Sylvia's grin stayed in place for exactly one more heartbeat.
Then Arion asked, softly, "Is that true?"
And Sylvia, who had spent her entire life surviving professors, nobles, and best friends by knowing precisely when to strike and precisely when to vanish, felt her instincts finally scream something useful:
'Run.'
Metaphorically.
She did not sprint down the hall like a criminal.
She simply executed a flawless tactical retreat with all the elegance of a woman who had never, in her life, taken responsibility for the chaos she created.
"Oh," Sylvia said, suddenly breathless with professionalism, "look at the time."
Dean's head snapped toward her with pure betrayal.
Sylvia held up a hand, as if blessing him. "You're welcome."
Dean's voice came out tight. "Sylvia."
She ignored him with the grace of a saint. "This is clearly an… intimate diplomatic moment."
