No. James doesn't care about money. He's turned down every offer I've made to pay for things, gets annoyed when I try to buy him dinner. He values independence above everything.
But what if that's exactly why he'd consider it? To prove he doesn't need me, doesn't need anyone? What if my father found the one angle I didn't see?
Stop it. This is exactly what Father wants: to make me doubt, to plant these seeds of suspicion. He's been doing this my whole life, making me question everyone around me until I trust no one but him.
But the meeting happened. James's voice on that recording is real. And forty-five minutes is a long time to sit in someone's office if you're just telling them to fuck off.
Maybe there's context I'm missing. Maybe the full recording explains everything.Father offered to send the whole file, which he wouldn't do if it exonerated James... right? Unless that's another layer of the game—offer the full recording knowing I'll never actually verify it, because who the hell knows an audio forensics expert?
Why would James even take that meeting if he wasn't considering something?
I hate this. Hate that I'm standing here dissecting every interaction, every word, looking for proof that the person I… that James is who I thought he was. Hate that my father has turned me into this paranoid, suspicious version of myself with one audio file.
Hate him for showing me this. Hate myself for already reaching for my phone. Hate that I can't unknow that meeting happened, that those forty-five minutes exist, that James never mentioned any of it.
But the meeting is real. The recording exists. And I can't pretend I didn't hear it, can't unknow what I now know, even if I want desperately to believe there's some explanation that makes it all make sense.
Chapter 25
Twenty Fucking Minutes
CALEB
The drive back to campus is a blur; my hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turn white. My mind keeps replaying the recording, searching for an explanation or some context that would make sense. James agreeing to take money to break up with me. James is planning how to end things "in a way that doesn't reflect badly" on me.
It can't be real. It can't.
But if it's not, why show it to me? What would my father gain by manufacturing such an elaborate lie? And why would James have been so evasive about what happened on Christmas if not because he was hiding something?
By the time I park at the frat house, my confusion has crystallized into anger. Not at James, if what I saw was true, but at myself for being so easily fooled. Again. For thinking that someone finally saw me, not the Huntington name, not the family connections, but me.
The house is quiet when I enter; most guys are still on winter break. I know James is here, though. He mentioned working on the frat social media calendar today, so he'll be in the small office off the main floor.
He is precisely where I expect to find him, hunched over his laptop, surrounded by empty energy drink cans. He doesn't look up when I enter, too focused on whatever he's coding.
"We need to talk," the door closes behind me with more force than necessary.
He startles, looking up with tired eyes that widen when they register my expression. "What's wrong?"
"You tell me." Staying on my feet, adrenaline won't let the body settle. "How was your meeting with my father?"
His face, the one I've learned to read so well, goes through a rapid series of emotions: surprise, guilt, defensiveness. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't." The word comes out angrily. "Don't lie to me, James. Not now."
He slowly closes his laptop, buying time. "Caleb, whatever your father told you?—"
"He didn't tell me. He showed me." I move towards the desk, looming over him. "The audio, James. From his office. December 26th. Ring any bells?"
He pales slightly, which only feeds the fire that’s creeping up my neck.
"So it's true," the confirmation is like a knife twisting in my gut. "You met with him behind my back."
"It's not what you think," he starts, rising from his chair. "I didn't?—"
"Didn't what? Discuss taking seventy-five thousand dollars to break up with me? Because that's exactly what I heard."
"That's not—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "Yes, I met with him. But not because I asked to. He called me."
