Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Thiago
It’s been days since I took Zayden back to his place and found his dad dead.
Like the true asshole that I am, I haven’t sought him out.
Instead, I’ve been avoiding him, haunted by that night, by the question gnawing at the back of my mind, making it impossible to breathe, let alone think.
I stare into space, the vintage decor blurring out of focus the deeper I sink into my head.
The chandelier above us glints like a noose strung in diamonds, beautiful and opulent.
It catches the morning light like a warning, casting fractured halos across the table as if mocking the idea of grace.
“The merger would happen soon, between the companies? Why don’t you invite your friend for dinner?” My father’s voice pulls my attention toward him as he cuts into his medium-rare steak, blood mingling with the rich brown juices. “Did you hear me?”
I nod, even though I didn’t quite understand what he meant.
Or what friend he’s actually talking about.
The words slide past me like oil on glass—merger, dinner, and company talk.
None of it matters. My father continues to chew; the burn of his stare has my skin feeling like it’s crawling with insects.
“You should hang around Peter and Ezra, it will do you well.”
My stomach turns at the mention of their names.
I barely had an appetite, and now it’s entirely gone.
Using the fork, I push the food around my plate, watching the blood swirl around on the white porcelain.
The memory of the picture floods my mind, and once again I’m…
I’m left with only one question, and the only person who could answer it, I’m not sure I can trust them to be honest.
“Filho!” My father slams his hand on the table, snapping me out of my thoughts.
My back straightens as I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, it was a long night.”
I wasn’t lying; it was a long night. I’ve been busy babysitting Nico and making sure he’s staying away from Shiloh.
My night consists of glares and trying to piece together who’s behind all of this.
After all, an enemy of my enemy is a friend to me.
Lucia sits across from me, silent as always, sporting a new bruise that she tries to hide behind foundation and a practiced smile.
Her eyes flicker towards mine, and I make the connection then…
That’s what drew me in, the familiarity.
She looks away before I have a chance to really pinpoint the resemblance.
Every time I look at her now, it’s like staring at a puzzle already solved.
My phone buzzes, and I use it as the perfect excuse to rise from the table and from the farce illusion of a family breakfast. I’m not even sure why I’m here.
Why did I drive back home instead of the dorms?
Maybe deep down I wanted answers. Maybe I wanted to be in the comfort of my own hell.
Instead, I got nothing but a few strands of hair to test my theory.
I push back the chair, excusing myself despite my father’s disapproval.
My finger slides across the screen, answering the call, before pressing the phone against my ear.
There’s a moment of silence, then there’s heavy breathing.
I consider hanging up, but something keeps me rooted in place, in a silent battle of wills.
Who will speak first? Just as my mouth opens, static fills my ears, before a distorted voice cuts in. “I know what you did.”
My eyes widen at the accusation. I’ve done a lot of the things, but I’m certain this is something else entirely.
My heart skips a beat as I gather my thoughts to speak.
There’s more heavy breathing on the other end of the line before the call ends.
While I remain standing here, my blood running cold, the words echo in my skull.
Over and over. Until my pulse spikes and my throat tightens.
I glance back at the dining room, where Lucia sips her coffee like nothing’s wrong.
Where my father continues to carve into his steak. I swallow hard.
Someone knows…
And I can’t allow that.
I grab my bag and head out the door. The drive back to the campus is longer than it should be.
I guess that’s what happens when you take a scenic route to clear your mind.
At least that was the idea—hoping the cold air and winding roads would lift the fog.
It didn’t. If anything, it only opened the doors for more questions. I need control. Leverage. Anything.
But first, I need to do some testing.
By the time I pull into the lot, the campus is already buzzing with students.
The cold weather did nothing to deter them from gathering like insects, swarming every corner of the campus with their laughter and curated chaos—a stark reminder of how lonely this life can be despite the luxury.
This world is pretty solitary when there’s no one you can really trust. Money can buy most everything, except love and loyalty.
Two lessons I’ve come to understand the hard way.
I thread my fingers through my waves, trying to ground myself, but it’s no use.
I’m grasping at straws, and I hate how that feels.
Once I park my car, I head straight towards the west wing, where I’m sure I’ll find just the person to test my theory, and then go find her.
Fabiola. Just the crowned one I’m looking for.
I’m sure she will be huddled up in one of the art rooms, like most of the crowned ones in Villalargos.
They attend this school for status. For optics.
For legacy. The only curriculum a crowned one needs is how to take dick and how to make the babies that inherit a good last name.
Nothing else matters.
University is just a lobby—consider it the most expensive waiting room. I weave through the sea of students walking towards class, ignoring the fact that I have one to attend to myself, and find her exactly where I expected.
