Chapter 4
The lecture hall is a cathedral of controlled chaos.
Professor Albright’s low, melodic voice weaves through the complexities of molecular binding affinities and receptor-ligand interactions, dissecting the invisible forces that govern cellular behavior.
He’s halfway through deriving the finality of the last step, the chalk moving quickly across the board, his handwriting neat but fast enough that most of the class is struggling to keep up.
I’m not.
I’m not just hearing it; I’m absorbing it. My notebook is already a step ahead, my pen moving steadily as I work through the last line on my own. My pen flies across the page, a frantic dance of symbols and shorthand. This is my language. This, I understand.
School has always been the easy part. It’s navigating the terrain of social interactions that I’ve always found difficult.
For as long as I can remember, I was always the youngest person in the room.
Advanced placement classes in middle school, college-level programs before I could even drive, seminar tables filled with students two or three years older than me, discussing theories and experiences I could understand academically but never personally.
I learned early on how to keep up, how to sound older, sharper, and more composed than I felt.
But there was always a divide I couldn’t quite cross; while everyone else was sneaking into parties, falling in and out of love, and making reckless mistakes, I was buried beneath coursework and expectations, too busy trying to prove I belonged to actually belong anywhere.
College was the first place that gap finally started to disappear.
For once, I wasn’t the kid everyone underestimated or patronized.
I was surrounded by people who spoke the same language as me, who challenged me and understood the obsession of wanting to know more just for the sake of knowing.
And then I met Gabe. The first person who didn’t look at me like I was a novelty, but someone he genuinely understood.
At least, I used to think he understood me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a silent and insistent vibration that I ignore.
Again. It’s probably Gabe, sending another string of passive-aggressive texts about how I’m prioritizing my education over our relationship, and how he’s getting tired of feeling like I keep him at a distance whenever things start becoming physically intimate.
I get it. I really do. I’m years behind my peers in ways that matter outside of classrooms and research labs, and now I’m finally with someone who cares about me enough to want to get to know me and want more with me.
Part of me wants that, too—wants to stop overthinking every touch, every kiss, and every moment where his hands linger just a little longer, like he’s waiting for me to finally let go.
But whenever things start moving in that direction, something in me tightens instead of softens.
A quiet, persistent sense that we’re slightly out of sync, like I’m trying to force myself into a box that is too small.
I don’t know what that something is, only that it’s there, sitting heavy in my thoughts, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
I can deal with Gabe later. Right now, he needs to be at the back of my mind so I can focus on Dr. Albright’s lecture.
The heavy oak doors at the back of the hall groan open, a sacrilegious interruption to class. A collective rustle of annoyance ripples through the two hundred or so students. I don’t bother turning; it’s probably just some latecomer, trying—and failing—to be inconspicuous.
Dr. Albright stops mid-sentence, his mouth slightly agape at the distraction.
I finally turn to find two men who look profoundly out of place.
They aren’t students, and they definitely aren’t faculty.
Both are dressed in dark, tactical-style clothing, which is a stark contrast to the soft flannels and worn denim of the student body.
One is slightly graying, with the kind of severe, sculpted features that look carved from marble.
The other looks far rougher around the edges.
He has dark hair hastily twisted into a loose man bun and a thick beard shadowing the hard line of his jaw.
Tattoos disappear beneath the sleeves of the black Henley, which is shoved up his forearms, and more ink winds over the backs of his hands.
His eyes are dark, unreadable, and fixed on me with an intensity that immediately puts me on edge.
“We need Mackenzie Bradenburg,” the dark-haired man orders.
It’s not a request but a statement of fact, delivered with the flat finality of a judge’s gavel.
Every single head turns, and two hundred pairs of eyes find me.
A prickling wave of heat washes over my entire body, yet simultaneously, the blood drains from my face.
This is worse than that dream where you’re naked in class.
