Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty- Seven
Zayden
The screen fades into a kaleidoscope of colors and a blur of text when the speakers static to life.
There’s no time to recover from the news or find the source of where it’s coming from.
What plays next is not music. Nor an announcement.
But a recording… One from beyond the grave.
My blood turns to sludge, trudging through my veins—thick and slow, cutting off the circulation from my lungs.
Sergio’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, cold and controlled, silencing everyone.
“Brad, you know what happens if you don’t listen.”
I’m sure if you dropped a pin right now, it would vibrate throughout the entire school. Even Professor Mason looks up at the speaker with a frown on his face. I’m too stunned to speak, let alone move.
“You want your mother to keep her job? Wanna go, big hotshot? Learn to submit.”
Someone gasps beside me, and another student whispers quietly, “No way…”
But it was him.
Thiago’s father.
My abuser.
Sergio Safra.
And that was Brad… who died last year. Whose death was ruled a suicide. The same asshole who killed June, who begs.
“Please… I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t… don't fire my mom.”
The whispers stop.
And all I can hear is someone’s little boy protecting his mom, and I can’t help the knife that twists inside my chest. My hands curl around the edge of the desk, leaning myself forward as if I could stop the discomfort that takes me prisoner, knocking the air from my lungs, when Sergio compliments him, the same way he did to me.
“Good boy,” he purrs. “Now, on your knees, show me how much your mother needs her job.”
The audio cuts, and Professor Mason is speechless, all the color drained from his face when he opens his mouth to speak, only to slam it back shut and walk towards his desk. Each step looks like it’s heavier than the next.
“Class is over,” he grumbles, dragging a shaky hand over his face.
The class must not have heard him over the deafening silence, which is odd, because no one moves.
Not even me. Blood rushes to my ears, making my head feel as if it’s underwater.
It’s not until Nico moves in front of me that I lift my gaze.
“Meeting,” he murmurs, giving me a sly smile, understanding my hesitation. My fucking pain. The memories that tape just tore up, making me bleed all fucking over. I stand up and follow aimlessly behind Nico as their voices continue to replay inside my head.
Outside, it’s chaos, students on their phones, gossiping and pretending to be detectives. Some random guy walks towards us, spitting on the ground.
“You soccer players just be sucking dick for a spot.” He humps the air, and I fucking lose it. My fist lands on his face with a force that knocks him to the ground with a grunt. I don’t think… I only straddle him, and all I see is red.
Each blow connects with a sickening crunch.
The adrenaline surge lulls my jittery nerves, time stills, and that familiar relief floods through me like a tidal wave crashing through my defenses.
Leaving nothing but this raw and primal destruction.
Strong arms clamp around me, Nico’s breath hot on my neck.
“ZAYDEN!” he snarls as I continue to thrash, trying to break free from his hold.
My arms are locked in the air as he snakes his arms beneath them, pinning them in place. His grip doesn’t loosen. I can feel his pulse hammering against mine, the heat of it crawling up my neck.
Nico’s voice is low and steady. “Breathe, Zayden. You’re done.”
I don’t realize I’m shaking until I take a deep breath in. My knuckles sting, the skin split and slick with blood. The guy on the ground groans, wheezing through what I’m sure it’s a broken nose. I want to hit him again, just to make the noise stop.
“Don’t…” Nico warns me like he could read my thoughts, and his arms tighten.
“Zayden.” My name slips from his lips like a plea, and it anchors me, forcing air back into my lungs. I look straight ahead, watching students gather around us, phones in their hands as they record. My shoulders slump, allowing Nico to pull me from the asshole, who scatters away like the rat he is.
Once on my feet, I shove away from Nico, my chest heaving and ears ringing. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching. By the time we reach the dorms, my adrenaline’s gone, replaced with dread. Especially when I take in the two dickheads standing outside my door.
“Where’s Wyatt?” Ezra asks.
“Do I look like his keeper?” I snap, aggravated that he’s here.
Aggravated that my secret can soon come to light, that my pain will be put on display for everyone to dissect.
The thought alone is enough to have me flying off the hinges, but I reel it in.
Elijah’s eyes dart between us; he’s too fidgety today, like someone who’s hiding something—but aren’t we all.
Ezra’s jaw ticks, his nose flaring when he moves closer. “Lay fucking low until further notice.”
I hold up my hands, showing him the carnage. Showing him the violence. With a smirk, I simply say, “Too late for that.”
His pale face reddens, and the perfect mask slips, showing the rage layered with exhaustion, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he glares at Nico and, for a second, I think he’s gonna say something. He doesn’t.
Ezra motions to his car, and like the bitch he is, Elijah follows him to his car, leaving Nico and me standing, glaring holes into the back of their heads. Nico's phone buzzes loudly, and given the nerves that take control of his body, I know it’s probably Shiloh.
I clasp my hand around his shoulder. “It’s okay, brother. Go.”
Nico looks at me with concern, and all I can do is give him a quick smile, even if it doesn't reach my eyes.
“I need to be alone,” I answered his silent question.
