Why is accepting help seen as a bad thing? I have so many negative associations with it—shame, pity—but Tempest isn’t pushing any of that. I want to know I’ve earned my degree on my own, but what percentage of students at Grace University were born into generations of wealth? I’m one of them—was one of them—and I’m only now beginning to understand how deep inherited privilege and systemic injustice go.
So, I’ll accept help where I can. And maybe one day, I’ll be the one extending a hand.
“Only a loan,” Tempest agrees, turning down the path toward her next class. “Now get in there and show the dean you’re not going anywhere.”
Clouds roll in overhead, bringing a chill with them as I cross in front of the small chapel and reach for the door. The lobby is filled with bored students waiting in stiff chairs to be called back. I approach the receptionist behind the desk. His long blonde hair falls forward as he focuses on his phone. An awkward smile twists my lips as I wait for him to acknowledge me.
“Transcripts, degree planning, or financial aid?” he asks, still not looking up.
“Oh, um, Dean Whitehouser wanted to meet with me.”
He lifts a perfectly manicured brow, his gaze sweeping over me. He takes in the frame of my body, color of my eyes,and shape of my face before something in his expression shifts.
“Yes, I heard something about that,” he says, pushing back from the desk. Something about his gentle, almost pitying tone makes my spine stiffen. “I’ll take you myself.”
“That’s not necessary,” I start, but he’s already moving.
I do my best to catch up, vaguely noting the fruity perfume lingering in the hallway. It’s sharp and oppressive, the kind of scent that triggers the beginning of a headache—and flashes of familiarity I can’t quite place. The smell only grows stronger as we enter a separate wing, the grey walls giving way to an open space that might be lovely if the floor-length windows weren’t hidden behind thick blinds.
A thin woman with dark hair and glasses sits at a small desk in the center of the wide room, blocking what appears to be a large office. Wooden doors, lacquered in a deep tint, are shut—a clear signal to stay the fuck away. But the blonde receptionist pays no mind.
“Sorry about this, Sloane,” he says, winking as he strides past the girl, who looks to be maybe a year or two older than me. I assume she’s the dean’s secretary because her eyes widen, panic flashing bright in her gaze.
“Ash, wait,” Sloane calls, scrambling after him as I hover awkwardly near her desk.
“You were going to quit anyway, right?” Ash tosses over his shoulder with a shrug.
“You couldn’t give me a fucking heads-up?” Sloane glances between us, shaking her head as she snatches her bag and hurries for the door. “Good luck, Evie. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
My brows furrow, lips parting with a question, but she’s already gone.
“Are you ready?” Ash asks, his voice gentle as his fingers hover over the handle.
“Ready for what?” I ask, flinching as another wave of that suffocating orange blossom perfume hits me. God above, I haven’t had a migraine come on this fast since I was stuck in our hotel room while Mother met with someone from church.
I blink. My heart stutters, then starts to race as I recognize the perfume.
Ash gives a sympathetic shake of his head a second before opening the office door.
And exposes my mother—bent over the dean’s desk, with her skirt bunched around her waist as Dean Whitehouser drives into her from behind.
41
EVIE
Ew. Ew. Fucking ew.I’m not sure if the words actually leave my lips, but they blare through my mind as my mother throws her head back in what is obviously a fake moan, oblivious to me standing here in horror.
“Christ,” Dean Whitehouser curses, his eyes wide with mirrored shock.
The sight of them, coupled with the scent of my mother’s cloying perfume, sends nausea twisting through my stomach as my headache spikes to new heights. As if on autopilot, I’m sprinting for the door, desperately wishing the loud pounding of my heartbeat would drown out the sounds of bodies shifting and a belt hastily being adjusted.
“We thought you should know about the affair,” Sloane says as I burst into the lobby. I glance back to find her seated behind the desk, looking sheepish but composed. “Dominic, Adrian, and Bane helped us out of a tough situation. I know this isn’t usually something they concern themselves with, but they’ve mentioned how happy Silas is with you, and once I heard your mom trying to force us to kick you out, I thought this mighthelp you stay. I wasn’t expecting you walk in on anything that… overwhelming.”
“Thank you.” I swallow, my eyes darting toward the hallway behind us at the sound of rushed footsteps.
“Ask about tuition,” Sloane mutters as I start for the door. My brows knit together, but the faintest whiff of chemical orange hits me again and I’m out of the office before I can ask what she means.
Pricks of bitter rain ping against me as I duck my head and keep moving, stuck in a half-walk, half-run even as I hear my mother call my name.
