Chapter 39: 38.

I was finally back at work.I thought Ashantii would stop me but she didn't she just smiled and kissed me.

The hallways of the school were buzzing with the usual morning energy. Students darted from class to class, their laughter and chatter echoing off the walls. Teachers greeted me with warm smiles, nodding in respect as I passed.

This was my world—the place where I was Principal Campbell, a figure of authority and admiration. But today, it felt foreign, like I didn’t belong here anymore.

I adjusted my blazer, hoping it concealed the unease I carried like a second skin. The compliments started almost immediately, flowing from every corner like a tide I couldn’t stop.

“Mrs. Campbell, you’re glowing today!” Mrs. Jacobs, the history teacher, beamed as she held a stack of papers.

“You and Ashantii are relationship goals,” chimed in Mr. Daniels, the music teacher. “She’s always talking about how much she adores you. You’re so lucky to have someone who takes care of you like that.”

Lucky.

The word hit me like a slap, and I forced a smile, nodding in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” I murmured, brushing past them.

Each compliment felt like a weight, dragging me deeper into my thoughts. How could they admire something so broken? They didn’t know the truth—the drugs, the lies, the baby growing inside me without my consent.

But how could I tell them? Who would believe me? Ashantii, with her charm and devotion, had woven a narrative so perfect that even I sometimes questioned the cracks.

The bell rang, signaling the start of first period, and I retreated to my office, closing the door behind me. I leaned against it, exhaling a shaky breath.

“What will they think of me?” I whispered, staring at the stack of papers on my desk.

Would they pity me? Blame me? Tell me I should be grateful to have someone who loves me so deeply?

I sat down and buried my face in my hands. The memory of Ashantii’s tearful apology replayed in my mind. She’d seemed so genuine, so regretful, and for a moment, I’d believed her.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this *was* love.

The knock on my door startled me. I quickly wiped my face and straightened up.

“Come in,” I called, forcing my voice to steady.

It was Mrs. Jacobs again, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea. “Thought you might need this,” she said kindly, setting it down on my desk. “You’ve been working so hard lately. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

Her words stung in a way I couldn’t explain. I thanked her quietly, watching as she left, her cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to the storm in my head.

I stared at the tea, its warmth fogging the rim of the cup. My reflection in the dark liquid was unrecognizable—someone unsure, someone trapped.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was the problem.

I clenched my fists, shaking my head. No. I wasn’t imagining what happened. I wasn’t crazy.

But as the hours dragged on and the compliments kept coming, doubt crept in like a shadow.

By the end of the day, I sat in my car, staring at my phone. I wanted to call someone—anyone—but every contact felt tainted. The fear of what they’d think, of how they’d see me, was too overwhelming.

And so, I drove home, silent and unsure, wondering if I’d ever be able to find my voice again.