He's got the kind of face that makes you forget what you were doing — strong jaw, straight nose, eyes so dark they look almost cruel. Dark hoodie, hands in his pockets, hair slightly disheveled like he came straight from somewhere and didn't think twice about it.
"Seems like it found me," I say.
His eyes move over the books spread across my desk, reading the spines. Then they come back to me. He pulls out the chair across from me without asking, sits, leans back, and looks at me like he’s taking me apart very slowly.
It's unnerving.
It's also the most interesting I've felt in weeks. Not the warm, easy comfort of Beckett. Something different. Something with more edges. Like standing at the top of something tall and feeling your stomach drop, not entirely out of fear.
"Making progress?" he asks.
"Slowly."
He nods, like that's the answer he expected. His eyes stay on mine a beat too long, and I resist the urge to look away first, which I'm realizing is becoming a pattern between us — this quiet, low-stakes standoff where neither of us wants to be the first to flinch.
I came here to study.
I've known since I put on the green sweater that it was a lie.
Chapter 26: Adela
TheopicksupThePrince, flipping through the pages. He lands on the only page I have bookmarked with a sticky note. His finger traces one of my underlined passages.
"It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."
"Classic choice," he says. "Do you agree with it?"
"I think fear and loyalty are different things," I say. "Fear makes people obey. Loyalty makes them choose you."
His eyes lift to mine. Something in them sharpens. "And which one do you think sustains power longer?"
"That’s easy. Loyalty. Fear creates resentment. Eventually, people find a way to escape what they're afraid of."
"Unless they can't escape." He leans forward slightly. "What if the person holding power controls every exit?"
"Then they're not sustaining power through fear. They're sustaining it through imprisonment."
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Good distinction."
We fall into a rhythm, debating whether corruption starts at the top or the bottom of institutional hierarchies, whether Machiavelli was describing reality or prescribing behavior, whether modern politics has evolved beyond Renaissance power plays or just gotten better at hiding them.
I challenge him on several points. He doesn't get defensive or talk over me. He listens, his full attention focused on me in a way that makes my skin feel warm.
When I make a particularly sharp argument about judicial corruption masquerading as discretion, he leans back and studies me.
"You don't argue like someone who's been protected," he says.
The observation catches me off guard. "What does that mean?"
"Most people who grow up comfortable learn to avoid conflict. You lean into it."
I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult, but something about the way he says it makes it feel like the former.
"Maybe I'm just tired of avoiding things," I say quietly.
"Good." His eyes don't leave mine. "Avoidance is how they win."
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware that we've been talking nonstop for some time and I still know almost nothing about him.
