Chapter 5 I'm In The Shadows Now. I'm Safe.
The Bistro smells like garlic, butter, and something faintly sweet wine, maybe. It’s warm, golden, and alive in a way the rental house wasn’t. Conversations overlap in a low hum, silverware clinks against porcelain, and laughter rises in soft bursts from nearby tables.
Melissa lingers just inside the entrance, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her clutch.
“Table for three,” Liam says easily, stepping forward like he belongs here. Like this is his territory.
The hostess smiles, all polished charm. “Of course. Right this way.”
Maria follows, her hand brushing lightly against Melissa’s arm, a quiet, grounding gesture. Melissa moves with them, keeping her head slightly lowered, her shoulders curved inward. Practiced. Intentional.
The patrons are mostly blue-collar families and older couples—people who wouldn’t know an scandal from a West Coast fashion trend.
"Perfect," Maria whispers, slipping her hand into Liam's as the hostess leads them to a high-backed wooden booth in a dim corner.
Melissa slides in, pressing her back against the cool leather. She keeps her beanie on, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. When the waitress approaches, a woman named Sophie with a name-tag and a tired, kind smile, Melissa ducks her head.
"What’s the soup today?" Melissa asks.
"Tomato basil, honey," Sophie says, scribbling on her pad. "And it comes with a grilled cheese that'll make you forget all your troubles."
If only it were that easy, Melissa thinks, but she offers a small, hesitant nod. "Thank you."
Meanwhile, five miles away, the Court arrives at The Glass View, a starkly different world.
Located on the top floor of the city's newest skyscraper, the restaurant is a cage of chrome and floor-to-ceiling windows. Here, the air doesn't smell like woodsmoke; it smells like expensive perfume and ozone. The lighting is designed to be flattering, highlighting the designer labels and the sharp, hungry expressions of the city’s elite.
As Georgia, Jeremy, and the rest of the group walk in, the atmosphere shifts. Heads turn. Conversations dip. This is Georgia's natural habitat—a place where she is not just a student, but the Governor’s daughter.
"Table for twelve, Miss Walker," the maître says, bowing slightly. "The corner suite, as requested. The First Lady's assistant called ahead."
Georgia leads the way, her heels clicking like a metronome against the marble floor. She slides into the center seat, a throne of white leather, and pulls Jeremy down next to her.
"See?" Georgia says, opening a leather-bound menu without looking at it. "Isn't this better than some dusty bistro? You can see the whole city from here."
Jeremy looks out the window, his reflection staring back at him—hollow-eyed and weary. Below, the lights of Toledo look like a circuit board, cold and fixed.
"It's a long way down," Jeremy says quietly.
"Only if you fall," Tyler interjects, taking a seat directly across from them. He leans forward, his eyes locked on Georgia. "But some of us know how to keep our feet on the ground."
Scott rolls his eyes, trying to cut the tension. "Can we just order? I'm starving, and I heard the steak here costs more than my car insurance."
The conversation at the table turns to the upcoming winter formal, the basketball season, and the "mystery girl" Agatha mentioned. They laugh, they brag, and they perform. It is a loud, expensive, and aggressive display of power.
But as the Court dines on Wagyu and sparkling water, miles away in a dim wooden booth, Melissa Montenegro finishes her tomato soup in silence. She watches her parents laugh—really laugh—for the first time in weeks.
Back at the Bistro, the food arrives, and for a moment, the "Invisible Girl" mask slips.
Melissa pulls a piece of the buttery grilled cheese apart, watching the steam rise. The warmth of the booth and the familiar, low hum of her father’s voice discussing the new advertising market act like a physical balm. For the first time in days, the tightness in her chest, the feeling of being underwater loosens.
"The soup is good, Mel?" Maria asks, her eyes soft as she watches her daughter eat.
Melissa nods, a genuine, small smile touching her lips. "It's... it's perfect, Mom."
"See?" Liam says, leaning back and gesturing to the room with a fry. "Toledo isn't there, but it’s got heart. People here don't look through you; they look at you. In a good way."
Melissa freezes, her spoon halfway to her mouth. They look at you. That’s exactly what she’s afraid of. She quickly adjusts her glasses, the thick frames feeling like a lead weight.
Melissa looks into the dark reflection of the bistro window. She sees a girl in a beanie and oversized clothes, a girl who looks like she belongs in the library, not on a viral video. She takes a breath, the scent of tomato soup and old wood filling her lungs.
I'm in the shadows now. I'm safe.
Meanwhile at the high above the city, the atmosphere at the Court's table is anything but safe. It’s an arena.
Jeremy pushes a piece of rare steak around his plate, the metal screeching quietly against the expensive porcelain. Beside him, Georgia is mid-laugh, her hand resting on his forearm with a grip that feels more like a shackle than an embrace.
"And then," Georgia says, her voice projecting to the entire table, "my father told the Board that if they didn't increase the athletic budget, he’d personally oversee the next audit. You should have seen the Principal's face."
The table erupts in sycophantic laughter. Tyler, sitting directly across from Jeremy, doesn't laugh. He just stares at Jeremy, his eyes narrowed.
"Must be nice, Black," Tyler says, his voice cutting through the noise. "Having the Governor’s daughter fight your battles for you. I guess that’s how you keep the Captain’s jersey so clean."
The laughter at the table dies instantly. Scott stops with a fry halfway to his mouth, eyes darting between the two athletes.
Jeremy slowly looks up. He doesn't look angry; he looks bored. "If you want the jersey, Tyler, take it on the court. Or are you only brave when there’s a waiter around to protect you?"
Georgia’s eyes flash with a predatory delight. She loves the conflict; it proves her "property" is worth fighting over. She leans in, her lips brushing Jeremy’s ear. "Don't let him get to you, baby. He's just a substitute, remember?"
Jeremy pulls his arm away from her grip, standing up abruptly. The chair scrapes harshly against the marble. "I need some air."
"Jeremy, stay," Georgia commands, the "First Lady" tone bleeding into her voice. "The appetizers haven't even—"
"I said I need air, Georgia."
Jeremy walks away from the table, his reflection ghosting across the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looks out at the city—at the flickering lights of the lower-income neighborhoods, at the quiet streets where people are actually living lives that aren't scripted.
He has no idea that somewhere down there, in a dim booth at a local bistro, is the only person in Toledo who is about to make him feel alive again.
He leans his forehead against the cold glass. "Six more months," he whispers to the city. "Just six more months."
