17. Alex
Chapter 17
Alex
I barely have time to catch my breath before Atlas glances over his shoulder at the now closed door, his movements slow and unbothered, as if nothing unusual is happening.
“Gets drafty down here sometimes,” he says casually, as if that explains everything.
I blink, momentarily thrown off by his nonchalance.
“Wait, hold on,” I say, my heart still racing.
“You came from a different entrance—where did you—?”
Atlas glances back at me with a smirk, as if this entire situation is something he finds humorous.
“The vault has more than one entry point. I took the one inside Altair’s main building, down a few corridors. Most people aren’t aware it exists.”
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog from my thoughts.
“This place is—it’s like a maze.” I pause as I take it all in.
“But seriously. What is this place?”
He arches an eyebrow, taking in the room with its flickering lights and heavy air.
“The Vault of Nightfall is a restricted section. It’s a place where the school keeps things that aren’t meant to be out in the open. Not your typical library stuff. More like…detailed records. History, family lineages, the kinds of things most students don’t need everyday access to.”
“Wait.” I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued.
“So…you’re saying this room is full of like, secret knowledge?”
A chill creeps down my spine as the weight of his words settles in.
History. Family lineages.
It would explain the article—and the photo.
But what I can’t stop wondering is who was looking.
Was it Atlas? Trying to find out more than he let on?
Or was it someone else entirely?
Atlas shrugs, looking completely unconcerned.
“Exactly. Just know, if you ask too many questions, people start to notice. You don’t want that. Trust me.”
I look around, the walls of the vault feeling even colder now, as if someone were listening.
“I-I came in from the greenhouse. Up above,” I say, pointing in that direction.
“Yes,” he says slowly.
“And as I already mentioned, I came from the main building.”
I scoff, annoyed by his slow tone.
“Wait a second… Why are you down here? If this is supposed to be some sort of hidden, secret place, how did you learn about it?”
Atlas lets out a small chuckle, completely unbothered by my question.
“First off, I’m a professor, Alex.” He pauses, glancing at the stack of books in his hands.
“Second of all,” he says, holding them up, “I’m just returning these.”
He walks over to a shelf, methodically putting each book back.
Normally, his calm, friendly demeanor would be soothing, but in this particular situation, it just feels irritating.
I watch him for a moment, my confusion building, before my eyes shift back to the room around me.
Who else knew about this place?
Once he finishes placing the last book, he straightens up, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
“I don’t get a lot of visitors down here,” he comments offhandedly, looking around as if it’s no surprise.
“But you’re welcome to take a look around if you feel like it. Plenty of material to expand your horizons.”
I glance around the room again, my eyes scanning the shelves and the table at the center surrounding the brass eagle, trying to make sense of it all.
The weight of the atmosphere presses on me, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is off about this hidden room.
“Look, I’ve got somewhere I need to be,” he says, pulling my attention back toward him.
His lips twitch slightly.
“If you find something that catches your eye, help yourself.”
“You’re just going to trust me down here? Alone?” I ask, my tone aghast.
Atlas glances at me, his jaw tightening for a moment before he smooths it with a small exhale.
“You’re an adult,” he says, his voice now carrying a hint of restraint.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. But I really do need to go.”
Atlas gives me one last look before turning toward the door he came through, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
The door creaks open, then shuts quietly behind him.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the spot where he left, the weight of the quiet room settling over me.
The silence here feels different now.
Heavier. Like the room’s watching.
Waiting.
I shift my footing, unsure what to do with myself.
Curiosity drags me back toward the shelves.
The rows of books seem endless.
I pull a few books from a shelf, flipping through them, but they’re all the same—ledgers, timestamps, dates, and records that make no sense to me.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot the table again—the one where I found the article earlier.
I move toward it slowly, drawn back by something I can’t explain.
The photo’s still there, tucked between yellowing pages, just where I left it.
I slide it out carefully.
My father. Younger, sharper, standing with the same three friends who’ve become names I keep hearing over and over.
Legacy families. Secrets.
Power.
I stare at their faces, my thumb brushing over the edge of the worn photo.
Whatever this place is, whatever it holds—this picture feels like a key.
I fold it once and shove it into my pocket without hesitation.
No way I’m leaving that behind.
It would explain how someone got it in the first place.
The Vault of Nightfall—full of hidden records, family histories, things buried on purpose.
But who was digging into mine?
Was it Atlas… or someone else entirely?
I scan the shelves again with new eyes, like maybe there’s something else waiting to be uncovered.
But all I find are more records I don’t understand—names, dates, codes that don’t mean anything.
