Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
Alex
Idon't say anything. Something about the whole thing doesn't sit right with me.
The way Chelsea showed up. The way everything felt rehearsed.
Rose seems lighter afterward, and I won't take that from her by questioning her friend's motives. Still, even when she smiles and tells me she feels better, something doesn't quite fit. I feel there’s something she’s not saying, but I decide not to push it.
The rest of Thanksgiving break passed faster than I wanted it to.
I enjoyed getting to spend that time with Rose.
We’ve gotten closer, and I’ve become someone she looks forward to being with, whether we're watching a movie or walking across campus. I haven’t pushed for more, but I can tell things are progressing when she places her head on my shoulder, sitting next to one another on the couch, or leans closer on our walks, so I’ll continue to be that person for her.
I want to be someone she can rely on, and, most of all, someone she can trust. I’ve even gone back to sleeping on the couch, even though my body begs for her closeness, and I’ve sought release in the long showers that take the edge off when I’m around her.
The break ends before I’m ready for it, and we’re already back on campus, slipping into routines that feel familiar but not quite the same. I barely have time to settle in for my first one after returning from break, before I get the message.
Report to the dean’s office.
There’s no explanation or context for what it could be. When I walk into the dean’s office, Rose is already there.
“Rose?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugs, but the way she holds her shoulders tells me she's just as confused as I am.
I set my backpack beside the chair and take the seat next to her.
When her hand falls to her side, I lace my fingers through hers, bringing it to my chest before pressing a light kiss to the back of it.
Whatever this is, we'll face it together.
She stares straight ahead, her expression guarded, as though bracing for whatever waits ahead.
The secretary barely acknowledged me before telling me to have a seat.
That should've been my first clue that something was wrong.
Getting called to the dean's office is never a good thing, yet here we are with no explanation.
Unless this has something to do with the vandalism to Rose's car—or maybe something happened to someone else we know.
My thoughts race until the dean's door opens.
“Hello,” he says formally. “Won't you please come in?” He beckons us forth, and I notice that when he opens the door, there are two other people in there.
The second sign that something is off is what's waiting for us inside. I glance at Rose, wondering if she knows what this could be about, but she goes still beside me. I give her hand a gentle squeeze, pulling her attention back to me. She seems to come out of it, but her eyes remain wide, and I feel a tremble go through her, as we rise from our seats in the waiting area and walk a couple of feet into the dean’s office.
Maxwell sits there with his father beside him.
The mood changes the moment we step inside.
It feels as though decisions have already been made and whatever's been set in motion is already underway. Maxwell appears composed, and he looks better than the last time we saw him. Maybe a little time at home away from that situation helped. His father, though, doesn’t even try to hide the way he looks at Rose.
His gaze is cold and assessing. Blaming. I feel it before anything is even said.
Rose is tense beside me, and I let my hand brush hers without thinking, reassuring her before either of us even sits down.
“Thank you for coming,” the dean says, motioning us to sit. His tone is measured and careful.
I almost scoff, like we had a choice, but I stay in passivity, and most of all, quiet. You can learn a lot about a person’s intentions by just listening and letting them talk.
“Dr. Somersworth contacted me over the break about his son’s well-being,” he continues, his eyes moving briefly to Maxwell before returning to us.
“Specifically, he—and another student, Lucinda, your former roommate—believe recent events involving the two of you contributed to Maxwell's current condition.”
Both of you? My jaw tightens, but I don't interrupt. I feel Rose go still.
“We were also told,” the dean adds, his eyes directly on me now, “that you’ve been closely involved in this situation, Alex.”
There it is, and that fucker still won’t look at me. He’s watching Rose.
“I’m not sure what you think I’m involved in,” I say, evenly. “But if this is about him, then let’s be clear about what actually happened.”
Rose’s voice cuts in, removing the focus from me. “They didn’t confuse anything. Alex has been helping me after what happened,” she says firmly. Her lips press into a thin line, shooting to Maxwell, and he dares to look aghast.
I glance at her, and I can see it, the effort it’s taking just to sit there and take it.
“He called me names,” she continues, “outside the library. In front of people.”
The room is still.
“Slut,” she adds. Maxwell has the gall to flinch because it sounds terrible, and it should.
“That’s a serious accusation,” the dean says.
“It’s not an accusation,” I cut in, already pulling out my phone. “It’s on video.”
That gets everyone’s attention. “Ezra sent it to me,” I say, looking at Rose.
She nods. Recollection of that day comes flying back, and it makes me angry all over again for her.
“Here, you can watch it.” The dean looks to Maxwell and his father, Dr. Somersworth.
