The woman seated behind the broad desk, arms folded and fingers interlocked, gazed at me with an impassive expression and announced.
"From now on, you're the Vice President."
Huh? What?
The girl standing beside her smiled at me sweetly, the mole on her cheek standing out as she gave a dainty clap.
"Congratulations, Ryven!"
Elira, my senior, was wearing a French maid uniform for whatever unknown reasons. So when she leaned forward to pinch my cheeks playfully, my eyes, quite unconsciously, drifted to the soft swell of her chest.
Those mounds of flesh, that bodice cling to it like a second skin, outlining curves in a way that left little to the imagination…
Flustered, I took an instinctive step back, just out of her reach. But my senior didn't seem to take the hint and leaned in more.
I stepped back again, and she leaned in further, nearly sprawling across the desk. Just as I braced to retreat once more, her smile faltered.
She gave me an all-too-serious look and said. "Ryven, what are you doing?"
I tried to subtly gesture with my eyes, but it fell on deaf ears. As she didn't seem to understand the language of eyes. Or maybe she did…and chose to ignore it.
Either way, she beckoned me with a glare. Resigning myself to whatever fate awaited, I sighed and stepped forward. She not only pinched my cheek, but also patted my head with a smug little "Good boy."
Seriously? Does this woman take me for her pet? Her kid?
Meanwhile, the President was already back at work, completely unfazed by Elira's shameless shenanigans. She'd picked up a document from the desk and was now scribbling something across it with focused intensity.
I cleared my throat, trying to get her attention back at me. "Uhm"
No response.
Not even a glance.
She was completely absorbed in whatever she was writing, her pen moving in smooth, mechanical strokes like she'd already forgotten I existed.
"President?" I tried again, a little louder this time.
She finally looked up, one brow arching ever so slightly.
"Oh. You're still here?"
I gave her a dry look. "I never… left."
She tilted her head, then went, "Ah," and nodded to herself, like she'd just solved the mystery of why I was still standing there. "Sorry. My bad."
Then she straightened in her seat, silver hair cascading in smooth waves over her shoulders. Her pale gray eyes found mine, cool and unreadable.
She blinked and, with that same solemn grace of hers, she said,
"Congratulations."
Then, just like that, she looked back down and resumed scribbling, as if the matter was already settled and done.
That's it. Something snapped within me, and I stepped forward and slammed both hands onto the desk. Pens clattered to the floor. Papers flew. Elira jumped back, visibly startled.
"No! That's not what I was talking about!" I shouted.
But Serian didn't blink. Like a graceful swan, she calmly set the document down, unhurried, elegant, and then looked up at me.
Oh boy. I messed up.
She looked at me with her pale grey eyes. Those eyes were so full of indifference and coldness. It felt as if she wasn't seeing me as a fellow human but sizing me up as an obstacle to be dealt with.
I flinched under her stare. In the heat of the moment, I'd forgotten who I was dealing with.
This was bad. Really, really bad.
Even my senior looked flustered now; she was staring back and forth between us, shifting her weight from foot to foot, awkwardly fidgeting with her fingers.
She must've sensed I was in trouble; that's probably why she spoke up.
"Serina…"
Serina Caldrein, daughter of Duke Caldrein, Student Council President of Wisdom Academy, raised a single hand, halting Elira mid-sentence.
Serina narrowed her eyes and finally broke the silence. "Do you have a problem?"
Yes. Yes, I do. But do I want to say it out loud? Hell no!
Even the senior was shaking her head with eyes bulging out, a clear, desperate warning not to take the bait.
But here lay the problem: If I didn't speak up, I'd be stuck as Vice President. And, I'd be dragged headfirst into a political storm I had no business weathering.
The fragile peace I'd built over the last three months, after barely surviving that nightmare of a first month, would shatter like a sandcastle under a tidal wave.
So it came down to a choice: A long, slow descent into hell… Or the swift mercy of the executioner's blade.
I gulped. Straightened my spine. Forced the words out.
"N–No, it was just that it was kind of… out of the blue, so you know…"
Elira facepalmed, like I'd just chosen the worst possible option. But Serina stared at me. For a few long, agonizing beats, she said nothing, just watched, cool and inscrutable, as I slowly fidgeted under her judgmental gaze. Then she sighed and nodded. "Yeah. I suppose it was out of the blue."
Thank god, she understands. At the very least, I am out of trouble. Now I just had to somehow get the whole Vice President thing off my hands.
Shouldn't be too hard. I'd just have to explain that I wasn't really cut out for it, that I was the wrong person, that there'd obviously been a mistake. She seemed cold, sure, but if I make her believe I am incompetent for this job, which, for the record, I absolutely do. I could wriggle my way out.
"President," I began carefully, "about the Vice President thing…"
"You'll start tomorrow," she said, without looking up.
"…Huh?"
She flipped a page from the document she'd picked back up again, her pen already scratching out lines with clinical efficiency.
"You'll be given your keys, permissions, and all that tomorrow morning. You'll find your name on the official register by afternoon."
I blinked. "Wait. No, that's not…"
"You're excused."
I stood there, dumbfounded, mouth half-open and words choking somewhere in the back of my throat. I turned toward Senior, my angel, my savior, for help
But all she gave me was a bright smile and thumbs-up. All I could do was leave toward the door with an almost crying face, with the subtle bullying I had just been part of.
As I reached for the handle, the President's voice called out again.
"Ryven."
I turned around in a hurry to see if she had changed her judgment. But she was absorbed in her work same way as before, turning to another page with that same deliberate flick. She said.
"Clean the mess you made before leaving."
Her hand gestured lazily toward the scattered pens and half-fluttered documents on the floor, the aftermath of my dramatic desk slam.
Yeah. Of course, mistress. Anything else while I'm at it?