Chapter 151

Iris

“Are you ready, buddy?” Arthur kneels in front of Miles, adjusting the collar of his navy blue uniform. The formal little outfit makes our son look older somehow, more grown-up than his five years. My chest aches at the sight.

Miles shifts from foot to foot. “What if the other kids don’t like me?”

“That’s impossible,” I say with a smile. “You’re the most likable kid in the world.”

Miles considers this for a moment before muttering, “Yeah… but what if I get lost? The school is really big.”

“Your classroom is just down the hall from the main entrance,” I remind him gently. “And your teacher will make sure you get where you need to go.”

Miles wrinkles his nose and looks up at the enormous Wellington Academy building behind us, clearly unconvinced. I have to admit, the large redbrick building, with ivy climbing up its walls and wrought iron gates and fences that couldn’t be climbed over even with a ten-foot-tall ladder on either side, is a little intimidating even to me. I can only imagine how it looks to a five-year-old. But I don’t say that out loud.

Once Miles is ready, the three of us walk together toward the building. Other parents and children stream past, some looking confident and excited, others clearly as nervous as Miles.

Inside, the school is even more impressive than I remember from our tour. The main hall is bustling with people, new shoes echoing on the gleaming hardwood floors and banners hanging from the walls reading “Welcome, Students!”

Unlike the underfunded public schools I visited during my charity research, everything here is pristine and well-maintained, clearly the beneficiary of those exorbitant tuition fees. It’s beautiful inside, clearly designed to ensure the highest quality education possible.

My stomach twists slightly as I recall the bad press we’ve received surrounding all of this. A few parents even glance our way, furrowing their brows as we walk by. For a moment, I question our decision again, but then Miles’ face lights up as he sees a group of little boys playing with plastic dinosaurs outside a classroom, and any second thoughts I have vanish at the sight of his excitement.

As we approach Miles’ classroom, we spot his teacher standing at the door, greeting each child by name even though it’s their very first day of kindergarten. She’s young, probably in her early thirties, with a kind smile and colorful butterfly clips in her hair.

“And you must be Miles!” she exclaims when we reach her. “I’m so happy to see you today!”

Miles shrinks against my leg, suddenly shy again, but his teacher seems unfazed.

“I have something special to show you,” she continues, kneeling to his level. “Do you want to see the class pet? His name is Sheldon, and he’s a turtle.”

Miles perks up immediately. “A real turtle?”

“A real turtle,” his teacher confirms with a grin. “He’s very friendly. Would you like to help me feed him this morning?”

Miles looks up at Arthur and me, silently asking permission. We both nod encouragingly.

“You go ahead,” Arthur says. “Mom and I will stick around for a few more minutes.”

Miles hesitates just a moment longer before releasing our hands and following his teacher into the classroom. We watch from the doorway as she introduces him to a small group of children already gathered around a terrarium in the corner. Miles wrings his hands and stands on his tiptoes to see the turtle.

“He’ll be fine,” Arthur murmurs, his arm sliding around my waist. “You don’t have to cry.”

I didn’t even realize there was a tear slipping down my cheek until now. I quickly brush it away with the back of my hand and whisper thickly, “I know. I know he’ll be fine.”

Arthur’s arm gently tightens around me, and he leans his head on top of mine.

We stand there for a few minutes longer, just quietly watching the scene. Finally, the bell rings, and it’s time for us to go. I try to cherish this moment as much as I can—the smell of new books and backpacks, children’s sneakers squeaking on the floor, our son nervously checking out his very first desk.

There are all moments I thought the three of us would never get to experience as a family, and yet here we are. Together. Happy.

If only the public felt the same way.

Ever since the children’s day event yesterday, the public has been in a small frenzy. Pictures were captured of Veronica scooping Miles up, my sour face, and of course, the papers that cruelly revealed Miles’ enrollment at Wellington.

The top trending article of the week is scathing. The headline reads: “Even Alpha’s Son Prefers Piano Prodigy Over Future Luna!”

The backlash is even worse than I feared. If there was any doubt before that Veronica and I have some kind of secret feud, it’s certainly gone now. Some people even think that Miles is secretly Veronica’s son, not mine.

But even if people don’t believe that nonsense, the general consensus is still that I’m making a serious faux pas by enrolling Miles at Wellington. In fact, my approval ratings have dropped again. The numbers are still above 70%, but they’re going down by the day. They dropped more than 5% just since yesterday.

Meanwhile, people are clamoring to say that Veronica would make a far better Luna and mother. They claim that she wouldn’t make mistakes like this, that she is a genuine person and I’m not, that she knows how to act as a wealthy person. They even think that I’m taking advantage of my recent fame and getting too big for my own head.

But as much as it stings, I know that public opinion isn’t always rational. People love a scandal, particularly when it’s a rivalry between women. It’s the oldest story in the book, and the fact that Arthur is being conveniently left out of all of this isn’t lost on me. As if choosing to send our son to a particular school wasn’t a decision that we both made.

Either way, I know I have to get ahead of this nonsense before it gets out of control, so I use my day—now that Miles is at school, I have a lot more free time during the morning and afternoon—to come up with the next step in my plan.

The Ordan Public School Fund that Veronica runs is large and well-known. A partnership would bring legitimacy to my project and put to rest any notion of a feud between us. Plus, it would be a much more effective way to actually help the kids who need it.

For my next event, I decide to organize a major fundraising gala. With Veronica’s contacts and my position as the future Luna, we could attract serious donors. And the media would eat it up—the supposed rivals joining forces for a common cause.

Over the next couple of days, I draft up a proposal. I want it to be perfect so Veronica will have no choice but to accept. I plan to paint several large artworks of my own to auction off for charity, and contact some other Ordan artists—Hunter being one of them—to auction off their work as well.

Alice agrees to let me use the Marsiel Gallery space for the event, which will also be a boon for her business. We even discuss the matter with the director of Abbott Gallery, who offers to help with advertising. Everything is going according to plan.

Once I’ve prepared a solid proposal, I make an official appointment with the Ordan Public School Fund for an interview with Veronica. I don’t want to show up unannounced at her penthouse again, dressed in sloppy work clothes while she’s utterly perfect, so I give myself enough time to prepare.

On the day of the interview, I dress in a pristine blue dress and heels, my hair pulled neatly back and just a minimal amount of makeup. I make sure I have all of my materials organized, then head to Veronica’s charity headquarters with my chin held high.

Somehow, of course, the paparazzi have gotten wind of this. I make sure to smile the whole way up the front path to the headquarters, just so my “sour” face can’t be captured on camera again.

Acting like this makes me feel more like Selina than I’d like to admit. But this is what the people expect, and it’s what I’ve been training for for months now. If there was one thing Selina had going for her, it was her way with manipulating the press to avoid public backlash. I guess it’s not so bad to take a page out of her book in that regard, not just for my sake, but for Miles’ as well.

When I arrive, a secretary is waiting for me in the spacious white lobby. She leads me through the gorgeous, state-of-the-art facility to a gleaming office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a long glass conference table.

Veronica is sitting at the head of the table, looking perfect as ever.

“Iris,” she says, gesturing to the chair all the way at the other end. “Please, take a seat.”