“And if I don’t?”
“Then I forward this to every gossip columnist in the city within five minutes.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
Then, the sound of her swallowing hard.
“Fine,” she chokes out. “Fine. Go to hell, Declan.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone. My hand is shaking. I stare at it for a second, at the faint tremor in my fingers, at the ink and the blood.
Standing, I walk back out into the living room. The noise hits first—Zoë swearing at the refresh wheel on her phone, Gio pacing, Clara clutching a throw pillow like a life raft, Genny muttering into her keyboard as the view count climbs.
Talia is standing by the window, arms folded over her chest, eyes fixed on the dark slice of campus beyond the glass. Her reflection is ghosted over it—tired, fierce, unbroken.
She looks up as I walk in. She doesn't ask. She doesn't need to. She knows.
I don’t say a word. I just cross the room in six long strides, ignoring everyone else, and walk to her. I slide one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders, and pull her into my chest.
She comes willingly. No hesitation. No flinch. She presses her face into my t-shirt, fingers fisting in the hem at my sides like she’s anchoring herself there.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in—shampoo and coffee and the faintest hint of peppermint that never really leaves. My eyes close. For the first time today, my shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
“It's done,” I whisper into her hair.
Her voice is muffled against my chest, but there’s steel in it. “No,” she says. “It's just starting.”
My mouth curves in agreement. In recognition.
She’s right. The article is live. My father is wounded, which makes him dangerous. Beatrice is cornered. The Coach is in the crosshairs.
The war isn't over.
The fuse is just lit.
And now that the leash is cut, he has no idea how hard it's going to be to hold us when the explosion hits.
Chapter 29
Talia
Thecampusisonfire with whispers.
They move like smoke—curling under doors, seeping through hallways, coiling around conversations. They cling to clothes, to hair, to skin.
The air in the Student Union is thick with it.
Theclick-click-clickof a thousand phones refreshing theBriarcliff Chroniclehomepage is its own kind of storm.
Alistair Reid.
NCAA Violation.
Misuse of Funds.
Briarcliff Blackmail.