The father’s eyes narrow, but Maxwell’s are wide, and he looks a little paler.
The video plays. Maxwell’s voice fills the room.
His words are sharp, ugly, and nothing like the version of him sitting there so smugly, playing the victim now.
By the time it ends, the change in the room is obvious.
Maxwell exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, but there's strain in the movement now.
“That was taken out of context,” he says. No one buys it. He changes tactics. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he adds, looking at Rose. “I was frustrated.”
Frustrated. As if that makes it any better. “And there’s more to this,” his father cuts in, leaning forward. “My son has been receiving messages from this woman.” He says it with disdain.
I look over at Rose, not believing this for a second, and the look on her face tells me that she is just as confused.
The focus turns back to Maxwell.
“Notes,” he says quietly. “Left for me. They told me where to go... where to find Rose.”
Rose straightens beside me. “What?” she chokes out.
“I thought it was a coincidence at first,” he continues, his eyes fixed on her.
“But it kept happening. Every note led me somewhere you'd be, and after a while...” He swallows hard.
“I thought you were doing it on purpose. Punishing me for cheating on you.” Shame flickers across his face before he forces himself to continue.
“The way you found Lucinda and me... I thought this was your way of getting back at me.”
Only then does Dr. Somersworth lean forward.
“They led him all over campus,” he says. “Public places. Off-campus. The last time was at Margaritas.”
My gaze drifts to Rose. She hasn't moved, but I can feel the realization settling between us. The word carved into her car rises unbidden.
SLUT.
The same poison Maxwell hurled at her outside the library. The same restaurant. The same night. It isn't coincidence anymore. Piece by piece, they're handing us the truth without even realizing it.
“I was told to meet her there,” Maxwell says. “And when I got there...” His voice trails off.
“You were there,” his father finishes. “With two men.” The implication hits hard, and Rose flinches at the verbal punch.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, sharper now.
“It establishes a pattern,” he says smoothly.
“No,” I counter, my voice lower now. “It establishes coincidence.”
The dean leans back slightly in his leather chair. “And given the nature of these messages,” he says, “we do have to consider the possibility that this was intentional.”
Intentional. As if she's orchestrating it.
“I didn’t write or send anything,” Rose says, her voice stronger now. “I don’t even know what he’s talking about.” Maxwell watches her a little too closely for my liking.
“I’m not saying you did.” His eyes find mine, narrowing in accusation. “I’m just saying that it keeps leading back to you.”
“That doesn’t make it true,” I snap. “I didn’t send anything either.”
His father cuts in. “My son’s grades have suffered,” his father says. “He’s distracted. Not himself.”
“And you think that’s her fault?” I ask. Shaking my head at the gall of this guy. His arrogance is stifling, and it’s no wonder his son has a sense of entitlement because of him.
“I think someone has been playing games,” he replies. His eyes settle on her again. The blame is obvious. “And whether intentional or not, she’s at the center of it.”
The dean nods slowly. “If this situation is impacting another student’s well-being and academic performance, we have to take that seriously.”
The tension in the room thickens. Rose doesn't say anything, but the accusation hangs over her, becoming something she can't prove she didn't do.
That's the problem. Someone orchestrated this.
Someone has been manipulating people, pulling invisible strings.
It isn't Rose, but they're determined to make her carry the blame.
I force myself to exhale slowly and think for a second. Then it hits me.
“And while we’re talking about patterns,” I say, calmer now, but my words still carrying a punch, “maybe we should talk about something else that happened.”
The dean looks at me, confused, and Rose sits up straighter, her confidence returning as her anger rises.
“What do you mean?” the dean asks, looking over to Maxwell and his father. Both look confused, wondering where this is going.
I glance at Rose, then back at him. “Her car was vandalized that night at Margaritas. The same restaurant Maxwell showed up at to look for Rose. I was also there with my cousin, who traveled all the way from Texas, and we all went out to celebrate my birthday.” I make sure to mention my cousin.
If they're going to question what happened that night, then every witness matters.
The room goes still. The dean straightens. “Was this reported?”
This time, Rose speaks. “Yes, it was.” Her eyes narrow, looking at Maxwell. “And guess what word was scratched into my vandalized car?” she asks, ready to deliver the final blow for the knockout win. She doesn’t make them wait. “S-L-U-T.”
Silence settles over the room, but it no longer belongs to Rose.
The dean's attention shifts from her to Maxwell, then to his father, moving from the video to the vandalism report as the carefully constructed version of events begins to unravel.
For the first time since we walked through the door, they're the ones searching for answers instead of demanding them.