Page 17 of The Headmaster’s Rule

“Nora.” Juliana lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “Eleanor. Eleanor Hart.”

My ears perk up at Eleanor’s name from my daughter’s lips. “What do you mean?”

“She said she had a bunch of ideas for the fundraiser, and you shot down every one.”

As usual, my mind goes to the worst place. “She’s been gossiping about me?”

My daughter heaves an exasperated breath. “No. We’ve become friends. She’s really nice, actually. Anyway, she didn’t realize we’re related, and when I asked her how the meeting went, she was honest. Very honest,” Juliana adds with a snicker.

For some reason, Eleanor becoming close with my daughter makes me uncomfortable, but I quickly dismiss the irrational notion.

“Why won’t you give her a chance?” Juliana presses.

I exhale heavily. “You know how difficult things are after last year.”

“I do,” she admits. “But she’s smart. She showed me her binder. I find it hard to believe you couldn’t find a single good idea in there.”

My gaze strays across the room again, colliding with Eleanor’s. She’s finished with Paige, gathering her notebook and phone from the table, but glances away when our eyes meet. I look away too.

“Her ideas weren’t bad, they just weren’t—”

“Perfect?” Juliana finishes dryly. She glances around to make sure we’re out of earshot of anyone, then leans closer. “Dad, what happened last year was terrible, but you can’t change it now. You need to lighten up, for everyone’s sake. And who knows, Nora might make the fundraiser so amazing people forget what happened before.”

I give her a grim smile. That doesn’t seem likely, but I know her heart is in the right place, and squeeze her arm.

“Thanks, Bug. Have a good day.”

The bell rings, and she disappears out the door for class. I take my coffee and exit the conference room, drifting toward the stairs without really thinking. Her words echo in my head. Why won’t you give her a chance? It’s not lost on me that she and Marlene are saying the same thing, and even though it goes against my better judgment, I decide I won’t cancel this afternoon.

I reach the first floor and keep walking, vaguely aware that my feet know where to go. It’s not until I’m peeking through the narrow window of her classroom that I realize what I’ve done.

Eleanor’s sitting on the floor in a circle with her students, desks pushed back to the wall, laughing as she leads some kind of group activity I don’t recognize. The kids are into it, all bright-eyed and engaged. She glances up, and I duck out of sight, heart thumping.

What the hell am I doing here?

I turn on my heel and head back along the corridor, coffee in hand, trying to collect myself. As I climb the stairs, I slow, my gaze wandering to the row of framed portraits of former headmasters, stretching back decades. My father’s face stares out at me, solemn and certain. He ran this school for thirty years. This place was his life. His legacy.

And I can’t let him down.

Eleanor is prompt, appearing in the conference room at 4 o’clock sharp, and I don’t waste any time getting straight to business. Last time we bickered about causes and got nowhere. Tonight, we need to stay focused on the event itself.

“We need to decide on a theme and think about the layout for the event,” I say crisply, sliding on my glasses without hesitation and fixing my gaze on my laptop. Soft, caramel-colored wisps of Eleanor’s hair have come loose from her rainbow barrette, framing her face, and it’s frustratingly distracting.

Because it’s unprofessional, I tell myself.

“We’ll need to finalize the guest list, assign volunteers for setup and cleanup, and confirm catering options. Donors need to be secured, and marketing materials have to go out, too.” I keep my voice steady, focusing on the tasks at hand, deliberately avoiding the cause itself. There’s time for that later. For now, it’s all about the details we can control.

She nods, scribbling in her notebook. Today, she’s quieter, less bubbly, less… challenging. Part of me appreciates the calm, but another part misses the spark of our last meeting, the back-and-forth that pushed me to think.

Her gaze lifts to mine, quiet and expectant. The hazel in her eyes looks greener than usual, something unreadable flickering beneath, and before I realize it, I’m leaning forward.

“Is everything okay, Miss Hart?”

She tugs her bottom lip into her mouth, hesitating, then nods.

I’m not convinced.

“Is there something you’d like to say?”