The words are everywhere—plastered across screens, reflected in wide eyes, murmured between cafeteria trays and lecture notes.
I’m sitting at our usual booth, but for the first time… I’m not hiding.
I’m not scanning the exits. My back isn’t pressed to the wall out of instinct. I’m leaning back, one arm draped over the top of the bench, taking up space.
Open. Uncovered. Watching the storm we unleashed swallow the campus whole.
“It’s a goddamn bloodbath,” Zoë says, vibrating with a manic, triumphant energy that radiates off her like static. She’s scrolling violently, thumb flying. “The University President just issued his second statement. ‘We are fully cooperating…’ Oh, they’re so screwed. The comments are lethal. They’re calling for his head.”
“They’re calling it the Briarcliff Blackmail,” Gio adds, grinning as he steals a fry from Zoë’s plate, dodging her half-hearted slap. “Catchy. Rolls off the tongue.”
“That,” Maya says, not looking up from her laptop—fingers flying like she was born coded into machinery— “is what you call controlling the narrative.”
Her face is pale, shadows bruising the skin under her eyes, but her gaze is sharp, bright, alive. She’s been fielding calls from national sports desks all morning, and she hasn’t flinched once. It's like she was made for this pressure.
“They can’t bury it,” she continues. “The truth is out.”
She types one final command, hits enter, and then—with a distinct, final snap—closes the lid of her laptop.
The sound cuts through the chatter at our table. The weapon is sheathed.
“You’re a badass, Maddox,” Zoë breathes, looking at her with a reverence I’ve never heard from her. “A stone-cold badass.”
For one second, Maya glances up—and her eyes land on Dante and Cole across the room.
They’re standing by the windows like twin shadows—silent, intimidating, carved out of stone.
Dante gives her a single, near-imperceptible nod.
A nod of respect. Of acknowledgment. The kind you earn, not ask for.
Maya nods back, sharp and professional.
Cole… just watches her. And a small, proud smile touches the corner of his mouth before he schools it away.
Clara and Adrian are curled together like they’re sharing a single heartbeat. Exhaustion lingers in the lines of their faces, but there’s something quiet and victorious humming under the surface. Adrian absently twirls a strand of Clara’s hair around his finger, a repetitive gesture that looks more grounding than intimate.
Genny is the only one missing. She sent a cryptic text an hour ago about “tying up loose ends” and vanished before we even got to the Union.
My phone buzzes on the table.
The name freezes everything in me.
Dad.
My breath catches. I grab it with shaking fingers.
Dad:
It’s done, T.
The Board froze Alistair’s access pending the audit.
The grant is safe. Alumni are already calling to fill the gap.
He’s suspended. They escorted him out.
I blink hard. Once. Twice.
