"Ms. Ellison?"
The voice snapped her out of her daze.
Professor Luanne Moretti stood in the hall. She looked down at Venessa. Then the distinctive click-click-click of Professor Moretti's Louboutins echoed through the marble hallway like a countdown to execution toward Venessa.
Venessa braced herself as those familiar razor-sharp eyes swept over her—pausing at her coffee-stained sneakers, the only brand pair from last season's Gucci knockoffs, her salon-damaged cuticles, the telltale Brewtopia logo peeking from her tote bag.
"Well." That voice—the same saccharine poison she reserved for students who used hot glue on gabardine—"If it isn't our absentee heiress. Tell me, darling—" Her Cartier pen tapped—click, click, click—against Venessa's lopsided hair bow, the frayed satin edges curling like old receipts.
"—when you're done playing barista at this... what was it? Brewtopia? Do they pay you in stock options or just spare change? Because I simply cannot imagine what could be more important than my Thursday draping workshop or are you just brewing there for your retirement? ."
A hush fell over the hallway. By the water fountain, Isabella Cho choked on her matcha latte, the sound suspiciously like a suppressed giggle.
Venessa's fingers—still smelling of burnt espresso—twitched toward the withdrawal forms. "Actually, Professor," she said, sweet as the pumpkin spice syrup she pumped for minimum wage.
Professor Moretti's nose wrinkled. "And you missed your final review too. Again."
A group of undergrads slowed their pace, eyes darting between them. Venessa recognized the girl in front—Isabella Cho, who'd taken her old workstation. Her Miu Miu bag dangled carelessly, brushing against Venessa's thigh like a taunt.
"I emailed the department," Venessa said, hating how small her voice sounded.
"Yes. Your 'scheduling conflict.'" Moretti's gaze dropped to Venessa's chipped nail polish. "I didn't realize you meant menial labor."
A titter rippled through the cluster of undergrads pretending not to eavesdrop. Isabella Cho—of course it was Isabella—adjusted the strap of her actual-Prada backpack and murmured something to her friend. The word "hashtag-girlboss" floated over, sticky with faux sympathy.
Moretti's eyebrow arched. "How... bohemian of you." She plucked the paperwork from Venessa's hands with the delicacy one might reserve for handling contaminated waste. "Though I suppose pouring lattes is more your speed now. Pity. That Chambre Syndicale recommendation letter I wrote seems rather wasted, doesn't it?"
Behind them, someone snorted.
Venessa's cheeks burned. She could practically see the Instagram captions forming in real-time: #FromRunwayToRistretto #GirlbossGoneWrong #FromSketchbooksToSpreadsheets or #BaristaToBroke before sundown.
Professor Moretti sighed, producing a glossy brochure with a flourish. "The Alumni Financial Relief Fund," she announced, as if presenting a Nobel Prize. "For exceptional cases." Her gaze dropped meaningfully to Venessa's peeling manicure. "Certain applicants may qualify... provided they can prove they still have relevant skills."
Isabella fake-coughed. "Like... remembering syrup ratios?"
The laugh that followed wasn't even subtle.
Venessa took the brochure. The paper was thick, expensive—the kind she used to sketch on.
"Thanks," she said, sweet as the caramel drizzle she pumped eight hours a day.
And with that, she turned and walked away—back to the world of minimum wage and maximum shame, where at least the espresso machine never pretended to give a damn about her potential.
The withdrawal office was on the third floor. Her legs trembled the whole way up. Each step was an echo of loss.
Inside, she waited behind a girl in a cream fur jacket, one Venessa used to own in another lifetime. The girl was arguing with the clerk about the weight of gold foil on her thesis cover.
Venessa clutched her form in silence. Her fingernails were bare—no time for polish anymore. She used to get bi-weekly manicures in a private salon suite. Now even clear coat felt like luxury.
When it was her turn, the admin assistant barely glanced up. "Student name?"
"Venessa Ellison."
There was a pause. The kind of pause people gave when they knew your name.
"…You're Ellison's daughter?"
Used to be. Now she was just Venessa. Full-time barista, part-time shampoo girl, unofficial nanny of her twin siblings.
"Yes."
The clerk nodded, typing. "We'll finalize your drop last week. You're no longer enrolled in the Winter-Spring term. Your atelier spot has already been reassigned."
It took everything in the former heiress had not to cry at the word atelier: her workshop studio was gone too.
"Can I ask something?"
Ms. Hargrove looked up from the paperwork, brows lifting in quiet curiosity. "Of course."
Venessa swallowed, fingers clenching the strap of her bag. She was already halfway out the door. Maybe she shouldn't ask. Maybe it was better not to know.
But she did. She had to.
"My last design. Phoenix in Silk." Her voice barely carried across the desk. "Was it ever... reviewed?"
Ms. Hargrove blinked, tilting her head slightly as if searching her memory. Then she nodded. "Actually, yes. It was shortlisted for the European Exchange Fellowship."
Venessa froze.
The words didn't register at first. She must have misheard.
"It was?" she whispered.
"Yes," Ms. Hargrove confirmed. "We got the letter last week. It was one of the final selections." Then, after a pause, her voice softened. "But—"
Venessa already knew. She felt it coming, a guillotine poised above her.
"The fellowship is only open to enrolled students."
She stared at Ms. Hargrove. Her breath left her body like a punch to the ribs.
No. It could have saved her.
She had sewn that piece by all night while doing labour at day. Feather by feather. Silk borrowed from a discontinued bolt she found in the clearance, because she couldn't afford real fabric anymore. She had stitched every inch of that gown with hands that ached from shampooing hair and carrying trays. She had worked on it between shifts, between sleepless nights, between the gaps of a life that was already falling apart.
It had meant something.
It had been everything.
And now, it was nothing.
Venessa's mouth opened, then closed. Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream. Or laugh. Maybe both.
"Where is it now?" she asked, voice brittle.
Ms. Hargrove hesitated.