” she said. “They document bloodlines.”
“That is horrifyingly poetic.”
“Thank you. I’ve been under emotional strain.”
A group of girls swept past us carrying garment boxes with gold labels. One of them spoke into her phone without lowering her voice.
“No, family portraits are before the first waltz. Couple photos are after the receiving line. If we miss that lighting, my mother will actually haunt the photographer.”
I stared after her.
Receiving line.
First waltz.
Family portraits.
The words sounded harmless until they stood beside each other and became a wall. My name was not on the portrait sheet. Obviously. It shouldn’t have mattered.
I was not a Fletcher. Not a legacy. Not someone whose face belonged in framed photographs beside donors, governors, and families who treated school events like soft launches for future marriages.
Still, my eyes found Isaac’s name before I could stop them.
ISAAC FLETCHER — FAMILY FORMAL / LEGACY HOUSE PORTRAIT / OPENING WALTZ HOLD
Something inside me went very still. Yesterday, he had said beside me. Now Fletcher Academy had handed out a schedule reminding me that beside him was not just a place.
It was a position.
“Opening waltz hold?” I asked.
Krizzy leaned closer to the schedule and made a face. “That sounds like something invented by people who think feelings need choreography.”
“Does it mean he has to dance with someone specific?”
“It means,” she said carefully, “there are traditional moments.”
I looked at her. She looked at the ribbon on her wrist like it had suddenly become fascinating.
“Krizzy.”
“What?”
“You did the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The voice people use before saying something that will ruin my day.”
She sighed. “Some families have expectations during formal events. Not rules exactly. More like… old habits wearing expensive shoes.”
Before I could ask what that meant, laughter floated from the other side of the corridor. Farrah stood near the side entrance to the Assembly Hall with three girls from the Ball committee.
One girl held a clipboard. Another balanced a box of silver place cards against her hip. Farrah held nothing at all. Some people did not need props to look in charge.
“I just think the photographer should be informed beforehand,” one of the girls said, scanning the clipboard. “Otherwise it gets messy.”
Another girl tilted her head. “Not messy. Awkward.”
My stomach tightened before I knew why. Farrah glanced at the portrait schedule, then at the clipboard, her expression smooth enough to pass as innocent if you had never been cut by a smile.
The girl with the place cards lowered her voice, but not enough.
“Some pairings just make more sense for photos.”
The words slid into the corridor and stayed there.
Krizzy’s posture changed beside me. “Oh, absolutely not.”
I caught her wrist before she could move. “Don’t.”
Her eyes flashed. “Clara.”
“Please.”
I hated how small the word sounded, but I hated the thought of becoming entertainment more.
Farrah did not look directly at me. She only adjusted the pearl bracelet on her wrist, calm and delicate, like she had not heard anything at all.
The girl with the clipboard smiled. “Especially with families involved.”
Krizzy’s hand curled into a fist. Mine stayed wrapped around her wrist. That was my decision. Not because I agreed.
Because I refused to let Farrah turn my fear into a hallway performance before the Ball had even begun. Still, as I stood there pretending not to bleed from one sentence, I understood the warning perfectly.
Isaac might have said beside me.
But his world had been saving that place for someone else.
I found the side corridor behind the Assembly Hall because apparently my body had developed a survival instinct my brain refused to respect.
It was quieter there, but not peaceful. Nothing about Fletcher felt peaceful when tomorrow night was stacked in boxes around me—cream programs, folded ribbons, name cards arranged by family, and a half-finished seating chart that looked less like organization and more like evidence.
I pressed my back lightly against the wall and tried to breathe.
“Clara.”
My eyes closed for half a second. When I looked up, Isaac stood at the end of the corridor.
“You disappeared,” he said.
“I relocated.”
His gaze moved over my face. “From what?”
I laughed once, but it came out thin. “Maybe Farrah is right.”
Isaac’s jaw tightened. “She usually isn’t.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
The fact that he didn’t pretend made it worse. Easier. I didn’t know anymore. I looked toward the open doors of the Assembly Hall, where crystal lights were being tested above the polished floor.
“She belongs in that room.”
“So will you.”
“Don’t say that like wanting me there makes it true.”
Isaac stepped closer. Just close enough that the noise from the hall faded behind him.
“You’re not temporary to me,” he said.
My breath caught. The words were quiet, but they landed like something breaking open.
“What does that mean?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “It means if they try to make tonight about where you belong, I already know my answer.”
My fingers curled against my skirt. “And what is that?”
“Beside me,” he said. “If you still want to be.”
Not temporary. Two words, and suddenly every almost between us felt less like a mistake and more like a beginning waiting for courage.
I should have asked what we were. I should have demanded something clear enough to survive a room full of people waiting to misunderstand us.
Instead, I chose the answer I could carry into tomorrow.
“I still want to be.”
Something softened in his face before he controlled it. Then, beyond his shoulder, movement shifted near the hall doors.
Farrah stood there, one hand resting on the frame, her expression calm enough to be dangerous. Tomorrow night, everyone would be watching.
And Isaac had already chosen where he wanted me to stand.
The problem was, Farrah had heard enough to know it too.