Perched on a stool, sketching something that looks like a bleeding crown. How cliche. Fabiola's eyes flick up when she sees me, but she doesn’t stop drawing. “Have you thought about my proposal?” I ask as I pull out a chair, flipping it so the back is to my front before I straddle it.
She doesn’t look up. “You already have a crowned one, Safra. Or did Allison disappear?”
I lean forward, annoyed with merely the mention of her name—that’s how I know I can’t marry her, not even if it were a farce.
There’s no way I could fake it with her.
I need someone that I wouldn’t mind being around, someone I could learn to trust, and someone who has something to lose, and that person is the beauty sitting right in front of me.
“Allison can’t be my wife.”
Fabiola rolls her shoulders, chewing the inside of her cheek as she studies the canvas. “I can’t help you there.”
“But you can, I know you all have secrets.”
She looks up then, a smirk playing on her lips. “And what’s in it for me, Safra?”
“Freedom, as I said before, our marriage will only be on paper.”
Fabiola's lips stretch wider until a deep throaty chuckle escapes past her lips. “Freedom?”
I nod, to which she shakes her head with disapproval and snorts. “You’re delusional to think any of us have any freedom.”
“I guess so, but it’s the best shot at it. Or can you think of something better?” She tilts her head, finally setting the charcoal down and looking directly into my eyes. “What exactly do you want?”
“To burn it all. I just need a wife I can trust to sell the white picket fence dream.”
She laughs at that. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you enough to know you prefer being with a woman,” I add quickly.
It's already creepy that I know so much about Fabiola, but after the night at the ball, I needed to gather as much information as I could about my future bride. So here we are. I’m placing all my cards on the table, praying it doesn’t bite me in the ass.
This place is crawling with people who hate Velarium, who know the truth, but are too powerless to stop it.
And maybe I am in over my head, but the least I can do is try.
“I also know that I’m the best shot you've got for living that lifestyle you crave. Can you imagine which of the elites your family will sell you to?”
She flinches at that; each of my words lands exactly how I intended them, causing her to narrow her eyes. “What about Allison?”
“Expose her, I know she’s fucking Ezra’s dad.”
Fabiola's eyes go wide at my admission. I’ve known for a while. I simply didn’t care, still don’t actually. Again, secrets are currency within this place, and I’m ready to spend. She leans back, arms crossed over her crisp uniform shirt.
“You want to expose her? Wouldn’t this strain your relationship with your best friend?”
I nod. “I know, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good.”
“And this is?”
I nod again.
Her lips twitch. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly, I just need you.”
Fabiola inhales deeply through her nose, and her gaze moves towards the large windows in the room. “How?”
“That part you leave to me. I just need you to get me the inside scoop.”
Her gaze snaps towards me as she shakes her head. “No, no way.”
I let out a sigh. I’m so tired of playing by the rules. Tired of pretending this place doesn’t destroy everything it touches, pretending like I’m not my father’s son. “You either expose her. Or yourself?”
She slams her palms into the desk, her brown eyes shooting daggers at me. “Fuck you, I won’t let you blackmail me.”
My response is a lazy shrug. “Like I told you that night, your secret is safe with me as long as you do as I say.”
I know I’m being hypocritical, but I need her. Fabiola’s jaw clenches, knuckles growing white from the strain. I can see the war behind her eyes, the calculation and the fury. Yet, she doesn’t look away, because she knows I’m right.
Fabiola doesn’t speak right away; instead, she lets the silence stretch between us. Until it becomes unbearable. Her eyes flick between the canvas and me. I can practically see the puzzle come together in her mind. She’s calculating, weighing her pride against survival. Then, finally, she exhales.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” she says, her eyes moving towards the phone in my hand. “But if you ever use that, I’ll make sure you choke on it.”
I nod, agreeing with her threat. “Fair enough.”
She grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and walks out without another word. The heels of her boots echo down the hallway. I stay behind, staring at the drawing of the bleeding crown; it’s not just art. It's a prophecy.
My phone buzzes again.
My blood turns to ice; my heart grows painfully slow.
The room tilts. June. Ezra. It didn’t make any sense.
I scroll down, unable to process the news.
There’s a blurred screenshot, with a timestamp that places them together two weeks before her death.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t need confirmation.
I know that room. I know that bed, and I know all those tattoos.
They belong to Ezra. And I know what this means.
Wasting no time, I storm out of the room, making my way towards the locker room.
By the time I reach the dead fields, the boys are already gathering.
Nico’s face is pale despite all the purple and green bruises that adorn his face.
Zayden’s mouth is clamped shut, and Ezra stands in the center, unreadable as ever.
Wyatt is the first to speak. “Is this fake?”
Ezra doesn’t answer, because it’s not. And suddenly, everything we built—every lie, every alliance, every sacrifice—is hanging by a thread, and who knows who's holding the scissors.