Cross-Departmental Interference

There are initiatives, and then there are performances disguised as initiatives.

This one, surprisingly, is neither.

The program is introduced with the usual language—bridging disciplines, early certification pathways, real-world exposure.

Most of it is decorative.

What matters is this:

Students will leave with something useful.

That alone makes it worth tolerating.

What I did not anticipate was Terry.

Or rather—

I did not anticipate her here.

“She insisted,” Damien says.

He stands beside her, composed as ever, the kind of man people instinctively avoid disappointing.

Terry, by contrast, invites attention—and then weaponizes it.

“I was curious,” she adds, smiling faintly. “You’ve built quite the… environment.”

“It functions,” I reply.

“That’s high praise, coming from you.”

“It’s accurate.”

They are here as consultants.

Fashion. Business. Presentation. Structure.

Visible power, refined.

The students respond immediately.

Of course they do.

What I also did not anticipate—

though, in hindsight, I should have—

is interference.

Her name is Evelyn Harrow.

She teaches business.

Poorly.

But with confidence.

More importantly, she is married.

Strategically.

To a man whose interests overlap with Damien’s.

Competitively.

Unsuccessfully.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she says to Terry, voice smooth, eyes sharper than necessary.

“I doubt that,” Terry replies pleasantly.

Damien says nothing.

He doesn’t need to.

Evelyn smiles anyway.

People like her always do.

Her attention shifts quickly.

Not to me.

To something she believes is more vulnerable.

“You’re Diana,” she says later, entering the staff room without invitation. “Head of English.”

“I am.”

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

“I haven’t.”

She ignores that.

“They’re considering restructuring departments,” she continues. “Fresh perspectives. Modern approaches.”

“They are not.”

A pause.

Brief.

Then she recovers.

“Well, they should be.”

Ah.

Ambition without foundation.

A familiar pattern.

She lingers.

Talks.

Circles.

Eventually—

inevitably—

she arrives at it.

“I heard your husband is younger.”

“Yes.”

“And you have children.”

“Yes.”

“So interesting,” she says. “Balancing all of that.”

“It isn’t.”

She tilts her head. “No?”

“No.”

That should end it.

It doesn’t.

Because people like her require friction to feel relevant.

The emails begin shortly after.

Not to me.

To Beckett.

I do not see them.

Because I do not look.

Because I do not need to.

They are, however, seen.

By the wrong person.

“…Mistress.”

Beckett stands in the doorway that evening, phone in hand, posture slightly more rigid than usual.

“Yes?”

“There’s… something odd.”

“Define odd.”

He hesitates.

Then hands me the phone.

The message is… elaborate.

Overly familiar.

Poorly disguised.

An attempt at charm written by someone who confuses attention with attraction.

I read it once.

Then hand the phone back.

“And?” I ask.

“…It’s incorrect,” he says.

“In what way?”

“All of them.”

Of course.

He scrolls.

“There are more.”

“I assumed as much.”

“I didn’t respond.”

“I assumed that as well.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Should I?”

I look at him.

Carefully.

Then shake my head.

“No.”

Because this—

this is not a problem.

This is a process.

At school, Evelyn escalates.

Subtly, at first.

Comments.

Implications.

Suggestions that I am “distracted.”

That my position might be “better suited” to someone with “fewer… complications.”

She also attempts proximity to Terry.

A mistake.

“I admire your work,” Evelyn says, too eager.

“Do you?” Terry replies.

“Yes, absolutely. The way you manage your brand, your image—”

“My family,” Terry corrects lightly.

“Of course, that too.”

Terry smiles.

It is not kind.

Later, she joins me in the staff room.

Uninvited.

Permitted.

“You have a pest,” she says, glancing toward the door.

“Yes.”

“You’re ignoring her.”

“Yes.”

Terry studies me.

“…You’re letting her destroy herself.”

“Efficiency matters.”

A pause.

Then a soft laugh.

“I like you.”

“I’m aware.”

She settles into my corner.

No one objects.

No one would dare.

By the end of the week, the situation resolves.

Not because of confrontation.

Because of accumulation.

Evelyn’s emails are flagged.

Not by me.

Not by Beckett.

By systems.

Patterns.

Oversight she did not account for.

Her conduct is reviewed.

Then re-reviewed.

Then no longer tolerated.

Harassment.

Professional misconduct.

Boundary violations.

She is removed.

Quietly.

Permanently.

I am informed.

Briefly.

I acknowledge it.

Then return to work.

The program concludes successfully.

Students leave with certifications, references, direction.

That was the objective.

It is achieved.

Damien gains something as well.

Connections.

Associates.

People competent enough to be useful.

Terry gains… amusement.

She stands beside my desk on the final day, examining the twins’ drawings.

Dark lines. Sharp shapes. unsettling compositions.

“Charming,” she says.

“They’re very proud of them.”

“They should be.” She smiles slightly. “They’ve been helping, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“Good instincts,” she adds. “For design. For structure.”

“They’re observant.”

“Like their parents.”

That evening, we step onto the rooftop.

Quiet.

Isolated.

Acceptable.

She lights a cigarette.

Offers one.

I take it.

Occasionally.

We stand in silence for a while.

Not uncomfortable.

Not forced.

Just… still.

“You didn’t intervene,” she says eventually.

“No.”

“You could have.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I exhale slowly.

“Because she was never a threat.”

Terry smiles.

Not wide.

But genuine.

“I prefer direct solutions,” she says.

“I prefer inevitable ones.”

A pause.

Then:

“They end the same way.”

“Yes.”

Below us, the world continues.

Loud.

Messy.

Predictable.

Up here—

it is quiet.

Controlled.

Certain.

“She tried to take something that wasn’t hers,” Terry says.

“Yes.”

“And failed.”

“Yes.”

I glance at her.

“You would have handled it differently.”

“I would have,” she agrees.

“But you didn’t need to.”

“No.”

Another pause.

Smoke curls into the evening air.

“I admire that,” she says.

“I know.”

She laughs softly.

When we return inside, nothing has changed.

Not really.

The house will be quiet.

Beckett will be waiting.

The children will be exactly as they always are.

And everything that attempted to disrupt that—

will remain exactly where it belongs.

Outside.