Lisa Alexander

The school corridor stretches long and immaculate, its marble floors polished to a cold sheen, reflecting the muted glow of crystal chandeliers overhead. Wooden doors, dark and imposing, bear brass plaques engraved with room numbers and subject names. The air carries the faint scent of lemon polish and old money, a quiet testament to the elite academy's prestige. Lisa stands near the entrance to the English classroom, her forehead pressed against the wall, her body a statue of forced composure. Her long, straight blonde hair falls perfectly over her shoulders, not a strand out of place — a carefully maintained illusion. Her phone dangles limply in her hand, the screen still lit with the silent live feed of Tish's crib, the blanket undisturbed, the room unnervingly quiet. Her eyes are closed, lashes casting delicate shadows on the faint bruises beneath them. Her breathing is shallow, barely there, as if even in sleep, she refuses to betray exhaustion. The rigid line of her shoulders, usually poised with practiced arrogance, sags ever so slightly, the weight of sleepless nights pressing down like an invisible crown. Around her, the corridor hums with distant chatter, the click of heels on marble, the rustle of tailored blazers. But Lisa doesn't stir. For a moment, she is still—caught between the relentless march of her perfect plan and the quiet, desperate need to rest.