Chapter 39 The Glass Ceiling
The ride back to the Vance Academy is silent. The air inside the car feels heavy, as if the reality of what we just did is a physical weight pressing down on our shoulders. I am clutching the shipyard logs against my chest, my fingers numb.
Beside me, Caspian is staring out the window. His jaw is tight, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He is no longer the Golden Boy. He is a defector.
"He will not let it go, Cas," I say, my voice cracking the silence. "The Gala is in forty-eight hours. My ankle is held together by hope and athletic tape. I cannot give him a masterpiece. I can barely give him a walk."
Caspian turns to me, his eyes dark with a mix of exhaustion and something I cannot quite name. "You will not have to do it alone. I told you, Zora. I am done being his shadow. If he wants a masterpiece, we will give him something he has never seen. Not the Academy's version. Yours."
"Jax," I call out to the front seat. "Take us to the back entrance. I do not want to walk through the foyer."
"You got it, Z," Jax says, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "But be careful. The sharks are going to smell the blood on you the second you step back inside."
The Academy at 3:00 AM is a ghost town. We slip through the service entrance, moving like thieves in a house Caspian used to own. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like an alarm.
We reach the locker room area, and I stop, leaning against the cold tile wall. My leg is throbbing so hard I can feel my pulse in my toes.
"You need to ice that," Caspian says, reaching for my bag. "And you need to sleep."
"I cannot sleep," I snap, the trauma of the night bubbling up. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the gurney. I see the look on Arthur's face. He is not finished with us, Caspian. He is just resetting the board."
"Then we reset it first," a voice says from the shadows.
I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. Sloane Miller is sitting on a bench in the dark, her face half-hidden by her hair. She looks small, stripped of the silk and the arrogance.
"What are you doing here, Sloane?" Caspian asks, stepping in front of me.
"Waiting for the fallout," she says, standing up slowly. She walks into the dim light of the hallway. "My father is already on the phone with the Board. He is telling them that Zora is a liability. That she is bringing criminal elements into the Academy."
"And what are you telling them?" I ask, clutching the logs.
Sloane looks at me, then at the satchel. "I am telling them nothing. Because if I speak, my father will do to me what your father did to you. He will make me disappear."
"So you are just going to let him destroy her?" Caspian's voice is a low growl.
"I am telling you to watch your back," Sloane whispers, her eyes darting to the security cameras. "There are girls in the senior wing who would do anything for a scholarship. Anything. They do not care about the truth. They care about the spot Zora is standing on."
"Like who?" I demand.
"Everyone," Sloane says. "But watch out for Mira. She has been Sterling's pet since freshman year. She is the one they are prepping to take your place if you fail the Gala."
Sloane turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing down the hall. I look at Caspian, the cold realisation sinking in. This is not just about Arthur anymore. The entire system is designed to chew me up and spit me out.
"I am taking you to your room," Caspian says, his hand finding the small of my back. "No more talking. No more plans. Just ice and sleep."
We reach my basement dorm door. He lingers for a second, his hand resting on the heavy wood.
"Zora," he says softly. "About what I said in the car. About not being his son anymore."
"You do not have to explain, Caspian."
"I want to. For years, I thought the only way to protect myself was to be perfect. To follow every rule he set. But seeing you tonight, seeing how you fought for Lumi even when you had nothing." He pauses, his gaze searching mine. "It made me realise that I have been the one scrubbing the floors of my own life. I was just doing it with a Thorne name."
I reach out, my fingers brushing the lapel of his ruined suit. "We are both debt collectors now, Cas. We just have different souls to buy back."
He leans in, and for a second, the world is quiet. He kisses my forehead, a soft, lingering touch that feels like a benediction. "Forty-eight hours, Zora. We make him regret he ever let us onto that stage."
I wake up four hours later to a sound I did not expect.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It is coming from the other side of my door. I sit up, my ankle screaming at the movement. I limp to the door and pull it open.
My breath hitches.
Someone has spray-painted my door in jagged, ugly red letters.
JANITOR.
And below it, pinned to the wood with a sewing needle, is a photograph of Lumi in her hospital bed. Her face has been crossed out with a black marker.
I feel the bile rise in my throat. The trauma is not just in the past. It is here, in the hallway, breathing down my neck.
I look up and see Mira standing at the end of the corridor. She is holding a cup of tea, looking perfectly composed in her rehearsal gear. She gives me a small, tight smile, the kind of smile a predator gives its prey.
"Good morning, Zora," she says sweetly. "I heard the midterm scores were controversial. Such a shame about your sister. I hope the surgery goes well. If there is even a surgery left to have."
"Did you do this?" I hiss, gesturing to the door.
"Me? I am a lead, Zora. I do not play with spray paint," Mira says, taking a sip of her tea. "But the Academy has a way of weeding out the things that do not belong. You should check your locker. I think someone left you a good luck gift for the Gala."
She turns and glides away, the picture of inherited grace.
I do not go to my locker. I go to the sink in the communal bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I look at my reflection, the dark circles, the pale skin, the girl who learned to pirouette on cracked concrete.
I am not a ward. I am not a janitor.
I am the fire that the gold could not break.
I grab a rag and a bottle of bleach. I start scrubbing the red paint off my door, my movements rhythmic and fierce.
"You want a masterpiece, Arthur?" I whisper to the empty hallway. "I will give you a masterpiece. I will give you a symphony of your own sins.”