9:05 AM.
9:10 AM.
He's making me wait on purpose. Another power play.
At 9:17, the door opens. But it's not Theo who walks in.
It's Ian.
He scans the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who evaluates threats for a living. When his eyes land on me, something shifts in his expression. Not surprise. He knew I'd be here. Which means?—
My phone buzzes again.
Change of plans. Meet at my apartment. 10 AM. Don't be late.
He sends the address.
Ice spreads through my veins. I look up to find Ian already standing at my table, his presence drawing curious glances from nearby students. He doesn't belong here in his dark jeans and fitted black t-shirt, looking like he stepped out of some military thriller while the rest of us play at being academics.
"He's not coming," Ian says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"How do you know that?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with the panic that's been building since I woke to that message.
Ian doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. His movements are controlled, deliberate. Nothing wasted.
"He sent you another message," he says. Not a question.
I stare at him, mind racing to connect dots I didn't know existed. "Are you following me?"
"No." The denial is immediate, firm. "I'm following him."
The implication hangs between us. Richard's words from last night echo in my head: *I'll handle it.*
"What's happening?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper. "What did you do?"
Ian's eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. "Nothing yet." He nods toward my phone. "What did he ask for?"
I should lie. Should tell him it's none of his business. Should handle this myself like I've handled everything else in my life since I was sixteen and realized no one was coming to save me.
Instead, I slide my phone across the table, the message still open on the screen.
Ian reads it, his expression unchanging. Then he looks at me, really looks at me, in a way that makes me want to hide and stand taller simultaneously.
"He has a video," I say, the words burning my throat on the way out. "Of me. At the club."
"I know."
Two simple words that shift the ground beneath me. "How?"
"Our security system flagged his behavior. We have measures in place." He hands my phone back. "Richard takes privacy seriously."
"Then why didn't you stop him?" The question comes out more accusation than inquiry. "If you knew he was filming?—"
"We didn't know until after." Ian leans forward slightly. "The video he sent you can't be shared. It's already been remotely corrupted."
Relief floods through me so intensely that for a moment I think I might pass out. Then suspicion follows close behind.
"That's not possible," I say. "You can't just... delete someone else's files."
