Chapter 29
Talia
The campus is on fire with whispers.
They move like smoke—curling under doors, seeping through hallways, coiling around conversations. They cling to clothes, to hair, to skin.
The air in the Student Union is thick with it.
The click-click-click of a thousand phones refreshing the Briarcliff Chronicle homepage is its own kind of storm.
Alistair Reid.
NCAA Violation.
Misuse of Funds.
Briarcliff Blackmail.
The words are everywhere—plastered across screens, reflected in wide eyes, murmured between cafeteria trays and lecture notes.
I’m sitting at our usual booth, but for the first time… I’m not hiding.
I’m not scanning the exits. My back isn’t pressed to the wall out of instinct. I’m leaning back, one arm draped over the top of the bench, taking up space.
Open. Uncovered. Watching the storm we unleashed swallow the campus whole.
“It’s a goddamn bloodbath,” Zoe says, vibrating with a manic, triumphant energy that radiates off her like static.
She’s scrolling violently, thumb flying.
“The University President just issued his second statement. ‘We are fully cooperating…’ Oh, they’re so screwed.
The comments are lethal. They’re calling for his head. ”
“They’re calling it the Briarcliff Blackmail,” Gio adds, grinning as he steals a fry from Zoe’s plate, dodging her half-hearted slap. “Catchy. Rolls off the tongue.”
“That,” Maya says, not looking up from her laptop—fingers flying like she was born coded into machinery— “is what you call controlling the narrative.”
Her face is pale, shadows bruising the skin under her eyes, but her gaze is sharp, bright, alive. She’s been fielding calls from national sports desks all morning, and she hasn’t flinched once. It's like she was made for this pressure.
“They can’t bury it,” she continues. “The truth is out.”
She types one final command, hits enter, and then—with a distinct, final snap—closes the lid of her laptop.
The sound cuts through the chatter at our table. The weapon is sheathed.
“You’re a badass, Maddox,” Zoe breathes, looking at her with a reverence I’ve never heard from her. “A stone-cold badass.”
For one second, Maya glances up—and her eyes land on Dante and Cole across the room.
They’re standing by the windows like twin shadows—silent, intimidating, carved out of stone.
Dante gives her a single, near-imperceptible nod.
A nod of respect. Of acknowledgment. The kind you earn, not ask for.
Maya nods back, sharp and professional.
Cole… just watches her. And a small, proud smile touches the corner of his mouth before he schools it away.
Clara and Adrian are curled together like they’re sharing a single heartbeat.
Exhaustion lingers in the lines of their faces, but there’s something quiet and victorious humming under the surface.
Adrian absently twirls a strand of Clara’s hair around his finger, a repetitive gesture that looks more grounding than intimate.
Genny is the only one missing. She sent a cryptic text an hour ago about “tying up loose ends” and vanished before we even got to the Union.
My phone buzzes on the table.
The name freezes everything in me.
Dad.
My breath catches. I grab it with shaking fingers.
Dad:
It’s done, T.
The Board froze Alistair’s access pending the audit.
The grant is safe. Alumni are already calling to fill the gap.
He’s suspended. They escorted him out.
I blink hard. Once. Twice.
Suspended pending investigation. No saving face. No quiet resignation. He’s out. And the grant—the thing he used to hold a knife to our throats—is safe.
Another message.
Dad:
I’m proud of you.
Of all of you.
Thank you.
My chest cracks open—hot, sudden pressure building behind my eyes.
I look up toward the massive windows, toward the quad, toward—
There. The rink path.
And I see him.
My dad.
He’s walking with Genny—two coffee cups in hand.
Suddenly, Genny’s “loose end” makes sense. She didn’t go to hack anything. She went to find him. She went to make sure he heard the news from a friend, not a headline.
My dad’s posture is lighter. His face… God. He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Not a strained, weary attempt. A real one.
He says something. Genny responds, looking up at him.
He throws his head back and laughs.
That laugh—the one I haven’t heard in months. The one that sounds like the weight of the world finally slid off his shoulders.
He reaches out and claps her on the shoulder—a coach gesture, sure, but his hand lingers for a fraction of a second longer than usual. There’s a warmth to it, a strange, magnetic sort of gravity that makes me blink.
Genny just smiles her quiet, unassuming smile and hands him his coffee like she’s been doing it forever.
It’s… unexpected. A puzzle piece I don’t have the box for yet.
I look away with a small, genuine smile.
He deserves every bit of this.
“So,” Zoe says, dragging her feral grin back to me, lowering her voice like she’s about to deliver scandal. “Now that we’ve successfully committed a massive act of whistleblowing and saved the world… what about Reid? He hasn't answered any of Adrian's texts. Or mine.”
Heat rises up my neck.
“I… I don’t know.”
The truth is—I haven’t seen him since last night. When the world cracked open. The war line was drawn. His voice in my ear—It’s just beginning—set every nerve in my body on fire.
Before I can answer again—
The front doors of the Union slide open.
And he walks in. No posturing. No theatrics. Just Declan.
And yet the entire room reacts like a bomb just detonated.
The whispers don’t just shift—they die. The entire chaotic, buzzing, rumor-infested space falls into a suffocating hush.
He’s in a gray hoodie, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.
His hair is damp at the temples, wilder than usual.
Even from here, he looks like he’s been working.
Like he spent the morning on the ice, skating until his lungs burned, working the rage out of his system the only way he knows how.
He came straight from the rink. Straight to me. This is not the man from the gala, polished and controlled, nor is it the broken boy from the quad or the icy ghost from the weight room. He's something else entirely. His eyes sweep the room once.
A single, calculated sweep.
And then—
His gaze locks on mine. A straight, clean, devastating line. There’s no smile. No softening. Just raw, unfiltered intention.
He jerks his chin toward the door.
A command.
A promise.
A claim.
I’m leaving. You’re coming.
A slow, warm tide crawls up my neck. Down my spine.
Zoe, of course, vibrates with delight. “Ooooooh,” she sing-songs loudly enough for nearby tables to hear.
“Shut up, Zoe,” I murmur—but I’m smiling.
Sliding out of the booth, I avoid looking at my friends. I ignore the dozens of staring faces, the raised phones, the wide eyes, and the silent gasps, focusing only on him. Walking toward him, I move past whispers, judgment, and everything people think they know about us.
When I reach him, he doesn't speak. He just extends his hand. His fingers brush the inside of my wrist first—light, warm, deliberate. A near-touch that feels like an electric jolt.
My breath catches.
Then he takes my hand—slowly, firmly, letting each finger slide into place like a lock clicking closed.
His palm is rough. Against my skin, I feel the raised ridge of a cut and the grit of dried ink he hasn't scrubbed off yet. The stain of the pen he destroyed. The physical proof of what it cost him to get here.
His grip is a silent claim.
Mine.
He doesn't wait another second. With a sudden, possessive tug, he pulls me against the solid wall of his chest. His free hand cradles the back of my head, tilting my face up just before his mouth crashes down on mine.
The kiss is long, slow, and devastatingly thorough.
It’s an open declaration, a statement made for every single person watching, listening, and judging.
He kisses me like he’s branding me as his, letting the heat and depth of his claim burn away the whispers.
There is no doubt, no hesitation, only the firm, undeniable pressure of his mouth telling the world exactly where I belong.
And then—
He pulls back, his eyes locked on mine, a silent challenge in their depths. His thumb brushes the damp fullness of my lower lip, a lingering, possessive touch. He doesn't need to say anything; the message is crystal clear in the set of his jaw and the fire in his gaze.
He turns.
And we walk out of the Student Union together.
Hand in hand.
Whispers exploding behind us. The storm breaking open in our wake.