23. Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Anastasia
M rs. Briar’s classroom is warm and inviting, always feeling like a space meant to keep you safe. The walls are lined with student projects, soft yellow lighting overhead, the faint scent of lavender drifting from the wax warmer on her desk.
But today, something feels off.
She sits at her desk, blankly staring into the distance, gnawing absently on the end of her pencil. Her fingers itch at her thigh in a sporadic, almost anxious motion. There’s a slight tremor in her hands, and her posture stiff, almost withdrawn, is nothing like the composed, confident woman I’m used to seeing.
She looks tired. More than tired.
Puffy eyes, a little more disheveled than usual, her blouse slightly wrinkled like she hadn’t bothered to smooth it out before coming in.
Like she had been crying.
Like she had been crying not long before I got here.
I shift on my feet, my own thoughts still tangled in the storm of the last hour. Now that the adrenaline rush of Roman’s threats and my confrontation with Noah has worn off, Elijah’s cryptic text is the only thing left lingering in my mind.
"He won’t be bothering you anymore."
I texted Noah the second Elijah made his bold claim, needing to know what the hell had happened. His response?
"Meet me by my bike after class."
Nothing more. Nothing less.
I barely made it through the rest of my schedule, skipping more classes than I probably should have, but Mrs. Briar’s was the one I promised myself I wouldn’t miss.
Looking at her now, I wonder if she even wants to be here.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice cautious. I keep a fair amount of space between us, not wanting to startle her.
She jolts slightly, clearly not expecting anyone to speak.
Dragging her fingers under her eyes, she wipes away the remnants of what can only be tears.
What the hell is going on?
“I-I’m fine,” she chokes out, the words brittle, crumbling the second they leave her lips.
She’s lying straight through her teeth.
Stepping closer, I gently pluck the pencil from her fingers before she ends up swallowing the eraser at the rate she’s gnawing on it.
“Did something happen before class?” I prod, searching her face, piecing together whatever puzzle this is.
I can’t help but wonder if her not-so-charming husband has anything to do with why she looks like she’s been run through the wringer.
Clearing her throat, she straightens in her chair, her expression hardening.
“I know,” she whispers.
Something in my chest goes still.
I glance at her sharply, schooling my features into the best look of confusion I can muster.
“Know what?”
Playing clueless is the only option I have left.
Her hands tremble as she smooths down the fabric of her skirt, like she needs something to do, something to keep her grounded.
“You know what I’m talking about, Ana.” Her voice is sharper this time, her eyes laced with accusation, “Don’t make me say it out loud.”
My mouth parts, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
“No, ma’am, I really don’t-”
“Noah.”
The name leaves her lips like a blade.
My stomach drops.
She stares at me, unwavering, the weight of her next words crashing down before they even fully leave her mouth.
“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”
Glancing around the room, I half expect to see an officer stationed at one of the desks, waiting to escort me out in cuffs.
Mrs. Briar clears her throat.
“Thirty minutes, Ana,” she whispers, her voice steady, unreadable. “The thirty minutes between classes, I told you, I am not your teacher then.” She pauses, exhaling sharply. “But I need to know what’s going on.”
Gripping the edge of my desk, my knuckles ache from the pressure.
She may not be my teacher right now, but she’s still his wife.
And after seeing the way Roman so shamelessly rifled through Noah’s desk, the way he prowled around like he had the right to own every piece of this school, I can’t afford to see her as an ally.
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” I whisper, my voice tight. “If Walker or Cole spoke to you-”
“I heard him, Ana.”
Her voice cuts through the air, sending ice down my spine.
“I heard Noah speaking to your friend Elijah,” she continues, her expression unreadable. “Elijah barreled into that classroom, ready to go to war for you. Noah denied nothing.”
My stomach twists.
“And my husband, Roman,” her voice falters for just a second before she steadies herself, “he told me he saw you in Noah’s classroom well before class had begun. He said it looked like you had been caught.”
My breath locks in my throat.
And then I laugh. A sharp, humorless sound, bitterness bleeding through the cracks.
“You’re seriously casting judgment my way?” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “When your husband was a goddamn priest? Your priest?”
Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t waver.
“Allegedly,” she quips.
