Chapter 158 The Invitation

Chapter 158 The Invitation
The worst part about being humiliated at Fletcher was how quietly everyone enjoyed it.

No one laughed in my face. They did the Fletcher version.

Glances at my shoes. Whispers behind careful hands. Phones tilted just enough for me to catch the blue of my dress on their screens.

That caption followed me everywhere.

Trying so hard to look like she belongs.

The words pressed into my chest as I crossed the west gallery with Krizzy, the dress bag hooked over my arm like proof I had been careless enough to want something pretty.

“I swear I deleted it,” she said for the fourth time.

“I know.”

“I mean, immediately.”

“I know.”

“And the committee chat should have privacy rules.”

I looked at her.

She winced. “Terrible argument. I hear it now.”

Near the grand staircase, the Founder’s Ball confirmation desk sat beneath a black-and-gold banner. Embossed envelopes were arranged by year level.

Two senior committee members smiled like they were guarding access to royalty instead of a school event with dancing and emotional damage. Students clustered around it in glittering panic.

“Are entrances paired or individual?”

“My mother said no one from our family arrives without a proper escort.”

“Photo wall slots are assigned?”

“Farrah’s group already confirmed theirs.”

Every sentence sounded casual. None of it was. At Fletcher, even a dance had rankings. 

Krizzy noticed. “We can leave.”

For one second, I wanted to. I wanted the dorm. A locked door. Silence. A version of myself no one could photograph, caption, or judge.

Then two girls by the confirmation desk glanced at my bag and lowered their voices. Something inside me went still.

“No,” I said, quieter than I expected. “I’m not running because they know how to post.”

Krizzy looked at me. Then her mouth curved, small and proud.

“Good,” she said. “Because I was about to become embarrassing on your behalf.”

Before I could smile, one of the committee members looked up from the envelopes.

“Clara Smith?”

The gallery softened around me.

A few heads turned.

The committee member held up a cream envelope with my name printed in gold.

“Your Founder’s Ball confirmation,” she said. “Partner status is still pending.”

Apparently Fletcher had found a way to make even being single feel like paperwork.

I took the envelope. “Thank you.”

A boy near the registration station turned at my name. I recognized him from committee announcements—Matteo, senior class representative, the kind of boy who always looked ready for photographs even when no one was taking one.

“Clara Smith,” he said, like my name had become useful. “You’re helping with the literature showcase, right?”

“Sometimes.”

Krizzy made a small sound beside me that meant, careful.

Matteo smiled. “Modest. That’s rare here.”

A few students glanced over. My fingers tightened around the envelope.

“Is there something you need?” I asked.

His gaze flicked to the pending mark on the confirmation sheet.

“Actually, yes.” He shifted closer, just enough for the people around us to understand this was no longer just conversation. “I was wondering if your Ball entrance was already arranged.”

The air changed.

Krizzy’s smile vanished.

Maybe he was being genuine. Maybe he was kind. Or maybe asking me now, in front of the confirmation desk, while my name was already burning through ScholarNet, was a strategy.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said.

The truth. The worst kind.

Matteo tilted his head. “You’re not going with anyone yet, right?”

My throat closed. Because the answer should have been simple.

No, I did not have a confirmed partner. No, Isaac had not asked. No, whatever existed between us had stayed in hallways, gardens, study rooms, almosts, silences, and dangerous looks that meant everything until someone else was watching.

But saying no out loud felt like handing Fletcher proof that I had imagined more than I should have.

Krizzy stepped forward. “Matteo—”

“She is.”

The voice came from behind me.

Low. Calm. Certain.

The gallery went still before I even turned.

Isaac stood near the staircase, Franco a few steps behind him, watching like history was happening and everyone involved was embarrassing.

Isaac’s eyes were not on Matteo. They were on me.

My heart did the one thing I had specifically asked it not to do. Matteo straightened.

“Isaac.”

Isaac did not answer him. The quiet stretched, thin and electric. I turned holding the envelope against my chest like it could protect me from the entire academy.

“She is? With who?” I asked.

My voice was steadier than I felt. Isaac’s gaze stayed on mine. A few people stopped pretending not to listen.

Krizzy whispered, “Oh my gosh.”

Isaac stepped closer, slow enough for the whole gallery to understand he was choosing to be seen doing it. Then he stopped in front of me.

“With me,” he said.

My breath caught.

Then, quieter but still clear enough for the watching students to hear, he added,

“If she says yes.”

For one second, no one moved.

Isaac Fletcher had taken the most confusing thing in my life and placed it in the middle of the west gallery like it belonged there.

He had not said girlfriend. He had not named us. But for the first time, he chose me where everyone could see. My chest hurt in a way that felt dangerously close to hope.

“You could have asked me privately,” I said.

Isaac’s expression did not change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“I could have.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Isaac did not lower his voice.

“Because people keep acting like standing beside you is something I should hide.”

The words hit harder than any shout could have. A whisper broke near the staircase. Then another. I wanted to cry, which was humiliating. I also wanted to laugh, which was worse. My emotions were clearly unsupervised.

But Isaac was still watching me. Waiting.

Letting me decide. That was what undid me most.

I could step back. Let Fletcher believe the caption had worked.

Instead, I lifted my chin.

“Then ask properly.”

Krizzy made a tiny strangled sound. Isaac’s gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second, then returned to my eyes.

“Clara Smith,” he said, low and clear, “will you go to the Founder’s Ball with me?”

The whole gallery seemed to lean closer. My heart pounded so hard it felt public too.

“Yes,” I said.

The word was small. The damage was not.

Krizzy grabbed my wrist. “Oh, this is going to be everywhere in five minutes.”

Matteo stepped back with a polite smile that had lost all warmth. Across the gallery, near the banner, Farrah stood with her envelope in hand.

Watching. Then my phone buzzed.

Around us, screens lit one after another like tiny alarms. My stomach dropped before I even looked.

A new ScholarNet post sat at the top of the feed.

No photo this time.

Just one sentence.

The heir finally picked his charity case.

The gallery blurred at the edges.

Isaac saw my face change.

“Clara,” he said.

But I could already feel it happening. The yes had not ended anything.

It had made me official.

And at Fletcher, official things were easier to destroy.