Chapter 5 – Tessa
Chapter Five
Tessa
The law library at seven a.m. runs on Adderall and espresso.
I claim a corner table, forming a defensive perimeter with my laptop and coffee.
Dark circles shadow my eyes, my hair is escaping the halfhearted attempt I made at taming it, and there’s still a faint patch of adhesive clinging to my arm from Rowan’s bandage.
I look exactly like a girl who didn’t sleep because she kept replaying that alley scene over and over, trying to figure out how she went from law student to leverage in under ten minutes.
Fucking Rowan and his games.
Whatever, I have a plan.
It’s not a good plan, but a plan, nonetheless.
I’m going to figure out a way to get out of this before Rowan collects his IOUs.
I crack my knuckles and open my laptop, pulling up a search engine and typing in coercion in law school.
Articles flood in on academic pressure, burnout, mental health resources, and one disturbingly cheerful listicle titled “Managing Law School Stress!” with an exclamation point that makes me roll my eyes.
Okay… well, that’s not helpful unless Rowan is planning to overwhelm me with study group invites and positive affirmations.
I try my search again, but this time, I type in, blackmail evidence through recording.
Several things pop up: criminal law basics, extortion statutes, consent laws. And a cheerful little wiki article on single-party recording legality.
And guess what? It’s all legal.
Of course, it is. Rowan King doesn’t make amateur mistakes.
I sigh and try one last search: how to get out of a verbal agreement.
Results like contract law 101, consideration, capacity, legality, and mutual assent populate my screen.
Great. All of that would be useful if IOUs operated like contracts instead of whatever black-market currency they actually are.
I slam the laptop shut and earn a glare from the girl two tables over.
Legal research isn’t going to save me.
This isn’t a hypothetical where I can cite Hadley v. Baxendale and walk away victorious. This is Rowan King we’re talking about, for goodness’ sake.
I need real intel of what I’m up against and who else is trapped in this craziness.
I scan the library, mentally cataloging the possibilities.
In the left corner, the obvious overachievers sit, reading their supplements. They seem like a logical choice, but then I remember they are too paranoid about... well, everything. There is no way they will gossip about Rowan, especially not to me.
I groan and scrub my hands down my face. This is more difficult than I thought.
Maybe I could—then I spot her.
Madison Carlile.
A third-year, who knows everyone and everything. She’s basically Havemeyer’s own TMZ, if TMZ had stronger sourcing and an ethical code.
If anyone has the inside scoop on Rowan’s IOU empire, it’s her.
I gather my things and head her way, trying to look casual.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her. “Quick question. Hypothetically, if someone—not me, obviously—got involved with Rowan King’s… network… how bad would that be?”
Her pen freezes over a half-finished bullet point before she looks up at me, her eyes locking on mine. “You didn’t.”
“I said hypothetically.”
“Tessa.” She leans forward, voice dropping to a low hiss. “Tell me you did not take one of his cards.”
She makes it sound like it’s a bad thing.
I open my mouth to lie, then close it.
“How many?” She sighs dramatically.
“How many what?”
“Cards,” she says. “IOUs. How many do you owe him?”
Even she knows Rowan doesn’t deal in singles. He multiplies leverage. Builds favors the way other people build retirement accounts.
I swallow. “Two.”
Madison’s face goes completely white. The pen drops from her fingers and hits the table with a click. “Oh, crap, Tessa. Two?”
“Is that... bad?”
She laughs. It’s the kind that sounds like it got stuck in her throat.
“Bad?” she echoes. “Tessa, two IOUs put you in the danger zone. That’s not casual debt anymore. That’s serious leverage territory.”
My stomach drops. “What does that even mean?”
Madison glances around the library before leaning in. “You remember Sarah Hendricks?”
Nodding, my memory flashes back to a quiet girl in my torts class who used to carry a highlighter in each hand.
“She started with one favor,” Madison says. “She needed help with a grade dispute. Nothing huge. Professor Lowell wouldn’t budge on the curve. Rowan made a call, and just like that, Sarah’s B+ became an A-.”
“That doesn’t sound so—”
“She’s been doing Rowan’s research ever since. Last week, I saw her formatting citations for a clerkship recommendation packet at two in the morning.”
I blink. “That’s not—”
“Marcus Webb,” Madison cuts me off. “Remember him? Tall guy, vintage band T-shirts, always faintly smelled like weed?”
“Yeah.”
“He, too, started with one simple IOU. By the end of last semester, he was driving mystery packages across state lines for random gas station pickups. No questions asked.”
I stare at her. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
She doesn’t even pause before moving to the next name.
“Lily Morrison. She took a card sophomore year when her mom got sick and she needed tuition money. She was smart. Top 5 percent of her class. Had offers from three Supreme Court justices and Cravath lined up after graduation.”
I nod slowly.
“She turned them all down,” Madison says, her voice low. “She’s working for Rowan’s uncle now.”
I blink. “Why would she—?”
“Not because she wants to.” Madison’s voice sharpens. “Because she literally can’t afford to say no.”
The nausea hits fast, the coffee in my stomach curdling.
“But they could just… stop, right?” I ask. “Say no. Walk away.”
Madison stares at me.
“You really don’t understand how this works, do you?”
She pulls out her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen.
When she finds what she’s looking for, she turns the screen toward me.
It’s a group photo from some law school networking event—the kind where everyone’s in business casual, pretending to enjoy lukewarm cheese cubes and small talk about tort reform.
But that’s not what she’s showing me.
She’s pointing to the background.
Barely visible, tucked into the corner, a girl I don’t recognize is handing off a manila envelope to a man in an expensive suit. The exchange looks casual, but there’s something off about it.
A chill creeps up my spine.
