Chapter 26 #2
I look at Jessica's empty chair again. The victory I felt last night—the cold, diamond-hard determination—curdles into something sour. This isn't justice. It's a hit.
"Did you hear who filed the complaint?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"No names mentioned," Maya says, turning back to her machine. "Just that an 'anonymous donor' was concerned about the integrity of the program."
An anonymous donor.
I close my eyes for a second. Gio didn't yell at Jessica. He didn't threaten her, didn't get his hands dirty. He just opened his checkbook and used his influence to make a pest disappear. He fixed it.
The problem is, he didn't fix my problem. He removed my obstacle. He took a situation where I was the victim and turned me into the girl who needs her boyfriend to fight her battles. He just proved Jessica right.
I'm not an architect in this room anymore. I'm a protected asset. And that is infinitely more dangerous than being a target.
I find him in the hallway outside the locker room, leaning against the wall like he owns the bricks.
He's got his phone in one hand, scrolling, but his head snaps up the second I turn the corner.
His eyes sweep over me, assessing for damage.
He sees the fatigue, probably. He sees the tension in my shoulders. He doesn't see the rage.
Gio straightens up, tucking the phone into his pocket. "You look like hell."
"Rough night," I say, stopping three feet from him. I don't touch him. I don't close the gap. "Jessica's gone."
"I know." His voice is flat. Unbothered.
"Of course you know." I cross my arms, hugging the fabric of my jacket against my chest. "Did it make you feel good? Writing that check?"
He frowns, a small crease forming between his brows. "What are you talking about?"
"The 'anonymous donor,' Gio. The sudden review of her financial aid." I keep my voice low, but the edge is razor-sharp. "You erased her."
"She was a distraction." He says it like he's discussing the weather. "She was wasting your time and fucking with your work. Now she's not."
The casual dismissal makes my blood boil. He doesn't get it. He really doesn't.
"I didn't ask you to handle it," I say, taking a step closer, forcing him to look at me. "I had it handled. I was fixing it."
"You were scrubbing dye off the floor, Zoe." He scoffs, shaking his head. "That's surviving it. There's a difference."
"I was reclaiming it," I snap. "I was turning a mistake into a feature. I was proving I could survive the hit without you swooping in to save me."
"Why the fuck would you suffer through that if you don't have to?" His voice rises, just a fraction. He's irritated now. "I have the resources. I used them. Problem solved."
"You removed the obstacle." I poke him in the chest, hard. "You took a situation where I was the victim and turned me into the girl who needs her boyfriend to fight her battles. You just proved Jessica right."
He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not bruising. He holds my hand against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel the steady, rhythmic thud.
"I don't give a fuck what she thinks," he says, his eyes boring into mine. "And I don't give a fuck about proving a point. I care about results. You're stressed. You're tired. You're losing sleep over some petty bitch with a dye pot. So I cut the line. I removed the variable."
"You managed me," I say, the realization settling cold and heavy in my stomach. "You didn't protect me. You managed the situation so you wouldn't have to deal with my stress."
"I'm the person who fixes things when they're broken," he says, his jaw set. "You're welcome."
The words hang in the air between us, dripping with a condescension so thick I can taste it. It's the final straw. The cold, hard fury that's been building in my chest since I saw that empty chair finally ignites.
"No," I say, my voice dangerously quiet. I pull my wrist out of his grip, the movement sharp and deliberate. "You're the person who breaks things and then pays to have the mess cleaned up."
I take a step closer, getting right in his face, so close I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"You broke my trust when you went behind my back.
You broke my project when you made my victory meaningless.
And you tried to break my spirit by making me feel like a damsel in distress who can't handle her own shit. "
I poke him in the chest again, harder this time, my finger a weapon. "The only thing you didn't break was me."
His face pales. The arrogance in his eyes flickers, replaced by something that looks dangerously like shock. He opens his mouth, but I'm not finished.
"This was a deal, Gio. A ruse. A transaction. You held up your end of the bargain, and now you need to hold up yours. The part where you stay the fuck out of my life. My battles. My studio."
"That's not what this is," he starts, his voice rough.
"Isn't it?" I cut him off, my voice dropping to a near-whisper that's more menacing than a shout. "Just because we've fucked doesn't change the terms. The contract is fulfilled. You got your public girlfriend, I got my internship ticket. We're even."
"Even?" He repeats the word like it's a foreign language. "Zoe, that's not—"
"The deal is over, Gio. Back off."
I turn to walk away, but he moves faster than I expect. His hand slams against the wall, cutting off my path. He doesn't touch me, but he creates a cage I can't ignore.
"You want to walk?" he says, his voice low and lethal. "Go ahead. But the internship goes with me."
I freeze. I stare at his chest, refusing to look up. He's using my future as a weapon. He's holding the only thing I actually care about hostage.
"You wouldn't," I say.
"I made the call to get you in," he counters. "I can make another call to get you out. Elena Moretti owes me a favor, Zoe. Not you. If you walk out that door, you're walking away from your career."
I look up then. I meet his gaze, and I see the challenge in it. He's demanding submission.
"You're a bastard," I say.
"I'm the only reason you have a future," he says. "You want to play the victim? Fine. But you don't get to play the victim and the rebel at the same time. Pick one."
If I stay, I lose my autonomy. If I go, I lose my career.
"I'm not playing anything," I say, my voice trembling with rage. "I'm done."
Ducking under his arm, I walk away, leaving him standing there in the empty hallway. The silence I leave behind is heavier than any argument. It's the sound of a contract being torn in half.