Chapter 25 Kill Switch （Kieran）
KILL SWITCH (KIERAN)
Outside, the quad is bright with late-winter light, snow melted down to dirty mounds at the edges of the walkways. It’s subtle, but I feel it—the shift in attention. Heads turn. Conversations dip, then pick back up.
“Is it me,” I murmur, “or is everyone staring more than usual?”
“I thought this was your baseline,” she says under her breath.
A group of girls by the nearest bench definitely aren’t subtle. One nudges another, eyes flicking between us, then down to her phone. Wren moves a fraction closer. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that her sleeve brushes mine.
The noise around us sharpens—less generic chatter, more pointed energy.
She tilts her face up, eyes bright. “So,” she says lightly, “CEO O’Connor.”
I huff a laugh. “Don’t start.”
“Feldman practically knighted you,” she says. “I’m just acknowledging the promotion.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
“Immensely.”
I slow, then stop in the middle of the path and turn to face her. People detour around us; a few slow down to stare. I don’t care.
“All right,” I say, eyes on hers. “If you’re going to call me CEO in public, I’m going to start acting like it.” I let my gaze dip to her mouth, then back up. “If it increases productivity.”
She arches a brow. “Is this how you talk to your co-founder?”
I hold her eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
She studies me for a beat—the way she does right before committing to an answer. Then she nods once. “Yeah.”
Something tight and unfamiliar settles in my chest. Not fear. Not regret. Just the quiet awareness that I didn’t correct her.
We keep walking, hand in hand.
There’s a visible ripple through the crowd. Phones come out. Conversations pause. This isn’t Kieran O’Connor with another girl. This is Kieran O’Connor and the tutor. The rumor, upgraded to canon.
“Guess we just broke the internet,” I murmur.
“Luckily it’s a closed campus network,” she says, smiling now. “Contained failure mode.”
A couple of my teammates spot us from across the quad. Dalton gives a wolf whistle and Riley claps his hands over his heart. I flip them off without letting go of her.
For half a second, it feels easy. Like this is just how things are now.
We pass the café, its windows fogged, fairy lights tangled around the frames.
That’s when I see Isabelle.
Tucked into a corner table. Posture perfect. Expression arranged in that curated, bored-princess way. Watching us like she already knows exactly what this is going to cost me.
There’s a guy with her, black turtleneck, wire-rim glasses, broad chest. The brooding-intellectual type who speaks four languages, bench presses for aesthetics and quotes Camus between sets. Her usual prey.
But she’s not looking at him.
She’s looking at us. At our joined hands.
Her lips curve—slow, sharp. Calculating. Like she’s three moves ahead in a game I just started playing.
I squeeze Wren’s hand a little tighter and keep walking.
The café door swings open. Isabelle steps out, treating the quad as her personal runway, camel coat sharp, sunglasses perched on her head.
Her eyes skim our joined hands, then lift to my face.
And stop.
Whatever she sees there—whatever softness I didn’t mean to show—turns her features sharp and cold.
“Well,” she purrs. “Finally.”
Wren stiffens beside me.
“Isabelle,” I say. Flat. A warning.
This is my fault. I gave Isabelle ammunition.
Her attention slides to Wren with a slow, poisonous smile. Then she glances at me again, recalibrating.
“Oh, Kieran,” she says softly. “Such...progress.”
The bet sits like lead in my stomach. Every word Isabelle says to Wren now carries the weight of what I agreed to.
My jaw flexes. I keep my expression neutral. “We’re heading back for a tutoring session,” I say lightly, the subtext clear: drop it.
Isabelle tilts her head, pretending to think.
“Of course,” she murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.”
Her emphasis slices cleanly.
I hold her gaze for one sharp second. Surprise and irritation flicker across her face, quickly turning cold and mean.
“Well,” she says, fully facing Wren now, “some girls do move quickly.”
A soft, cutting pause.
Then she slips into French. “Alors, chérie…tu crois vraiment que c’est sérieux? Tu sais qu’il s’ennuie vite.”
The space between us turns dangerous.
“Isabelle—” I hiss, stepping in front of Wren, instinct kicking in hard and fast. Whatever she said was meant to cut—and I let it happen.
That’s the truth I can’t dodge.
But Wren shocks the hell out of me.