The one that wonders if I’m okay… I don’t wait for him to turn away when I start opening the door and step inside, closing the door behind me, without even bothering to glance back.
I force out a breath, hooking my fingers around the collar of my shirt to loosen the tension.
My thoughts are spiraling, and all I can cling to is Thiago. Is his dad dead? Does he know? I left him this morning, and now I wonder if I should have stayed… I walk towards my bed and plop myself down on the edge of it, phone in hand, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Me:
You ok?
I look down at the screen, expecting to see bubbles…
anything, but I get nothing. Only the feeling of my heart sinking into my stomach.
Suddenly, there's a loud knock at the front door, followed by three light ones. I want to tell whoever is there to go away, but the thought of it being Safra has me on my feet before I can decide against it. When I open the door, I’m once again speechless.
Fabiola stands there, perfect and composed, with a wide grin painted on her face.
“Hi, Zayden,” she greets me with a voice sweet enough to rot. “We need to talk.”
Thiago
Days blur together… a never-ending loop.
Strange how grief feels more like an obligation than an emotion.
I haven’t been back on campus or checking on Zayden.
I’ve been too busy putting out the fire and setting the stage.
And by stage… I mean, a funeral, which is happening at this very moment, and another shocker, it doesn’t feel like anyone is really mourning.
It’s more like a theater; everyone is dressed in black, and even their condolences are rehearsed and mechanical.
The firm employees stand in rows, polished and hollow, pretending my father was a saint.
Just the kind of bootlickers who would work for the great Sergio Safra.
Lucia sits silently in the far right of the room, surrounded by the petals and the other wives as she sheds a couple of crocodile tears, dabbing at her eyes with a blue silk handkerchief as she cries for the monster she called her husband.
It’s really so fake that I could laugh, but at least I don’t have to pretend. No one really cares.
Fabiola saunters over to me, dressed elegantly in a black dress that reaches her knees, her long brown tresses placed in a slick, low ponytail. Without a word, she slips her hand into mine. I feel nothing as her warmth embraces my coldness; her touch is nothing but a contract, not comfort.
Another performance for this sick circus. She gently squeezes my hand, reminding me of my role in this game, reminding me of what needs to be done. I wait until the priest finishes with his sermon and the service ends to step forward, gently tapping the mic.
Everyone stops, heads turn to the front, and I nod.
“Thank you to everyone who joined us for the celebration of my father, Sergio Safra. I know that we are mourning, but my father would have wanted me to carry on his legacy.” My voice is steady, just what I had hoped for when I spent hours rehearsing the lines.
I clear my throat, glancing over to the side, where Fabiola stands clutching her small bag.
I motion her forward. “To marry Fabiola. To take his place in the firm.”
The words taste sour on my tongue, bile clawing its way up my sternum, its acid burning everything in its path.
Fabiola plays the part beautifully, looking elegant as she slips her hand into mine and offers a small smile.
Nods of approval follow, and I grin, pretending that I’m not already planning the grand finale.
A shadow moves towards the back, a blur of black and milky skin.
A ghost seeing off the man who has haunted her.
My hand falls to my pocket, feeling the USB grow heavier inside of it. I lean into Fabiola’s ear. “I need to do something.” She dips her chin, her eyes looking past me and towards the group of women heading our way.
The switch is impossible to miss, the way her shoulders lift higher, along with her chin and even the air smells of confidence is impossible to ignore.
I knew she would be perfect… I watch as she moves around me without a word, and I quickly head towards the door.
Hoping that I can still catch my ghost. I spot the open door of the mausoleum, the perfect place to hide.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stride towards it, my heart finally finding a steady rhythm.
Maybe it’s because all the pieces are perfectly staged, and now the only thing left is to step into the fire.
I stop right outside the door, the chill of the stone pressing against my back. Wind blows against the dead trees, carrying the smell of lilies and death. Fitting for the kind of place that harbors death—including the truth that’s about to be buried here.
I don’t step inside, there’s no need.
“I know who you are…” I whisper loud enough so only we can hear, my fingers toying with the USB inside my pocket.
“I know you’re behind the gossip blog.” I let the words hang between us, allowing myself room to breathe before continuing.
“I put it together, after I saw…” My jaw goes tight, reconsidering my words.
“Eyes that know too much from experience.”
There’s no answer, only silence and the faint echo of my own breath. My hand closes around the small device, funny how much heavier it is—feeling like a loaded gun that carries every secret Villalargos should have swallowed.
“I’m your ally,” I add, my eyes on the small shadow that’s cast on the ground, the corner of my lip lifts at the realization my ghost is listening. “You can expose it,” I pause, letting the moment stretch. Or maybe it's a slight hesitation. “Or you can trust me. Let me burn it from the inside.”
This time, I don’t wait for an answer.
I offer my truce, the only bargaining chip I have. Setting the USB on the stone ledge beside the door.
“I’ll leave this here for you.” With that, I turn away as the wind shifts behind me, carrying the faintest rustle of movement from inside the mausoleum. And I smile at the ghost, acknowledging their ally. Or maybe not.
Either way, the fire has already started.