He squeezes back. “He’s a lucky bastard, you know.”
I smile through the tears. “I think he knows.”
We sit there for a few minutes more, until the fire sighs its last and my phone buzzes again.
Leo:“Security’s outside. Just in case. You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’ve got you.”
I lean back in the chair, Leo’s coat still around me, Tristan beside me like a brother I didn’t know I needed. And for the first time in forever, I let myself believe I might survive this.
Maybe even thrive.
It’s over.
No more whispers in hallways.
No more fake apologies.
No more power games disguised as tradition.
They got expelled.
Not suspended. Not quietly transferred. Gone.
For the first time since Ohio, since Royal Oaks, since all of it, the story ends the way it should have ended in the first place.
Chapter 24
LEO
Christmas Eve usedto mean something. I think. Before everything got this shiny and sterile. Before the parties became obligations and the gifts turned into press releases.
Now it’s just another night in a glass castle with designer trees, imported wreaths, and a wine cellar that costs more than most people’s mortgages.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows like it wants in. Candles flicker behind every pane, lit by some underpaid staff member following Mother’s spreadsheet of aesthetic requirements. I’m nursing a bourbon I don’t even like and watching the fire pretend to warm the room.
X is in Aspen, skiing with a girl whose dad owns a private jet leasing firm. Tristan’s in France, pretending to care about foie gras and heritage vineyards. Mindy is back in Hong Kong—clubbing living it up as the new it queen. And me? I’m here. Alone.
They let school out early this year—too much scandal, too many lawsuits brewing. Exams were proctored in a blur and most of us left campus with a to-do list of online assignments and a cloud of fallout hanging over everything.
Jade texted me two weeks ago.
Just a few words:I need more time.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I just said,Okay. Take it.
Then last week:I miss talking to you.
I almost dropped my phone.
We’ve been texting since. Small stuff. Light touches. She sent a picture of the cookies she and Aunt Susan baked—a burnt tray and a laughing selfie of her covered in flour. I sent her a video of my mom’s new life-sized nutcracker orchestra—don’t ask. She laughed. I swear I felt it through the phone.
I tried seeing her twice. Drove into town, but she was always busy. FaceTiming family, delivering meals with her aunt, wrapping gifts for the shelter. She’s always doing something for someone.
And I’m here with this fire and this silence.
The doorbell chimes.
It echoes down the marble halls, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Most of the staff are off for the holiday—Mother gave them leave and flew off to her best friend’s estate in Monaco. I didn’t want to go. Told her I was studying. She didn’t press.
