Chapter 22 #2
“Hey. You missed—”
I grab his waist and pull him in for a hug. He clutches my head to his chest, and I relish the embrace. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
The warm peck he plants on the top of my head soothes me, especially when he squeezes tight. “I’ll never ask for anything as long as I get a hug like this. You got me wrapped around your finger, you know that?”
I nod. “I should’ve texted, but I forgot.” When I pull back, he holds me at arm's length and stares at me like I’m hiding secrets…because I am.
His thumbs wipe away a tear that escaped. “Who do I need to kill, my baby? Tell me.”
Forcing a smile, I shake my head and step back. “No one, Dad. Just overwhelmed. Missing Naomi and the other girls.”
With a formed grimace, he nods. He doesn’t believe me. “I’m always here. Waiting.”
“I apologize for not going to the chancellor’s luncheon. Should I call them or write a letter?”
“No. It was me trying to find someone suitable for you…someone worthy of Olivia Cardell. My little blade. But there’s no one.”
I aim toward the kitchen, and he follows. “Is that why I haven’t been appointed yet?”
“Because I scare off all the suitors? Maybe…”
Alice rushes Dad and hugs him like she’s jealous and has to wipe off our moment with her own. “Dad. I want to get appointed to Duke Joseph.”
“No.” Dad, Ryan, Aiden, and Henry all pipe in at the same time.
Her lower lip sticks out dramatically, but she bounces on her toes. “I will marry him. I’ll show you all.”
“I’ll murder my best friend’s son if you do. No hesitation,” Dad says as he settles in at the dinner table.
This begins a riotous family argument about who Alice can date and when.
Their laughter rings out, a familiar cacophony of teasing and half-serious threats. But all I can think about is how soon Alice will be in Omega. How soon she’ll be “appointed” to some senior boy like a party favor wrapped in pearls.
I don’t want this cycle for her. The fake smiles and obedience disguised as pride. The suffocation of debt masquerading as destiny. Shame with every wrong decision.
A fresh wave of nausea hits when I remember Reggie’s summer internship offer. If others know about it, I’ll be expected to take it. A good servant of Caliphylla would honor it.
But after what he did—
A dream enters my mind, if only briefly… What if I could run away with Elliot?
Who would I be without all the rules?
Can I escape?
Or has my mask already fused with my skin?
Sunday night fades like a bruise under silk, made worse with the announcement of the vice president candidates.
When the sun rises on Monday morning, so does the version of me they want—the girl who smiles, studies, and doesn’t bite. Not yet.
Nick loves to hear himself talk.
Before class, I’ve heard his entire exercise routine and weekend adventures on his father’s yacht. To which I’m graciously invited.
He’s moved on from party gossip to costume ideas, and I think he’s decided we’re going as a “matched pair” to the Omega party this Friday because he just said the words “zombie bride and groom” and “you’d look hot covered in blood, Liv.”
I hum. If he only knew.
My sound is not a yes. Not even a maybe. But he doesn’t notice. Nick only hears himself.
Then the seat beside me shifts. And my body freezes.
Elliot.
“Morning, Queen Omega,” he says softly as he slides into the chair like he’s done a dozen times before. His tone is warm, teasing, familiar—dangerously familiar.
My pen doesn’t stop moving. I underline the word “power” three times in my notes, even though the lecture hasn’t started.
“Big Nick energy this morning,” Elliot adds with a chuff, nodding toward the chatterbox on my other side. “Is that what I missed? You two eloping yet?”
He grins until his dimples deepen.
I don’t. Silence hangs. Uncomfortable. Brittle.
Elliot blinks, as if realizing the joke didn’t land. The desk squeaks as he slips lower in his seat. His smile falters as he whispers, “Olivia?”
I breathe through my nose and flip to the next page of my notebook.
“I—” he starts, then stops. His voice drops lower. “Is everything okay?”
Nick finally gets the social cue and glances between us with one eyebrow raised. “Uh, should I not be sitting here?”