Yet.
I lean against the table, the photo a silent weight in my pocket, my thoughts drifting away from the records and back to the greenhouse above.
The plants. The hours I spent there today, carefully observing.
The feeling of the soil in my hands, the light filtering through the glass, the way every plant felt like a small discovery.
I close my eyes for a second, imagining the soft rustle of leaves, the scent of earth.
I can almost see the pages of my botany notebook—my observations, sketches, and notes I’ve gathered over time.
The notebook that’s still in Bishop’s hands, probably sitting in some random corner of his room, mocking me.
I wish I had it back.
I wish I could just pull it out, add to it, mark down the latest plant I’d discovered.
Something real. Something alive.
Not… this.
A frustrated sigh escapes my lips, and I decide to take the staircase back up the way I’d come.
I make my way to the stairwell, the air growing colder as I climb.
By the time I step out of the vault, night has fully settled over the campus, the sky a deep, ink-black canvas dotted with stars.
The faint glow of the streetlights casts long shadows across the cobblestone as I make my way back toward the dorm buildings.
I pull my jacket tighter around me, the night air biting at my skin, and pick up my pace.
My mind keeps circling back to that notebook.
My notebook .
The one filled with hours of work, private thoughts, quiet discoveries—mine.
It burns in my chest, an ache I can’t shake.
The anger swells each time I think about Bishop—how he took it from me, how he’s sitting in his dorm room, probably flipping through it like it’s some kind of joke.
Back in the vault, I found information that held someone else’s story.
Someone’s history. My father’s secrets laid bare in brittle pages and fading ink.
That had felt wrong, invasive—even if I was the one holding it.
And now, someone else is holding mine.
Maybe that’s why it’s eating at me.
It’s not just a notebook.
It’s everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve studied tonight on my history.
It’s a part of me—and now it’s out of my hands.
Just like that photo.
Just like the truth I didn’t ask to find.
The more I walk, the more the frustration rises inside me, twisting into a sharp, seething anger that I can’t shake.
How dare he? Who the hell does he think he is, just taking what’s mine without a second thought?
He’s been making my life a living hell since the moment I set foot on this campus, and he’s been getting away with it, over and over.
He took my notebook, my work, something that’s mine , and didn’t even bat an eye.
And that’s not even the worst of it.
The guy nearly got me killed —he nearly drowned me, for god’s sake, and that’s something I won’t forget.
As if that wasn’t enough, he somehow managed to track down my mother, drag her out of the facility she’s been in for years, and parade her around like some kind of puppet.
But it didn’t stop there.
He made sure I lost contact with Clara—my sister —cut me off from the only person who actually gives a damn about me.
And now I’m standing here, alone, angry, and all I can think about is that notebook.
It’s just one more thing on top of everything else.
How much more of this am I supposed to take?
Could I have just gone out and bought a new notebook?
Of course, but it wasn’t about that.
It was about standing up for myself, about reclaiming what was mine.
I slip into the Ashbourne dormitory, relieved to find the hallways empty.
No students wandering around, no one to witness what I’m about to do.
I take the stairs quickly, moving with purpose toward Bishop’s room.
There’s a faint, sour smell drifting through the corridor—subtle but definitely there.
I can’t help the small, smug smile that curls at the corner of my mouth.
Guess the vent sabotage finally kicked in.
Good. Let it fester.
When I reach his door, I hesitate for a moment.
What if someone sees me?
What if I get caught?
But then I think of my notebook—my observations, my discoveries, everything I’ve recorded.
I have to do this.
I can’t even talk to Clara anymore.
My phone privileges were taken after the last incident, and the school’s made sure I stay cut off.
No more calls. No more letters.
And that’s the strange part.
Because somehow, letters from Elle still manage to get through.
Little updates. Polite encouragements.
All things I refuse to open or acknowledge.
And yeah, maybe I miss my sister, but I’m not that desperate.
Not desperate enough to give my father’s girlfriend the impression that we’re building something real.
That we’re close. At least…
not yet.
It’s almost worse than silence.
Like Elle’s trying to fill the space Clara left, and I’m supposed to pretend that’s enough.
Because weeks ago, I would've done anything just to hear her voice. Now? With everything that's happened—cleaning fountains, helping Aubrey, getting dragged into Legacy politics, running around campus like a ghost—I haven’t really thought about her.
At least, not like I used to.
It’s not that I don’t care about her.
It’s just… I’ve had enough to deal with.
And maybe that’s what I needed—to stop living like I’m only okay when I know she is.
Bishop, unintentionally or not, gave me that distance.
