Steele laughs, the sound thick. "All of them are, until they’re not. You know Roth is a risk, right?"
My father replies, "We’re already making arrangements. Once the Hunt is concluded, we’ll move Amara to a better match. Roth is a liability, but he’s useful for now. The merger keeps the Boardhappy. After that, he can go wherever he wants—Pineridge, the gutter, a grave. It doesn’t matter."
Steele: "And if he resists?"
"Let him. He’s soft, like his father. If he tries to run, we’ll send the teams. Like we always do."
They pause by the desk. I can hear the rustle of files, the metallic slam of a drawer.
Steele again, lower now: "What about your daughter? You care what happens to her?"
"I care about the line. Nothing else. If she survives the Hunt, she’ll do her duty. If not, there’s always Dalton. He’s not a pureblood but he will do. He’s made enough money that no one will care."
A pause. Steele: "You’re a cold bastard, Marcus."
A dry chuckle. "That’s why I’m in charge."
I feel sick. I want to puke, or scream, or run at them with a letter opener. Instead, I stay still, pressed flat against the plaster, not even breathing.
They shuffle papers for another minute. Then the footsteps recede. The door closes with a thud.
I wait, counting to fifty, then a hundred. I wait until I’m shaking with cold and rage.
Climbing out from behind the cabinet, my hair stuck to my face with sweat. I gather every file I can find, stuffing them into a grocery bag left on the desk. I take the hard drive from the computer, ripping it out with a snap and a twist. I pull all the photos off the wall and shove them into the bag, too.
When I’m done, I look at the room. The cabinet is open, the desk covered in blank space. The room looks naked, exposed.
I want to light it all on fire. I want to burn every record, every trace. But I can’t do it alone.
So I take the bag and leave.
The walk back to my dorm is the longest of my life. Every window is dark; every hallway echoes with the click of my shoes and the dull thump of my pulse. The bag thumps against my leg with every step, full of stolen files, each one a weight that tethers me to this nightmare.
I don’t try to be quiet. I want someone to see me. I want them to know.
By the time I reach my hall, my head is buzzing with too much information and not enough air. I fumble with the key, drop it, pick it up with numb fingers, and open the door.
The room is the same as I left it. I shut the door and lean against it, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
I drop the bag on the bed and go to the window. I look out, searching for signs of life—lights, shadows, movement—but there’s nothing. The world outside is empty.
There’s a knock at the door that interrupts my thoughts.
I freeze, every muscle locking. For a second, I think it’s security, or my father, or some faceless guard sent to drag me away. I think about running, about jumping out the window, but my body refuses to move.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
I creep to the door and press my ear to it. On the other side, I hear nothing. No breathing, no shuffling, just the silence of someone who’s very, very good at waiting.
I open the door a crack.
Julian is there, leaning against the jamb, arms folded, a black backpack over his shoulders. His hair is damp and messy, eyes bruised and wild, mouth set in a line so tight it looks like it might split. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but every part of him is awake, vibrating with energy.
He sees me and smiles.
"Hey there, baby girl," he says, voice low.
I don’t answer.
