Page 94 of The Bargain

Everything on my list is now more or less ticked off.

Nowhere does it say: save Elias Lennox from fulfilling his obligation, save him from the Pearsons, make sure he goes to Harvard too.

But then, my list never told me to fall in love with him—and I still did.

So maybe that’s why I find myself heading for the boys’ dorm room with my letter. If I’ve heard back from Harvard, then maybe Elias has heard from his own university applications. If he even applied. No matter how hard Elias tries to seem like he doesn’t care about school, I know he has the grades and the intelligence to get into the world’s best universities. Not to mention the influence now—Spearcrest, the Pearsons, the Brotherhood, all the connections he made through our deal.

Why risk the terms of our bargain if he wasn’t going to leverage them to secure his future?

“Looking for your little boyfriend?”

I start and turn: Julian is leaning against one of the old oak trees lining the path up to the boys’ dormitory. He looks like he’s not been sleeping well either—shadows under his eyes and a slightly wan tint to his skin. But the expression on his face oozes smug satisfaction, and I immediately feel alarms going off in my head.

I look away and try to hurry past him, but Julian shoves himself away from the tree and into my path, a grin broadening on his face.

“He’s not there, but I can tell you where he probably is.”

“I can work it out on my own,” I snap.

“Oh? So you must know all about this new friend of his, right?”

How much did I hate myself that I ever allowed this person near me?

I meet his gaze. “Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not going to work.”

“It’s not?” Julian widens his eyes and shakes his head. “Right—sorry, you probably already know about him and Ophelia.”

My skin goes ice cold. My muscles tense, my body suddenly hard and numb, as separate from myself as a suit of armour, heavy and ill-fitting. Julian, pressing his advantage, swipes his new phone with an indifferent flick of his thumb, turning it to show me his screen.

I don’t want to look—but I can’t help it.

Footage taken from a window of the courtyard outside the Old Manor, near the broad flat steps. Ophelia, eyes huge, talking intensely up at Elias, who listens in silence, nodding every now and then.

Ophelia, who’s been avoiding me all year, who hasn’t spoken to me since we came back from our Christmas break. Ophelia and Elias—who hasn’t said a word of this to me.

And I don’t know which is worse—Ophelia speaking to Elias, or Elias speaking to Ophelia.

Maybe that’s the most painful part of this: not the betrayal, but the fact that it’s both of them, and I’m the odd one out. Neither of them could tell me the truth. Neither of them could trust me.

Like I’m not even worthy of their trust.

“I can see you’re upset,” Julian says quietly, sliding his phone back into his pocket and drawing closer. “This must hurt. But hey…” He smiles down at me. “So long as he’s good in bed, right?”

There’s a loud crack—my arm moves before I even realise. His head goes snapping to the side, his lip split from the impact. My palm stings. I don’t bother destroying his phone a second time. He’ll just replace it and get a new one. I turn around and walk away before I can see his reaction…

Before he can see the tears in my eyes.

37

Infinite Things

Elias

“I wanted to give it to you in person,” Mr Mazzati says, beaming. “Mr North and I were over the moon when we received the news—first time I’ve ever seen that man crack a bottle of champagne at work. Don’t tell anyone.” His eyes crinkle. “You must be so proud of yourself, Elias. You’ve earned this. You have a bright future ahead of you.”

When he was twenty years old, did Mr Mazzati watch one of those cheesy films where the fancy, well-spoken teacher discovers that the underprivileged teenage rascal is actually a genius? Has he been waiting his whole career for this glorious moment, being the noble hero in my pitiful story?

But no. Mr Mazzati’s goofy smile and crinkled eyes are sincere enough to disarm even my cynical mind. Mr Mazzati isn’t proud of himself for getting me into Harvard: he’s proud of me for getting myself there. It was obvious from the way he handed me the acceptance letter, from his expression when he watched me read it, from his gushing review of the essay I wrote for my scholarship application.