บททั้งหมดของ I was more than pretty: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

I said goodbye to Mom at the door.She kissed my cheek, her hand lingering on my shoulder like she was memorizing me.“You’ve got this,” she said softly. Her eyes shone with pride and worry all at once, the way only a mother’s could.I nodded. Didn’t tell her I’d already lived this day. Just smiled, adjusted the strap of my bag, and walked to the car.The drive felt short, though my mind replayed flashes of what I knew would come — the way the campus would smell faintly of coffee and new books, the way strangers would look at me and then look away.When I arrived at Parsons, the sun was high, casting gold across the glass-and-steel building. The morning air carried the faint bite of late summer, crisp enough to make me pull my blazer a little tighter.Students milled around the courtyard, clutching folders, laughing nervously, adjusting their outfits like they were preparing for battle. Some stood in small groups, already bonding over shared excitement, while others lingered at the ed

I didn’t look up when the whispers changed.They didn’t say “Look, it’s Evelyn Morgan” anymore.Now it was:“Is that him?”“Julian Vale?”“The director of Parsons”“Oh my God, what’s he doing here?”“He is so handsome ““Any woman with him is indeed happy”I knew before I saw him.The air shifted.The laughter softened.Girls straightened their backs, tucked their hair, suddenly aware of their hands, their lips, their posture.I kept eating.A simple salad.No dressing.Just greens, tomatoes, a slice of lemon on the side.I didn’t need to impress anyone.Not him.Not them.Not even myself.Because I wasn’t the girl he remembered.The one who used to light up when his name popped up on her phone.The one who canceled plans with Mom just to meet him for coffee.The one who said, “Of course, Julian,” before he even asked.That girl was gone.Now?I let his calls go to voicemail.Replied to his messages hours later — short, polite, empty.“Busy. Talk later.”“In class. Can’t talk.”“Okay.

I needed air.Not outside.Not in the courtyard.Just space.Silence.Four walls that didn’t remember me.I slipped into the women’s restroom at the end of the hall.Locked myself in a stall.Pressed my back against the cool metal.Closed my eyes.Breathed.In.Out.Again.Mrs. Vale’s face still flickered behind my eyelids.The sound of her heels.The coldness in her voice.The way she looked at me — like I was something stuck to her shoe.I remembered the burn.The oil.The way I’d cried in the bathroom that night, wrapping my hand in gauze, too afraid to go to the hospital.“They’ll ask questions,” Julian had said. “Just let it heal.”Like I was supposed to heal everything.A knock on the stall door.I froze.“Evelyn?”Serena’s voice.Sweet.Light.Like she hadn’t just watched me panic from across the courtyard.“You in there?”I didn’t answer.But then I heard the sink turn on.The splash of water.The soft hum of that same jazz song Mom used to play.She wasn’t leaving.So I flush

The orientation ended in quiet efficiency.No nervous laughter.Just a final briefing in the glass-walled conference room, a round of polite applause, and the slow dispersal of new hires toward the elevators.Suits. Tote bags. Designer flats clicking against marble floors.Phones already lighting up with internal emails: Welcome to Parsons. Your access badge will be ready on Monday at 9 AM.3 days time from now, Monday was the first official day.No more introductions.No more icebreakers.Just work.The senior staff had already returned to their floors — heads down, earbuds in, moving with the rhythm of people who knew their power.Some glanced at us — the new ones — with mild curiosity.Most didn’t look at all.At Parsons, you earned the right to be seen.I adjusted the strap of my structured tote — black leather, no logo — and started toward the exit.My sketchbook was inside.My new employee packet.A pen with the Parsons insignia.Small things.But they felt like armor.I didn’t

I didn’t rush.I didn’t pace.I didn’t check my phone every thirty seconds.I sat by the window in my room, a glass of water in hand, watching the city lights blink on one by one.Tonight was coming.And I was ready.Not because I’d bought new clothes.Not because I’d changed my hair.But because I’d changed my mind.In the old life, I walked into that restaurant afraid.I wore a simple dress like a shield.I smiled too much.I laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny.I made myself small — hoping, praying, that if I didn’t stand out, they wouldn’t tear me down.But they did anyway.And now?Now I wasn’t afraid.I was patient.Like a lion crouched behind tall grass, watching the herd move, waiting for the moment to step into the light.Because I knew what Serena was doing.She had invited sixteen of her closest colleagues — all senior designers, all connected, all women who wore judgment like perfume.Not for celebration.Not for friendship.For execution.She would stand, raise her glass