“You’re fine,” I say without looking at either of them.
Elliot shifts slightly, confused but still trying to play it cool. “I just thought— I mean, after this weekend…”
I cap my pen.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I tell him. “But maybe don’t assume things just because they felt a certain way to you.”
It’s cruel. It’s surgical. And it guts him clean. But it’s very necessary, no matter how nauseating it feels to say.
He goes quiet, and I feel it happen. The moment he shuts down.
Professor Navarro opens her lecture, and for the next hour, I focus straight ahead, not looking at Elliot. Because if I do, I’ll remember the sounds he made when I rode his face like it was salvation.
I’ll remember how safe I felt in his arms. The warmth from our kisses and the utter rapture of the fantasy that I could be his.
And I’ll remember the fierce slice of wax across my skin when Vanq reminded me who I belong to.
So I sit and listen with a straight back. I take notes.
And I pretend Elliot never happened.
Even if he’s the only thing I’ve wanted in a long time.
The minute class ends, I gather my things like they’re armor. Notebook. Pen. Lip gloss. Everything is in its place. Everything neat and perfect.
His taut body moves beside me hesitantly as we head out to the busy hall. I hate that it still causes me to tingle, knowing he’s so near.
“Olivia—”
My name rolling off his tongue makes my spine stiffen.
Despite my casual yet hurried pace, he walks beside me. Falls into step like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t ignore him the entire hour.
“Look, if I did something wrong, just tell me.” His voice makes a painstaking crack.
“You didn’t,” I murmur, eyes fixed straight ahead as we march out of the building and I motor toward Sorority Row.
“But you’re—different. You won’t even look at me.”
Because if I do, I’ll fall apart. And Vanq will tear him to pieces. And I’ll let him.
“Things are just…complicated,” I say, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.
Elliot laughs softly, trying to downplay the sting. “What? Because of Nick?” He nudges me gently with his elbow, playfully. Desperate. A little mirth lifts his question, but I still hear the pain. “Come on. That guy’s got the emotional depth of a beer pong table.”
“Don’t,” I snap and face him. That single word stops him mid-step.
“Don’t what?”
Caliphylla, help me. He’s so gorgeous when I’m about to break both his and my heart. “Don’t joke. Don’t smile like everything’s okay. Don’t make this harder.”
He stares at me, searching my face like it holds clues, but I’m not going to confess. The wind rustles his sandy-colored hair as his green eyes search the cloudless sky for an answer before he fixes them on me. I squirm under their gaze.
“Was I a mistake?” he asks quietly. Fragile and vulnerable.
I hate that it hits me like a car wreck.
“No,” I whisper. “But it can’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
Because he’ll kill you.
Because he’s watching.
Because if I let you touch me again, I won’t survive what happens next.
But I just shake my head. “I’m sorry.” I step back. “You were nothing but kind. I just…can’t right now.”
Elliot watches me go. He doesn’t chase me or speak.
He just stands there. Bag slung over one shoulder. Mouth parted slightly. Like I’d just shot him clean through the chest. And I feel it, too.
I don’t look back, but the guilt sinks in so fast that I feel like I’m drowning in acid. This isn’t what I wanted. Not at all. I wanted hope. Maybe even something close to love.
But now all I have is fear. And fire.
And the image of Elliot’s shattered face burned into the back of my eyes.
Vanq will pay for this.
As determined as I am when I get back to my room to shut the stalker out of it completely, I gasp when I see my diary opened to a fresh page with a new note card waiting for me on the bed.
A reckoning waits where shadows grow.
He walks unknowingly toward your flame—
A nameless man. A bloodstained name.
The watcher’s eye is fixed on you,
A trial in silence. A test born true.
No altar here—no priest, no prayer—
Just breath, and blade, and midnight air.
Is vengeance chosen or divinely fed?
Does justice tremble or raise her head?
Mark the hour. Steady your hand.
This time, the lamb does not withstand.
On the back? A date. A location. And a time.