Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert)

As the car pulled up to the apartment complex, Rupert's phone rang before it even came to a complete stop.

Sylvia glanced over, knowing all too well it was Bridget on the line.

After the dean left with the security guards without achieving his goal, it was only a matter of time before Bridget would make her move. To claim she had nothing to do with it would fool no one.

Well, no one except Rupert.

The moment he answered, Bridget's sobbing voice echoed from the other end.

Sitting by the window, Sylvia couldn't catch the whole conversation, but from Bridget's tone, she could tell she was playing the victim. Rupert's voice softened, "I'll be right there."

As the car stopped, Sylvia lost interest in eavesdropping and quickly opened the door to get out.

Rupert reached out, stopping her. "I've got to handle something and won't be coming down. I'll have the driver stay to help with your stuff." "Sure."

Shrugging off his hand, Sylvia didn't look back as she stepped out of the car.

Watching her leave, Rupert frowned slightly before gesturing to the driver and Orson to assist with the luggage.

Just as Sylvia's bags were placed on the sidewalk, Rupert drove away.

Pulling at the strap of her bag, she bent down to pick up a box of books and asked the driver, "Could you help me with this into the elevator?"

Nodding, the driver was about to bend down when his phone rang.

He glanced quickly at the caller ID and instinctively stepped aside to answer the call.

A minute later, the driver returned, his tone falsely cheerful.

"Ms. Lloyd, I reckon you can handle this bit on your own. You must've done plenty of this before joining the Garcias. Rupert needs me to go pick up Mrs. Simpson now." Mrs. Simpson?

Of course, her issues couldn't possibly compare to those of the Simpsons.

Noticing the driver's change in demeanor, she retorted coldly, "Go ahead, and let him know I found this quite pointless."

With a scoff, the driver left.

Sylvia didn't bother responding, focusing instead on pushing her boxes toward the elevator.

Just as she was about to enter, a misalignment between the elevator floor and the ground caused the top box to teeter dangerously.

Instinctively reaching out to catch it, the sharp edge of the box sliced across her palm.

The pain was immediate, forcing her to crouch down in discomfort.

At that moment, the elevator doors slid open, and a well-dressed middle-aged woman stepped out, immediately berating Sylvia for blocking the door.

"I was wondering why the elevator wasn't coming up. Turns out you're blocking the entrance. Where are your manners?"

"Sorry, I'll move right away."

Despite her injured hand, Sylvia quickly moved her boxes into the elevator.

The woman watched her like a hawk, criticizing relentlessly until Sylvia finally managed to close the elevator doors, cutting off the barrage of insults.

"Such a fancy place, and they let just anyone in?"

"So young and living here? Must've done something shady."

Silently enduring the verbal jabs, Sylvia finally reached her floor and started moving her belongings into her apartment.

The two-bedroom flat was cozy and modern- perfect for a working professional like herself.

After hours of unpacking, Sylvia collapsed onto the couch, fishing out her phone for a moment of distraction.

Her screen lit up with a flood of notifications about Rupert and Bridget.

[Bridget falls ill, Rupert by her side.]

The photo showed Rupert rushing into a hospital, later emerging with Bridget in his arms.

By now, Sylvia was immune to such displays.

Scrolling past the endless praise for Bridget in the comments, she tried to set her phone on the coffee table. But her injured hand hit the edge, sending a sharp pain through her arm.

Curling up on the couch, she looked at the slight swelling around the cut, feeling as if nothing had gone right today. Her eyes welled up with unshed tears.