“What is this?” Dr. Albright asks, his voice firm but edged with confusion. “You can’t just?—”
“It won’t take long,” the same man interrupts. His tone is calm and controlled. It’s not rude, but not apologetic, either.
My heart, which moments ago was beating in a steady rhythm, is now frantically battering against my ribs.
I slowly close my notebook, and the click of my pen is unnaturally loud in the dead silence.
I stand, feeling the weight of two hundred pairs of staring eyes on my back as I gather my things with shaking hands.
I hate that they’re shaking.
I walk the long aisle to the back of the hall, my footsteps echoing in the tomb-like quiet as heat now burns over my cheeks. I keep my head up, my expression a carefully constructed, rehearsed mask of indifference. I will not let them see me crumble. I will not be the ambassador’s fragile daughter.
The dark-haired man steps to the side when I reach them, giving me space to walk toward the door. I pass him and head out into the hallway. The doors swing shut behind us, cutting off the whispers already beginning to bloom in the lecture hall.
“Mackenzie Bradenburg?” the dark-haired man confirms. His eyes are even more intense up close, a deep, weary brown that seems to have seen a lifetime of things.
“Yes,” I say, my voice steadier than I expect. “Who are you? What is this about?”
“My name is Damon,” the dark-haired man answers before gesturing toward the Greek statue beside him. “And this is Hawk. We’re here on behalf of your father.”
My father. This has his fingerprints all over it. Another overreach, another well-intentioned disaster that strips away my autonomy and puts me back in the gilded cage nestled in Cartagena.
“My father?” I ask, frowning. “Why?”
“Your safety,” Hawk answers before motioning for me to follow him toward the exit.
“My safety from what?”
“We’ll give you the details on the way,” Damon answers for him.
“Okay, no. You don’t just walk into my class, pull me out, and then not explain anything. What’s going on?” I shift my weight onto one hip and cross my arms as my jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
The big one, Hawk, watches me with an unreadable expression. Damon sighs, a sound of profound exhaustion. “There’s a situation. We need you to come with us.”
“A situation?” I echo. “That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s enough for now.”
I stare at him for a second, waiting for more, but it doesn’t come.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I snip. “I have class. I have a life here. You can’t just?—”
“I figured you’d say that,” Hawk grumbles, already pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he taps the screen a few times, lifts the phone to his ear, and turns slightly away from me. After a short pause, he says, “Yes, sir. We have her. She’s… well… reluctant to comply.” He faces me again, holding the phone out. “He wants to talk to you.”
I hesitate for a moment, partly from shock, then tentatively take it from him. “Hello?”
“Mackenzi.”
“What is this?” I ask immediately. “Why are there two men pulling me out of class like I’m being arrested?”
There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before my father repeats my name, more measured this time. “Mackenzi. I need you to go with them.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s what needs to happen.” His tone is firm and paternal, leaving no room for debate.
“Why?” I push anyway. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t explain everything right now, but you are not safe at Westbridge.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Not safe from what?”
“Please,” he urges. “Just listen to me, for once. Go with them. They’re bringing you home.”
“I am at home,” I say.
“No,” he replies, and there’s something sterner in his voice now. “You’re not.”
Silence stretches between us until I huff a disgruntled surrender, “Fine. But when I get there, you’re explaining everything.”
“You have my word.” I don’t believe him, but I pull the phone from my ear and hand it to Hawk. He takes it with little reaction and says a few words to my father before ending the call.
“Happy?” I grumble as the two of them lead me down the hallway.
They are speechless as we exit Anderson Hall and make our way onto the quad.
Hawk walks a few paces ahead, clearing a path.
Damon is beside me, his presence a solid, immovable—intimidating—wall.
I keep pace with them, arms still crossed, eyes flicking between the two of them as we walk.
“Where are we going?”
“To your dorm,” Damon answers flatly. “So you can pack a bag.”
“For how long?” I have a life here. Friends. A boyfriend. Midterms. My question goes unanswered, and I grouse, “The two of you are remarkable communicators. Ten out of ten.”