Chapter 40 Evie
EVIE
Idon’t know why Dean Whitehouser would request a meeting with me.
I’m even less sure how he got my personal number, but here I am, backpack slung over my shoulders, phone tucked into the pocket of a new pair of jeans.
I considered wearing my family approved skirt-and-blouse combo, but I figure this probably has something to do with my parents not paying tuition.
I might as well start embracing this new chapter of my life head-on.
“It’s abuse of power,” Tempest says, keeping stride with me as we pass the turtle pond and head toward the library. “The dean texting you. He can’t just access your personal information like that. Silas already has Noctis on it.”
“I’m sure he does,” I reply, a huffed laugh breaking through my worry. “Along with a full investigation into my family, my ex-church, and probably the first celebrity I ever had a crush on.”
Tempest raises a brow. “I thought you weren’t allowed to watch television, let alone movies with celebrities hot enough to crush on.”
“Ralph is pretty hot.” I shrug, my lips quirking into a grin. “I think it’s the way he’s allowed to wreck things, and everyone still loves him for it. Or maybe it’s the large hands.”
“The cartoon character?” Tempest laughs.
My grin widens. “Like you said, I had to work with what I had.”
She draws me into a hug as the administrative office comes into view. “I’ve got your tuition covered for next semester. Adrian already approved the liquidation of assets and is setting up an account for you to use.”
“Only as a loan,” I insist, already feeling the bite of shame.
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.