"You don't get to pin that on me," Maya snapped. The words cut across the dining hall like a thrown plate. The room stopped mid-chew. Forks froze. A tray clattered. Dominic Langford smiled as if he'd won something obvious and small—like a coin from a magician's sleeve. He'd staged it perfectly. Center of the mezzanine, where everyone could see. Vanessa Cole in a dress that caught the light, hair exactly in place. Dominic's hand at the small of her back, the kind of practiced possessive his family paid to teach him. Then the kiss—long, public, exaggerated. A show kiss. A punishment. "See?" Dominic said when he pulled back. His voice was loud, theatrical. "Everything's fine." Laughter exploded. Someone whooped. Phones rose like a wave. Aubree's mouth formed an O. "Oh no." "Drop it," Maya said. Her voice was calm. Too calm, maybe. Calm that had teeth. "You're making a circus." Vanessa smirked, the precise, calculated smirk that had made more than one promising internship evaporate. "I didn't stage anything," she called, syrupy. "Dominic—" Dominic didn't answer. He gave Maya a look: the kind that said she was unstable, dramatic, the kind of girl who loved scenes. He'd built the narrative hours ago. He'd practiced the line about how Maya couldn't handle pressure and how he—Dominic—was the sensible one, the rock, the smiling martyr. Around them, the crowd split into commentary. "Drama queen