She presses a hand to my chest—firm, decisive, not asking permission. Moving me aside like I’m the one who needs protecting.
Then she speaks, and my jaw actually drops.
“Peut-être. Mais ce n’est pas à vous d’en décider.”
That’s when I realize Isabelle didn’t underestimate Wren.
She underestimated what it would cost me to watch this happen.
The quad gasps. Someone snickers. Someone else whispers, “Holy shit.”
And me? I’m standing here watching the quietest girl I know go full lioness in a second language, staking a claim.
On me.
My chest does something complicated and warm. Heat slams through me so fast I’m surprised I don’t combust right here on the quad.
This woman. This fucking woman.
Isabelle blanches for a heartbeat, then shoves her cruelty back on like armor.
“You...speak French?”
Wren lifts a shoulder, cool as ice. “Enough to know when someone’s being a bitch.”
A laugh punches out of me, helpless and stunned.
That’s the moment Isabelle breaks.
Not dramatically—she’s too disciplined for that—but the veneer cracks.
Her lips freeze mid-smile. Her pupils tighten. A tremor flashes through her jaw so fast anyone else would miss it.
For Isabelle Merteuil, being laughed at is the unforgivable sin. The line you don’t cross unless you want a war.
She recovers in a single inhale. “Always full of surprises,” she says coolly. “You’ve been that way since freshman year. Walking around the quad with your study partners, so focused on your equations you never notice who else is there.”
Wren blinks once. “I’m sorry—what?”
Isabelle’s smile is smooth, false, weaponized. “Some people just...attract attention. Even when they don’t mean to. Even when it’s not theirs to take.”
The last phrase lands with extra weight—possessive, bitter.
Wren’s brow furrows. “I don’t remember ever talking to you, Isabelle.”
“That’s the thing,” Isabelle murmurs. “You never have to do much. Just exist in the right place. With the right people.”
Her gaze flicks to me one more time, assessing whether I’m still playing along, then she adjusts her sunglasses.
“Well,” she says softly. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
She turns and disappears into the café, heels clicking with finality.
The quad exhales around us. Conversations resume. Phones get pocketed.
Wren squeezes my hand once, jaw tight. “What the hell is her problem?”
I swallow hard. Part of me wants to tell her everything—the bet, the dare, the whole ugly beginning. But if I tell Wren the truth, she’ll never agree to be mine.
Better to let Isabelle think she’s still winning. Let her think I’m still playing. Eventually she’ll get bored and move on to her next game.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
But something about what she just said bothers me. Freshman year. Study partners. The right people.
A flicker of a memory reels through my head: Isabelle leaning into Theo outside the café, fingers on his arm, that tiny recoil he tried to smooth over. The way her eyes followed him when he walked away.
I didn’t think much of it then.
Now paired with that line—the right people—it makes my stomach twist.
“Long story,” I say quietly, shelving the thought for later. “But tell me, genius, how do you speak French like that?”
She studies me, not buying it, but letting it go for now. Something in her eyes says, “we’re coming back to this.”
“I spent summers in Paris with my mom,” she says finally. “She had flute masterclasses. I did day camps with French kids. It stuck. We went every year until karate got too intense.”
I thread our fingers tighter and guide her forward, needing to move, needing to think about something other than Isabelle’s games.
“That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, meaning it.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
As we reach the corner of the quad, I stop walking. “Hey.”
She looks up, cheeks still flushed from the adrenaline of the fight.
“There’s a party tonight,” I tell her. “Bay State. The guys are going.” I pause. “Come with me?”
Her breath catches. “Like...as your date?”
“Yeah.” I brush my thumb over her knuckles. I want it to look normal. Easy. Like this isn’t a bomb I’m carrying. Nothing dramatic. The more boring we are, the less reason Isabelle has to keep watching.
Her lips curve, slow and warm and a little disbelieving. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She squeezes my hand. “I’ll come.”
Relief and something warmer floods through me. “Good.”
As we walk away, I glance back once. Through the café window, I can just make out Isabelle at her table. She’s on her phone now, typing with focused intensity.
The guy in the turtleneck is still trying to get her attention. She’s ignoring him completely.
I turn back to Wren and force myself to forget about it. For once, I want things to be simple.
It’s just a party. Just us. Nothing to worry about.