I stare at him. He’s the captain. He’s saying he’ll let the program bleed rather than let Alistair Reid win.
The door swings again.
Maya walks in first—sharp-eyed, carrying her laptop like a weapon—followed by Zoë (who looks like she fought someone for the last iced coffee on campus) and Genny (quiet, cardigan soft, but eyes always watching).
Zoë drops into a chair. “Okay, I’m sorry, but this tension is so loud it’s giving me hives. Who’s talking?”
Maya’s gaze flicks between me and Declan, expression shifting just a millimeter—enough to know she’s already piecing the story together.
Genny gently nudges her chair closer to mine. “You look tired, honey. The real kind.”
The air tightens in my chest. I don’t want this. I’m not built for this kind of attention. This… care.
“It’s fine,” I manage. “Declan’s father is just… leveraging the team against me.”
Clara pulls out a small neon sticky note, scribbles something, and slides it across the table with all the stealth of a spy.
I glance down:
You’re not doing this alone.
Not anymore.
Me, Adrian, Maya, Zoë, Genny — we’re in.
(…the guys are in too. They just don’t know it yet.)
My throat closes. Completely.
I blink hard, swallowing around something sharp and warm. I look up and they’re all looking at me—not pitying, not probing. Just present.
Declan watches all of it silently, jaw tight, like he’s witnessing a miracle he never expected to exist.
I fold the note slowly, carefully—like it’s something breakable—and tuck it into the pocket of my hoodie.
“Thank you,” I whisper, even though the words feel too small for all of this.
“We take care of our own,” Clara says softly.
Declan’s gaze shifts to me. Heavy. Certain.
“I’m not stepping back,” he says.
Silence falls like a held breath.
Zoë mutters, “I knew it. Hopeless.”
Adrian grins slowly—dark, approving. “Then let’s make him regret threatening us.”
I stare at him.
Declan. The boy I keep telling myself I can’t let in. The boy who just declared war on his own inheritance to sit at this table.
And something deep inside me—something scared and stitched and bruised—moves. Just a fraction. Just enough to let him matter.
By Monday morning, I’ve convinced myself last night was a fluke.
They’ll all forget. Declan will cool off.
