Winslow’s expression says she doesn’t believe a word of it, but she doesn’t push. Probably because she doesn’t want to know details she might have to repeat in court.
“Your resignation is straightforward, Mr. Jordan. Ask Nora for the paperwork.”
One down.
Relief floods me in a wave of hot and cold prickles.
“And me?” Haven asks.
Winslow sits forward, and I have to force myself not to look at her cleavage when the frilly edges of her cream blouse gape. “Dropping his class is not possible,” she says as she laces her fingers together on the dark red leather inset on her desk.
“But I never signed up to study psychology, or philosophy, or any of that stuff.” Haven clears her throat, her hand tightening in mine. “His course?—”
“—is a prerequisite of your grant,” the dean says, her calm voice cutting effortlessly through Haven’s nervous babble. “I assume you’re not familiar with the funding structure of the grant you received?”
Haven drops her head, shifting her feet. “It’s…from the college?”
Winslow sighs as if we’re giving her a migraine and toys with her ring again. Her wedding finger is empty, and from the rumors I remember hearing, she’s recently divorced. Bet she bought the diamond ring from the settlement. She’s obsessed enough with it.
“The college provides thirty percent of funding. The remaining seventy percent comes from a private donor with veryspecificstipulations.”
I groan inwardly, becauselet me fucking guess…
“What stipulations?” Haven asks woodenly, like she’s also figured it out already.
Winslow’s mouth tightens. “The donor requires that all grant recipients enroll in and successfully complete their courses. Dropping out without donor approval would forfeit the grant.”
“Rooke’s the donor, isn’t he?” I say.
Haven’s hand goes slack in mine.
Seventy fucking percent.
He owns her. Has owned her this whole time.
“That can’t be legal,” Haven says with a hollow laugh.
“Conditional grants are common, Miss Lee. Professor Rooke has been one of our most generous donors.” Winslow’s tone suggests this conversation is over, but Haven’s not done.
“Can you talk to him?” Her voice cracks slightly. “Ask him to…I don’t know, waive the requirement, or something?”
The dean’s crimson lips purse. “And why would I do that?”
The temperature in the room suddenly drops fifty degrees.
We figured out what we were going to say ahead of time, but I guess Winslow just crossed a line with Haven, because our plan goes to shit.
Haven drops my hand, walks right up to the dean’s desk, and plants both palms on the surface. “Because I’m sure you’d rather get me out of that class than have one of your faculty members on the front page of the Daily Hollow.”
Winslow arches a brow. “Careful, Miss Lee. I can revoke your grant as easily as Professor Rooke can.”
My hand twitches, wanting to curl into a fist, but I smooth it against my thigh instead.
“But you won’t, because you’re not a petty, narcissistic asshole like he is.” Haven pauses, then adds, “And I bet this isn’t the first time someone’s come in here to talk to you about him.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
The air is frozen solid.
