She disappears around the corner.
The plan is working.
Adrian’s phone buzzes in his hand. He glances at the screen, eyes flicking back and forth as he reads.
“Genny’s in,” he says, low. “Security is swarming the lobby. The clock is running.”
Ten minutes.
I swallow, hard. Ten minutes to sneak into the office of one of the most powerful men at this school. Ten minutes to plant evidence that could blow his leverage to hell. Ten minutes forDeclan to stand in the heart of his father’s empire and openly betray him.
Ten minutes for everything to change.
My muscles hum with the wrong kind of adrenaline. The old kind. The kind that saysrun.
No.
This isn’t hiding. This isn’t ducking my head and pretending not to see. This is stepping into the line of fire on purpose. A conscious choice.
Talia’s Agency—the fighter.
I take a breath, let it burn all the way down, then nod toward the far end of the corridor. “I should get closer,” I whisper. “If someone comes out of the stairwell behind us, you guys can stall them. But someone needs to watch the elevator.”
Clara’s hand catches my wrist, a small anchor. “Be careful.”
Adrian nods, his jaw flexing. “We’ll hold the line.”
I slip away, my sneakers silent on the carpet runner. Each step feels like walking into a storm. The air is thicker here, heavy with cologne and donor-committee money. Cheap art prints line the walls—old hockey photos, framed newspaper clippings, the Reid name on a dozen little brass plaques.
At the far end is the door to his office. Solid wood, frosted glass insert. No nameplate. His power doesn’t need a label.
The pane glows faintly with lamplight from inside.
I hover at the last corner, keeping myself tucked in the shadow of a jutting column. From here, I can see the door and the elevator bank. I can hear the distant chaos of Zoë and Gio’s fight echoing up from the front of the building, but down here, the silence is heavy. Threatening.
The minutes stretch, thick and slow.
My phone buzzes again.
Genny:Drive is in. Encryption is thicker than we thought. Brute-forcing the archive. 6 mins.
Six minutes.
I clench my jaw, check the hallway again. Clear.
The door to the office opens a fraction. A hand—large, familiar, with bruised knuckles—appears in the crack, followed by the sharp angle of a jaw.
Declan.
He checks the hallway, that same, precise sweep I’ve seen him do a hundred times from the crease. His gaze snags on my shadowed corner.
Then his eyes lock on mine.
The hit is physical. Electricity under my skin. The memory of last night in my dorm—his mouth on mine, his body braced over me like I was something precious—slams into me so hard my knees almost buckle.
He jerks his chin at me. A silent order.Come here.
My heart trips. I shouldn’t. I need to stay here, stay sharp—
