Mistress Is Off the Clock

I’ve always suspected the universe has a peculiar sense of humor. Take Diana, for instance. Today, she was less “tsundere demon of the English department” and more “mistress of the smoke break,” her desk emptied of paperwork, her blazer slung over the chair like a discarded cape. Her dark eyeliner glinted under the fluorescent lights as she leaned back in her chair, a filtered cigarette pinched delicately between her fingers. The scent of lavender mixed with something smokier—her favorite rebellion against the sterility of academia.

Normally, Diana was all business at school. Sharp words, sharper wits, a vampire queen of grammar. Rumor had it she scared more students than the fire alarm ever could. But I knew better. That was the mask she wore when the world was watching. When it wasn’t, when the clock struck freedom, she was Diana—the posh, sassy, haughty woman who had kept a watchful eye on me since I was old enough to form memories. My mistress.

I sat in the corner of her classroom, keeping to the shadows, sipping a dark herbal iced tea from my thermos. My surgical mask and gloves were, as always, firmly in place. The last thing I needed was to catch whatever the hell passes for “student enthusiasm” these days. I never interacted much with her students; I had no need. My social energy was reserved for her, for our family, for the tiny circle of humans whose stupidity wasn’t overwhelming.

Diana exhaled, smoke curling like tiny black tendrils of arcane magic. “Off the clock,” she muttered, reading the text from Discord she’d just opened. That single line—three words—had the weight of a declaration, a sword cutting through the monotony of adolescence and homework assignments. I leaned in closer, peeking at her screen.

There it was. Our private server, small, exclusive, populated only by people who mattered: her younger siblings, Malcolm and Annalise; my sisters Mira and Lena; her own mother Monica; and, of course, me.

“Anyone else want to suffer through the idiocy of the outside world today?” Diana typed, then held the cigarette delicately between two fingers, as if she were holding a wand capable of summoning karma itself.

Malcolm replied almost instantly: I survived. Barely.
Annalise added: Grammar abominations everywhere. I think the vending machine asked me for punctuation advice.

I snorted behind my mask. Not aloud—airborne germs, remember—but the corners of my eyes twitched. Diana caught it.

“You think you’re clever,” she said softly, her eyes narrowing into that ice-cold glare that made any ordinary person tremble, “but I can see your smug little misanthrope vibe all the way from here, Beckett.”

I coughed politely into my sleeve. “You mean my mask?”

She rolled her eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Yes, prince. I see you hiding behind your mask. I can see you anyway. Relax. You’re safe.”

It was true. Around Diana, the world shrank to something manageable. My gloves, my surgical mask, my entire fortress of introverted habits—it didn’t matter. She had access. She could touch, she could tease, she could nudge me out of my shell, and I liked it. Hell, I loved it.

Meanwhile, our Discord server had become a microcosm of our family’s delightful eccentricities. Mira was ranting about an algorithm ruining her latest comic art. Lena was plotting a new sci-fi experiment that probably involved miniature exploding robots. Monica had sent a single line: Beckett, did you eat today?—because of course she did. Always watching. Always fussing. Always loving.

And Diana, of course, was multitasking. Between sipping her cigarette and scrolling through our chat, she had her other guilty pleasure open: an otome visual novel she had picked up on a whim last night. She frowned as a character made a poor choice, muttering archaic English insults at the screen, entirely too invested.

“Your dedication to ruining fictional men is… admirable,” I typed slowly. I knew she’d see it immediately.

She smirked, flicking ash into the tiny tray on her desk. “Only real men require care, Beckett. Fictional ones? They die horrifically and deserve it.”

I nearly choked on my iced tea. Yes. That is my Mistress.

She leaned back, dangling the cigarette over her desk, the smoke forming ethereal curls that made the fluorescent lights look like a foggy cathedral. “You know,” she said, almost conversationally, “if I ever leave this place—this cesspool of adolescent arrogance—I’ll do it knowing I taught exactly three students anything useful. The rest will die on their own hubris, and honestly, I can’t wait to see it.”

I typed, carefully neutral: I expect a full report when the first karma kicks in.

She laughed softly, a low, throaty sound that made me glad I wasn’t allowed to hear it out loud in public. “Of course, prince. I will document everything.” Then she leaned forward suddenly and nudged my mask with her fingertip. I flinched slightly. “I can see you, Beckett. You don’t need to hide.”

I exhaled slowly. My gloves twitched as I reached to tap my thermos, signaling silent approval. My mistress, as always, was both terrifying and comforting.

Malcolm sent a screenshot of a kid in the hall who had misspelled receive in chalk on the wall, with the caption: The virus spreads.
Annalise added: I can’t stop laughing at human stupidity. Send help.

Diana flicked the cigarette ash and typed: Good. Let it rot. It’s for their own good. Beckett, remind me to reward the twins tonight for practicing patience.

I smiled behind my mask. The world outside could be chaotic, loud, and utterly idiotic, but inside Diana’s orbit—inside our family’s orbit—it was perfect. Calm, precise, spooky, slightly sarcastic, and entirely ours.

And yes, the twins would indeed be rewarded. After all, feeding off stupidity had to be done in moderation.

I leaned back in my chair, gloves clasped, mask firm, and smiled faintly at the screen. Mistress was off the clock. The world could wait.

And for once, I was exactly where I wanted to be.