When he forced me to look somewhere other than the past, he also forced me to stop leaning so hard on Clara.
Maybe it was cruel. Or maybe it was necessary.
And maybe I hate that he was right.
Well, indirectly at least.
But still, this?
Getting my notebook back?
This is something I can control.
And I’m going to get it back.
I’ve waited long enough.
I press my ear against the door, listening for any signs of life.
Silence. I try the handle, and to my surprise, it turns easily.
Unlocked. Either Bishop is incredibly trusting, or incredibly stupid.
But no, I quickly dismiss that thought.
Bishop is far too calculating to be either.
Maybe he’s just confident—arrogantly so.
The kind of bold that doesn’t bother with locks because he knows no one would dare mess with him.
I push the door open slowly, wincing at the slight creak it makes.
I slip inside, closing and locking the door behind me.
There’s no way I’m leaving anything to chance.
I can’t let my shadow come back in without precautions.
I need to be extra careful now.
Bishop’s room is surprisingly neat, with everything in its place.
The bed is made, books are stacked neatly on the desk, and there’s not a stray piece of clothing in sight.
It’s almost eerie, a stark contrast to the chaos I feel inside.
I begin my search, careful not to disturb anything.
My eyes scour every surface—the desk drawers, the bookshelf, even under the bed—but there’s no sign of my missing notebook.
However, atop the desk, underneath a row of framed black-and-white landscape photos sits a white box adorned with a delicate bow.
With cautious curiosity, I open it, only to find a seductive lingerie set nestled within.
A deep sigh layered in disappointment escapes my lips as I quickly close the box back up and place it back where I found it.
My frustration only intensifies with each passing minute, as I continue my fruitless search for my beloved notebook.
Where could he have possibly hidden it?
My mind races with possibilities, but none seem to lead me any closer to finding it.
I continue my search, checking under the mattress, briefly shuffling clothes in the closet, even behind the curtains.
Time is ticking away, and I know I can’t stay here much longer without risking discovery.
As I’m about to give up, a glint catches my eye from the corner of his closet.
I freeze for a moment, my gaze drawn to a brown leather bag tucked away, almost hidden beside a neat pile of clothes.
My heart leaps. Could it be in there?
I kneel down, the air thick with anticipation, and carefully reach for the bag.
Running my fingers over the buttery, dark leather, I can feel the worn texture—it looks like it’s been well-used, the kind of bag that’s seen its fair share of travel.
My fingers trace the edges, looking for a way to open it without leaving any sign of my intrusion.
I pause, my hand hovering over the bag’s clasp.
Somehow, this feels worse than breaking into his room.
More intimate. More deliberate.
His open room could’ve been a coincidence—someone left a door unlocked, someone got curious.
But going through his bag?
That’s a choice. A direct line into what he carries with him.
What he protects.
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
But then I push aside the doubt—because when has Bishop ever respected my boundaries?
The answer: never.
This?
This is just me evening the score—or at the bare minimum, tilting the scales my way a little after everything he did to me.
Unfastening the latch, I open the bag and peer inside.
To my amazement, I find a camera nestled among various lenses and accessories.
A camera? I hadn’t pegged Bishop as the photography type.
But curiosity takes over, pulling me in despite my better judgment.
I carefully lift the camera from the bag—it’s a vintage model, old-fashioned but meticulously cared for.
The kind of camera you see in old photographs or in the hands of someone who appreciates the weight of history.
I turn it over in my hands, running my fingers over the weathered leather and brass edges.
The camera feels like something out of another time, out of place in this era of digital everything.
I snort under my breath.
Of course it’s an old camera.
Nothing here is ever simple or modern.
It fits perfectly in a place like Altair—where they don’t even allow cellphones, let alone anything that might actually make life easier.
As I examine the camera, I notice a stack of photographs tucked into the side of the bag.
I pull them out gingerly, holding my breath, afraid to disturb something.
The first image is of the boathouse, taken at night, the moon casting its pale light across the water, ripples distorting the reflection.
The trees surrounding it reach toward the sky like dark fingers, their shadows stretching across the still surface of the shoreline.
There’s a haunting quality to the photo—something quiet, almost mournful, in its beauty.
The second photograph is of an old wrought iron gate, rusted and twisted, half-covered in ivy.
A mist hovers over the ground, blurring the details in a way that makes it seem like the scene is caught between two worlds—both real and dreamlike.
I flip through a few more images, each one of a scene from around campus—landscapes, architectural details, and empty hallways—nothing that seems to explain why Bishop would take such an interest in them.