“That’s Emma Valdez,” Madison says. “Graduated three years ago. Top of her class. Editor of Havemeyer Law Review. Full ride to Stanford for her JSD.”
“Okay...” I say slowly, but the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me this story doesn’t end with a happily ever after.
“She turned it all down. Stanford. The fellowship. The research position that would’ve launched her academic career.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“Because Rowan made sure every other option vanished. Letters of recommendation got delayed. Interview slots were ‘accidentally’ filled. Her thesis advisor stopped returning emails. Meetings were canceled. Doors just… closed.”
The blood drains from my face. “He can do that?”
Madison’s voice softens.
“Tessa. His dad’s a federal judge. His mom sits on half the nonprofit boards in the city. His network includes prosecutors, managing partners, Supreme Court clerks, and donors whose names are etched into the walls of this building.”
She locks her phone and slips it into her bag. “When Rowan King wants to end someone’s career, he doesn’t need to break the law. He just needs to make a few phone calls.”
Every part of me is still, except for my heart, which is trying to escape through my ribcage.
“There has to be something,” I whisper, hating how weak I sound. “Some way to fight back. Some kind of leverage—”
“Against Rowan?” Madison snorts, one eyebrow raised. “Tessa. People have tried and failed.”
I can’t catch a freaking break.
“But what if someone had proof?” I ask, pressing my hands flat against the table.
Madison looks at me for a long moment. I can see her deciding—should she let me cling to the last shred of hope, or just burn it down for my own good?
She chooses fire.
“What kind of evidence do you think you could get,” she says slowly, “that his network couldn’t explain away... or make disappear?”
I don’t answer.
Because I already know the truth.
None.
There’s no smoking gun. No paper trail. No recording damning enough to matter.
IOUs aren’t contracts. They’re loyalty tests. Currency in a system that isn’t illegal.
Madison reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
“I’m sorry, Tessa,” she says gently. “But you need to accept reality. You owe him two favors. And Rowan King always collects.”
Of course, he does. How was I even thinking that I could go up against the king himself?
I sigh and offer her a weary smile as she gets up to leave.
Maybe it’s not as hopeless as it seems.
In one last desperate attempt, I open my laptop and pull up the search engine.
If I can’t escape the system… maybe I can flip it in my favor.
Maybe Mr. Perfect isn’t as spotless as he thinks.
I search for Rowan’s name, which leads to searching his family’s names, then his father’s rulings, and his mother’s charitable donations. Every link I follow turns into five more. Every breadcrumb leads to another carefully curated trail.
Two hours later, I’ve got a comprehensive digital dossier on the King dynasty.
Judge Harrison King, nominated to the Federal Appeals Court.
The King family donates $2 million to legal aid.
Rowan King, Havemeyer Law Review Editor, wins national moot court competition.
Every article reads like it was written by a publicist. Every photo is polished—smiling at galas, shaking hands with senators, posing beside Supreme Court justices.
No scandals. No controversies.
Even his social media is spotless. Just headshots and accolades. No party pics. No dumb tweets from high school. No evidence he’s ever been reckless, impulsive, or human.
It’s as if someone pressure-washed his entire digital footprint.
I close my laptop and press my hands to my face.
I’m completely and thoroughly screwed.
More than screwed, actually.
I’m fucked.
I reach for my phone but end up staring at the lock screen instead.
For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to change the photo of Rowan and me, back when things were good. Back when I thought I was smart enough to out-argue him and dumb enough to believe I’d won.
Now it’s just me and a dog who can’t hold his bladder for more than three hours.
I drop the phone onto the table and lean back, staring up at the ceiling.
The truth is, Rowan King is untouchable.
And me? I’m one more Google search away from total annihilation.
Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong.
Or maybe I’m trapped with a manipulative sociopath.
But I know better.
Rowan is no sociopath.
That time I got food poisoning from the dining hall sushi and spent two days switching between my bed and the bathroom floor… Rowan showed up with soup, saltines, and exactly zero judgment. He sat on the floor beside me and read my assignments out loud while I tried not to die.
He never made me feel like I owed him.
Never made me feel small.
The boy I fell in love with is still in there somewhere. Buried under all the strategy and tightly controlled cruelty. I saw flashes of him in the alley. In the way he bandaged my arm. In the way he gave me a cover story instead of just taking what he wanted and disappearing.
Could it be he still cares for me?
Possibly.
This could be his twisted version of holding on because he doesn’t know how to ask. Because asking would mean admitting that he still cares, and caring is weakness in whatever cold-blooded chess game he’s been playing since I left.
Or maybe I’m an idiot, and it’s simply revenge.
But what if it isn’t? What if, beneath all the sharp edges and IOUs, he hasn’t completely let me go? That has to mean something. Maybe it means I can stop running. That I can use the one thing I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist—his feelings for me, however mangled they’ve become.
Because if Rowan King still cares, even a fraction, that’s leverage.
And I know better than anyone what he does with leverage.
So, I’m going to stop spiraling. Stop waiting for the next ambush and start playing. Not at his level, of course. But I can learn. I’ve been underestimating myself since this started, and it’s gotten me nowhere except cornered.
I straighten in my chair, the weight in my chest shifting into something sharper. Something closer to resolve.
Because Rowan King has forgotten something important about me.
I don’t just break rules when I’m desperate.
I break them when I’m angry.
And I definitely break them when I love someone enough to fight for them.
Right now?
I’m all three.
So, I’m not running. I’m not hiding. And I’m sure as hell not begging for mercy.
I’m going to do what I do best.
I’m going to fight dirty.
But not against him.
For him.
Because if Rowan King thinks he’s the only one who knows how to manipulate a situation, he’s about to learn something new about the girl he used to love.
I don’t break easily.
I don’t surrender quietly.
And I’ve never met someone I couldn’t save.
Even from themselves.