Page 8 of Lethal in Pink

Lastly, SPF.

The holy grail. Fifty-plus, broad spectrum (because melanoma is real and also deeply un-cute).

The clock reads 6:25. Right on schedule.

I step back from the mirror and take stock. Skin: doing its job. Eyes: tired but not visibly tragic. Conclusion: good enough for me.

My closet presents itself in its usual gradient of devotion—bubblegum pink through blush through nude, each garment is arranged by category, then by color, then by frequency of use. The system is not complicated unless you’re the kind of person who thinks alphabetizing spices is “extra,” in which case, we could not be friends and I’m fine with that.

I reach for the bubblegum-pink blazer. It lives in the middle section, third hanger from the left, between a lighter blush number that I wear to professor office hours and a deeper magenta that I save for days when I need the equivalent of armor. The fabric is a dream. Structured at the shoulders, nipped at the waist, and quite perfect in the literal sense. I probably paid way more than I should have for it, but to be honest, I don’t regret a single penny.

The white bodycon dress comes next. Its stretchy, forgiving, and the kind of thing that looks effortless because the effort happened at the point of purchase, when I tried on fourteen identical versions of the same dress until I found the one that didn’t make my hip dips look like topographic maps of sadness.

Nude heels. Closed toe, three inches, manageable for a day that includes walking across campus.

I step into the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and do a little turn. My hair, still damp from the shower, falls in soft waves around my shoulders. The blazer cuts a clean line from shoulder to waist. The dress hits mid-thigh. The heels add exactly the right amount of lift.

The fit does not miss. It does not stumble. It does not leave so much as a single crumb on the floor.

I allow myself exactly three seconds of satisfaction before the clock in the hallway chimes 6:40 and I’m back in motion.

Binder. Tote bag, pink canvas with leather handles that match nothing but make me happy. Keys, already in my hand because I set them on the counter last night in the exact spot where my palm would find them this morning. Wallet, phone, lip gloss—a quick swipe, sheer pink, the kind that tastes like sugar and promises nothing.

I am out the door at 6:46.

Four minutes to spare.

Two minutes fewer than I prefer.

My jaw sets firmly, the muscles twitching with annoyance. It’s not exactly a catastrophic failure, but it's a deviation. And deviations become patterns, patterns become habits, and habits become the difference between a perfect morning and a morning where you’re sprinting across campus with coffee sloshing down your wrist.

I will not be making this mistake again.

The elevator descends with the smooth, expensive silence of a building that knows what it costs to live here. The lobby is marble and muted light, the morning concierge already at his post with a cup of coffee that smells better than mine and a smile that suggests he either loves his job or is very good at pretending.

“Good morning, Ms. Lane.”

“Morning,” I say, and my voice is already shifting, warming by half a degree, the edges sanded down into something approachable and bright.

The transformation is automatic.

By the time I push through the glass doors into the morning air, The Obsidian’s valet is already pulling my car around. I slide behind the wheel, set my tote on the passenger seat, and pull out of the circular drive.

Twenty minutes later, the campus appears at the end of the street, a sprawling neo-gothic masterpiece of dark stone and ambition. What few students actually showed up for the last day, stream across the quad in clusters and solo missions, backpacks slung, coffee cups clutched, the collective energy of people who are either very awake or very good at faking it.

I’m thinking the latter.

I slide into an open space, cut the engine, and snatch my tote from the passenger seat. My heels click a sharp, rhythm against the asphalt as I cross the lot toward campus. Ahead of me, a student drifts to a near-stop, thumbs moving across their phone screen, completely unbothered by the concept of forward momentum. I step around them without breaking stride. There is no way in hell I’m going to be late for class just because some people can’t achieve a multitasking flow state.

I know what you’re thinking.

Why even go to class at all on the last day of the school semester?

That answer is quite simple.

Because I paid an obscenely large amount of money that could reasonably be classified as extortion for this education and because I am unfortunately, an unwell girly obsessed with perfection and control.

Sue me.