Chapter 7: Part-Time Elegance, Permanent Amusement

There is a particular pleasure in temporary things.

Not fleeting in the sense of loss—no.
Fleeting in the sense of control.

I learned that very early.

Long before lecture halls, before staff rooms, before whispered rumors of “the intimidating head of English,” there were… smaller stages.

Part-time ones.

And each, in its own way, was delightful.

I was sixteen when I first put on a uniform that was not my own.

Frills. Lace. A carefully constructed illusion of sweetness.

A maid café.

“Welcome home, Master~”

I remember the way the words felt on my tongue. Artificial. Performative. Entirely beneath me.

And yet—

Invaluable.

Because the customers believed it.

They leaned into it. Expected it. Demanded it.

Their assumptions… their entitlement… their carefully curated fantasies of control—

Collapsed almost immediately.

One insisted on “special treatment.”

I gave him perfect service.

Flawless timing. Impeccable politeness. Not a single deviation.

He grew uncomfortable within minutes.

“Why are you so… serious?” he asked.

“Because, sir,” I replied sweetly, “you requested perfection.”

He did not return.

Another employee attempted to outshine everyone—louder, brighter, more “charming.”

She burned out in three shifts.

Tears in the break room. Complaints about “unfair expectations.”

There were none.

Only her own inability to sustain the persona she created.

I lasted precisely as long as I wished.

Then I left.

No drama.

No attachment.

Just… completion.

The library came next.

A quieter stage.

Far more… educational.

People imagine libraries as peaceful places.

They are not.

They are battlegrounds of subtle arrogance.

Customers who believed they were intellectuals.

Employees who believed they were indispensable.

Systems that believed they were functional.

None of them were correct.

A man once argued with me about classification.

Insisted a book belonged in a different section.

I let him explain. At length.

Then I handed him the official indexing manual.

Opened to the exact page.

Highlighted.

“Feel free,” I said, “to correct the entire system.”

He did not.

He left.

The employees were no better.

Petty hierarchies. Passive aggression. Quiet incompetence masked as “experience.”

One attempted to delegate their entire workload to me.

I completed it faster than they could explain it.

Then asked, politely, if they required further assistance in their own role.

They avoided me after that.

I stayed longer there.

It was… amusing.

But even amusement has a threshold.

Once reached—

I left.

The game store was perhaps the most predictable.

Customers who believed knowledge equaled superiority.

Employees who believed enthusiasm equaled expertise.

Both were wrong.

One man attempted to “quiz” me.

Obscure titles. Mechanics. Lore.

I answered each question calmly. Precisely. Without hesitation.

He grew increasingly agitated.

“You’re just memorizing,” he said.

“Of course,” I replied. “That is how knowledge works.”

He left without buying anything.

An employee insisted on gatekeeping.

Correcting customers aggressively.

He lasted two weeks.

Customers stopped engaging with him entirely.

He could not understand why.

I did.

I lasted exactly long enough.

Then—

As always—

I left.

Across the room, Beckett listened quietly, sketchbook resting against his knee.

He hadn’t interrupted once.

Of course he hadn’t.

“And then,” I said, leaning back slightly, “I became a teacher.”

A pause.

“By choice,” I added.

He adjusted his glasses.

“…That one you kept.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I looked at him.

Properly.

“Because,” I said softly, “for the first time… the work mattered.”

The room stilled.

The air shifted—just slightly.

“Not the institution,” I continued. “Not the system. Those remain… flawed.”

My lips curved faintly.

“But the students.”

I stepped closer.

Slowly.

“The quiet ones,” I said. “The ones who are overlooked. Misunderstood. Dismissed.”

A pause.

“They are… worth cultivating.”

Beckett lowered his gaze slightly.

“…You mean people like me.”

I reached out.

Lifted his chin gently.

“I mean,” I said, voice softer now, “you especially.”

A faint flush crept across his face, visible even beneath the mask.

Adorable.

Predictable.

Entirely mine.

“You were always my favorite student,” I continued.

“Still am.”

He swallowed.

“…Mistress…”

I leaned in.

Close enough to feel the warmth through the mask.

Close enough to hear the slight hitch in his breathing.

“One princely student indeed,” I murmured.

And then—

A small, deliberate mark at his neck.

A brief nibble at his ear.

He froze.

Completely.

“…D-Diana—”

I pulled back just slightly, amused.

“Composure, pet,” I said lightly.

“You’re distracting me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You exist,” I replied. “That is sufficient.”

A pause.

Then—

He laughed.

Softly.

“…You enjoyed all of those jobs,” he said.

“Immensely.”

“Because of the people?”

I considered that.

Then shook my head.

“No,” I said.

“Because of the patterns.”

Outside, somewhere beyond the manor walls, the world continued—loud, chaotic, full of people exhausting themselves trying to be something they were not.

Inside—

Everything remained exactly as it should be.

I rested my hand lightly against his shoulder.

He leaned into it without thinking.

“And this,” I said quietly, “is why I stayed.”

He nodded.

No further questions.

None needed.