Cassie.
Perfection. It’s a word thrown around a lot, but at the end of the day, I don’t think anyone knows what the fucking word means. Instead, they throw around their own personal ideas of what they think it means and try to claim it as the only truth.
Fucking fascists.
“Cassie?” The slow, hesitant tone of Ansley caught me by surprise, and as I looked up from where I was buckling the strap on my shoe, I raised a brow in question before straightening myself, making sure I looked the part of fascist perfection.
“Good morning, Ansley. I’ll be eating breakfast in the hall today. I have business to attend to.”
It was unlike me to do something like this, and the fact that I was even up early made her lips part, and her eyes widen as she nodded her head. “Oh–okay. Um, I’ll let them know–”
“No. Don’t tell them anything.”