It’s all eerie and beautiful, but it doesn’t make sense.
Why would he spend so much time capturing these things?
What was he trying to preserve?
Just as I’m about to go to the next photo, a sharp sound from the hallway breaks my concentration.
Footsteps. I freeze, the camera still in my hands, listening intently.
The footsteps grow louder, steadily approaching Bishop’s door.
Panic surges through me.
I don’t even think about it—I just grab the stack of photographs and shove them into my pocket.
I scramble to get the camera back in the bag, my movements frantic.
My hands shake as I try to position it exactly as I found it, fumbling with the clasp, silently cursing the tremors running through me.
The footsteps are right outside the door now.
I dart across the room, searching desperately for a hiding spot.
The closet I was just in is too obvious.
Under the bed? No, it’s too low for me to fit.
My eyes land on the heavy, floor-length curtains by the window.
It’s not ideal, but it’s my only option.
I dive behind the thick fabric just as the faint click of a key turning in the lock hits my ears.
I hold my breath, trying to make myself as small and still as possible.
The curtain barely settles into place when I hear the door open.
I can hear movement around the room, footsteps that are slow and deliberate.
My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure everyone must hear it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to become invisible.
The footsteps pause, and I hear the faint sound of something being set down.
Then, a soft rustling—a mirror being adjusted.
And then, the unmistakable click of a lipstick cap coming off.
I peek through the curtain, just enough to see a reflection in the mirror.
Ophelia. She’s standing there, lips parted as she carefully applies bright red lipstick.
It’s bold, the color vibrant against her skin.
She puckers her lips, inspecting herself in the mirror with a self-assured grin.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I could’ve seen the back of my skull.
Seriously? She winks at her reflection, and for a second, I think I’m about to throw up.
With a final swipe, she caps the lipstick and tucks it into her bag.
Then she pulls out an envelope, its edges sharp and crisp.
A coy smile dances on her lips as she presses a kiss to the front, her red lipstick leaving a perfect print.
She holds it up, admires the kiss, then walks across the room to the white box I’d seen earlier on Bishop’s desk.
With a playful grin, she slides the envelope beneath the satin ribbon.
Her satisfaction lingers as she takes a few steps back, a spritz of her perfume filling the air.
It’s thick, sweet, and a little overwhelming as she makes sure the scent clings to the box, like a signature move she’s done a thousand times before.
But then she pauses.
Her nose wrinkles—barely—but it’s enough.
She gives a soft, almost offended sniff of the air.
Another puff of perfume follows, this one quicker, sharper, like she’s trying to drown something out.
Satisfied, she takes in the fresh scent with an eased sigh, eyes fluttering as if she’s bathing in the confidence it gives her.
Then she glances around the room, her brows pinching just a little as if something is amiss.
She spots the small key on the desk that she must’ve set down earlier—just before the lipstick.
Her fingers delicately pick it up, the brass gleaming under the dim light, and she tucks it into her pocket.
Ophelia steps back, taking one last glance at the room with a satisfied, almost smug expression, then walks to the door.
She pauses, as though relishing her brilliance, before she shuts the door behind her, the soft click of the lock echoing through the room as she walks away.
Well, I guess that explains why the door had been unlocked when I arrived.
Had I only missed her by a few minutes when she came in to drop off the box?
I shake my head, pushing the thought away.
It didn’t matter right now.
What I needed to focus on was getting out of here.
But then, as I linger in the quiet room, an idea starts to form in my mind.
Bishop had already done enough to me, and I’d promised myself I’d make him feel it.
I needed something that would cut deeper.
Something that would really make him squirm.
I glance toward the closet again, the camera bag sitting there like it’s mocking me.
With a wicked grin, I slowly make my way over to it, the weight of the moment settling in.
No footsteps. No interruptions.
This was it.
I grab the bag, feeling its cool leather beneath my fingers.
This wasn’t just about getting my notebook back anymore.
This was about taking my turn.
About hurting him the way he’d hurt me.
He’d played his game with me, always one step ahead, always getting in my head.
But now? Now it was my move.
Bishop had taken something from me, over and over again.
It was only fair I return the favor.
And this time, I wasn’t going to let him forget it.
The power surges through me as I hold the bag, a sense of victory curling in my chest. For once, I was the one with control.
The one calling the shots.
And a strange, electric feeling shoots through me at the thought of what’s coming.
I’d been a pawn for so long.
Now it was his turn to feel like one.
With a slow, dangerous smile, I walk toward the door.
Our little game isn’t over yet.
And I’d be damned if I didn’t make sure Bishop knew it.