Chapter 73 ~ Make It Public

Chapter 73 ~ Make It Public
{Leonard’s POV}
I chose a seat where no one would mistake my presence for importance.
Haus Eleven’s main hall was nearly full by the time I arrived. The anniversary program had drawn back alumni who had not set foot here in years— people whose names still carried weight in certain rooms, people who liked to be seen remembering where they came from. There were clusters of conversation, low laughter, the soft confidence of those who still believed the past belonged to them.
I didn’t join any of it.
I sat alone, several rows back, close enough to see the stage clearly and far enough that no one felt compelled to acknowledge me. That distance had become familiar. I wore it well now.
From where I sat, I could see Noelle.
She was positioned exactly where the institution wanted her— near the front, angled just slightly toward the aisle, visible without needing to assert herself. People noticed her the way they noticed gravity. No introduction was required. Heads turned when she shifted and conversations lowered when she crossed her legs. Even those who didn’t know her name felt the pull of her presence.
I watched the room orient around her.
That was when it hit me; not sharply and not all at once, but steadily, like pressure building in the chest.
She had outgrown this place.
Not just the school, but the version of us that had existed here. The careless laughter. The borrowed confidence. The night we had all treated cruelty like entertainment because we didn’t know what it cost yet.
I did.
Now I did.
The speakers rotated on stage, each one offering polished reflections on legacy and growth. Words like foundation and vision drifted across the hall, clean and rehearsed. Applause followed on cue. I clapped when it made sense to do so, and stopped when it didn’t.
My hands felt heavy.
Every few minutes, someone I recognized glanced in my direction. Some hesitated, as if considering whether to come over. Most didn’t. I was no longer a question they needed answered.
That should have felt like relief.
Instead, it felt like a deadline.
I thought of the night at the atelier— the rain, the heat of it, the mistake we both pretended hadn’t happened afterward. I had buried that memory carefully, told myself it didn’t matter because it hadn’t been named.
Sitting here, watching Noelle now, I understood how wrong that had been.
And silence didn’t erase anything. It just delayed the reckoning.
Noelle leaned forward slightly as one of the speakers concluded. The movement was small, unconscious, but it drew my eye immediately. Julian was seated beside her, close enough to suggest intimacy. But not touching.
Seeing him, I felt something tighten in my jaw.
It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was the recognition that he was allowed proximity I had forfeited long ago. That he stood there without the weight I carried, without the history that bent my spine inward. All that still affect me. 
I had done this to myself.
The applause rose again, louder this time. A moderator stepped up to introduce the next segment, his tone expectant. I barely heard him. 
My attention had turned inward, spiraling toward a decision I had been circling for weeks.
I could leave.
That was the safer option. Slip out during the applause and let the night continue without me. Let Noelle speak later, let the cameras roll, let history solidify without my interference.
That would have been neat. Clean.
Cowardly.
I thought of the dare then; the laughter. The way I had stood there, complicit and careless, enjoying attention I hadn’t earned. I had performed cruelty publicly, had allowed the room to reward it.
If the harm had been public, then the apology could not be private. Reasonably, the apology should be public also for it to sufficiently fix the damage. 
My pulse slowed as the thought settled.
This wasn’t about winning her back. That door had closed, and I respected it now. And this wasn’t just about forgiveness. I didn’t get to demand that.
This was about speaking because silence had become another lie.
I leaned forward now, resting my elbows on my knees, and stared at the stage. The lights were bright enough to blur the edges of the room. I imagined myself walking up there, imagined the hush that would fall, the surprise curdling into discomfort among the audience.
I imagined the cameras.
The headlines would be brutal. Disgraced Designer disrupts Anniversary. Former Haus Eleven Star Attempts Redemption. 
People would speculate about motives. They always did.
I accepted that.
I looked at Noelle again, careful this time and brief. She hadn’t noticed me. Or if she had, she hadn’t reacted. Her attention was fixed on the stage, her posture composed, her expression unreadable.
She didn’t need this from me.
That was the hardest part.
Apologies are often easier when they’re wanted. When they serve as bridges. This one would do no such thing. It would land and stand on its own, unwanted but necessary.
I straightened in my seat.
My decision clicked into place with surprising calm.
When the moderator paused for questions— when the room shifted just enough to allow interruption, I would stand. I would ask for the microphone. And I would say what needed to be said, plainly, without performance.
I imagined the weight of the microphone now before going to touch it. 
The lights would be hot. The room would turn on me all at once. I would feel the old instinct— to perform and to control the narrative, rise in my throat. I knew that instinct well. It had betrayed me once already so now, I needed to act fast and not let the impulse of it control me. 
But I remained seated now. 
This wasn’t the moment. Not yet.
An apology spoken too early becomes another form of cowardice. A confession made for relief instead of responsibility is still selfish. If I was going to speak, it had to be when there was no escape left— no applause to hide behind, no graceful exit.
I turned my gaze to Noelle once again. She hadn’t looked back. Not once.
Nonetheless, that was a gesture I didn’t deserve and a boundary I respected.
My hands curled slowly into fists against my knees now, grounding myself in my decision. I would not interrupt her night. I would not force my remorse into her victory. I would wait until the moment cost me something real.
Soon.
And so, when I stood next, it wouldn’t be to ask for attention.
It would be to surrender it.
I sat back as the applause rose again, my resolve settling where fear used to live.
After tonight, things would change. I was certain of my decision and I could felt it