Page 26 of The Headmaster’s Rule

And that was it.

I’d stared at my plate, eyes stinging. I’d known from the start they wouldn’t be supportive—that’s why it took two years for me to admit the truth—but I hadn’t expected them to laugh.

When the conversation moved on to Tom’s latest case at work, I knew that was it. If I wanted this life, I’d have to build it without them.

So I did.

Now, I only speak to my family on holidays and birthdays. As much as I wish I had their support, getting distance from them was the right move.

Not only from them, but from the city. I watch Skye splash in the shallows chasing a fish, thinking about my first job at an inner-city elementary school in Brownsville, Brooklyn. It was unbearably tough, and when the burnout crept in after two years, I applied to Wetherly Prep on a whim. What a dream, I thought. To live by the beach. To teach smaller classes. To finally have access to resources. A chance to breathe. A chance to make a difference.

I hadn’t counted on the headmaster standing in my way at every turn. Hadn’t expected a frustratingly handsome, maddeningly aloof man who would look down at me with the same condescension my parents once did.

With a weary sigh, I call Skye over, turning back toward the house. I need a long bath, a good movie, and a glass of wine.

A meeting. He’s called me in for another meeting after school today. Well, Margaret called the meeting, but she wouldn’t have done so without his approval.

Part of me thinks, what’s the point? If every idea I have is going to be ignored, am I really contributing anything positive? I guess I can tell him I spoke with the local businesses over the weekend like he asked me to, because I was too nervous about my proposal to mention that yesterday. But given their reticence, that hardly seems like something that will make him happy.

The day drags on for hours. I waffle between telling him I can’t make it, leaving him to deal with the fundraiser on his own, and showing up anyway. It’s silly because I know I’m going to go. Regardless of how frustrated I am, how much I wish he’d let me contribute more, I know I’d never cancel a meeting with the headmaster. He’s my boss, for God’s sake.

But it’s nice to pretend, for a few moments at least, that I have the power to do so.

He’s not in the upstairs conference room when I arrive at four, so I sit and wait. After a few moments, Margaret pops her head in.

“Mr. Wright would like to see you in his office, please.”

I nod, smiling tightly, and follow her across the hall. I know what this means. He’s giving me privacy to tell me my proposal sucked, or he’s outright letting me go from the fundraiser.

The realization lands heavy in my chest as I enter the headmaster’s office. He’s at his desk, a huge, over-sized piece of wooden furniture, and I can’t stop my gaze from moving to the rest of the room. Leather chairs sit by a low table and a large unlit stone fireplace, books line heavy wooden shelves, and a brass telescope stands in front of the window. There’s a turntable on a sideboard with a stack of vinyl records, which takes me by surprise. He doesn’t strike me as the type to do anything other than work in here.

“Miss Hart,” he says, as Margaret closes the door behind me. He motions to the chairs across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

I perch on a wooden chair, back rigid with tension. It’s embarrassing, if I’m honest. To have another person tell me I’m not good enough—and my boss, no less. The person I’ve tried so hard to impress.

His eyes meet mine across the desk, lingering on my face. Deep blue, inquiring wordlessly, as unreadable as always. Handsome, as always.

“We’re moving forward with Safe Harbor,” he says at last.

I freeze. I must have misheard that.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“We’re going to use your proposal.” His voice is steady, a little softer than usual. I wait for him to continue, maybe add “However…” but nothing more comes. He simply looks at me patiently.

“Really?”

“Really. It’s good.”

My heart jumps, sending my pulse scattering. He said it’s good. He actually said it’s good.

“You’re serious?” I ask, breathless, still waiting for the catch.

But he doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh. Doesn’t get impatient. Instead, what appears to be a tiny smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.” He catches himself, looking down to loosen his tie briefly, then straighten it, tighter this time. When he glances up, his expression is all business again. “We’ll pitch it as a pilot for now, and I still have to get board approval, but yes. I’m backing it.”

He’s backing it. He’s backing me. No one’s ever done that before.