“Allegedly,” I repeat, shaking my head. “Well then, Mr. Ackerman is allegedly fucking me.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
Mrs. Briar exhales slowly, then rises from her desk.
She moves toward me, not with anger, not with judgment, but with something else. Something I can’t quite name.
Then she asks, point-blank.
“Do you love him?”
My chest tightens.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I-”
“Yes or no, Ana.” She doesn’t let me run, doesn’t let me hide. “Do you love Noah?”
The weight of the question crushes against my ribs, suffocating, too heavy to hold.
And before I can stop myself-
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He’s been a distraction.”
Mrs. Briar’s face softens, but the sharpness in her gaze never fades.
“Do you think he loves you?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
The words slice through me like a blade.
Memories flood in. Every moment, every touch, every shared breath.
“After tonight, Ana, if you think what I did to you was love, then you’re as fucked up as me.”
Noah Ackerman does not love.
Noah Ackerman cannot love.
“No,” I bite out. My hands shake as I grip my desk harder, as if grounding myself against the truth will make it hurt less. “Noah doesn’t love me. We only just met-”
“Then end it,” Mrs. Briar pleads, stepping closer. “End it before one of you is scorned because of your actions. I read your portfolio, Ana. You are brilliant... a girl who doesn’t need this to hinder her future.”
My lips curl in something bitter, something sharp.
“Hinder my education?” I scoff, heat rising in my throat. “That is the least of my fucking problems.”
I snap.
The words spill before I can stop them, the dam breaking, the flood unstoppable.
“My father is dying,” my voice cracks, but I don’t stop, “lying in a bed thinking I’m here, making something of myself, when in reality, I’m fucking terrified to leave my dorm. Because I know Cole and Walker are just waiting for me to screw up-”
Mrs. Briar stills, her expression shifting.
“Cole and Walker-”
“I’m not done.”
The words rip from my throat, raw and furious, cutting her off before she can finish.
“Ever since Cole sank his claws into me, my life has been his to dictate.” My breath is ragged, my hands trembling with anger. “Every decision, every move I make, it’s all been his. And then, for one fucking moment, I found something that reminded me I still have control. That I am more than a screw-up, more than something to be owned. And now you’re asking me to throw away the one goddamn comfort I have-”
“There is comfort, Anastasia,” Mrs. Briar interrupts, voice softer, but no less firm. “And then there is recklessness.” She takes a slow breath, shaking her head. “If Noah truly cared for you, he would resign. He would find a way to make this work-”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Only cold, bitter rage.
“Did Roman?” I shoot back, voice sharp as glass, knowing exactly where to cut. “When you started banging your priest, did he leave his job?”
Her face stiffens.
“Roman and I were much more complicated than that,” she says, her tone clipped. “My parents-”
“There’s always an excuse,” I hiss, slamming my hand down on my desk. The impact rattles the room, the force of my anger breaking free. “But you’re not my goddamn mother. And I don’t need you inserting yourself where you don’t belong.”
Rage drips from every word.
Mrs. Briar inhales sharply, the quiet stir of students gathering behind the closed door pulling her back.
She steps away, gaze flicking toward the chalkboard.
“Maybe you’re right,” she murmurs, fingers curling around a piece of chalk.
I sink back in my chair, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, taking the small victory where I can.
But then...
“The priest,” she mutters, pausing mid-stroke on the board.
Something shifts.
“I knew he loved me.”
Her words are venom to my heart.
And then she turns slightly, her gaze locking with mine.
“That’s the difference between Roman and Noah.”
My stomach lurches, but I refuse to break eye contact.
“Are you really willing to go to war for someone who doesn’t even love you?” she whispers.
My throat tightens as I open my mouth to protest.
But nothing comes out.
I have no answer.
Because I don’t know.
Mrs. Briar tilts her head slightly, as if reading the truth in my silence.
“That’s what I thought,” she murmurs, turning back to the board.
A hollow ache expands in my chest.
“And if I do love him?” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Mrs. Briar exhales, slow, steady.
“Then you will do the right thing,” she says softly.
“And you will let him go.”
The bell rings.
The door swings open.
Students begin filing in, the classroom coming alive with the usual chatter, the usual noise.
But her words linger.
And you will let him go.
The problem is, I have no idea how to let go of Noah Ackerman.