Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Leif
The air in the Breakwater lobby hits my overheated skin, and my nails dig half-moons into my palms as I force my feet to carry me away from the ballroom, away from Carson.
My breath comes fast and shallow, my chest tight as if bound by invisible ropes. The walls close in despite the cavernous ceiling arching overhead as my vision narrows, darkening at the edges.
Three months of distance crumble in an instant, leaving nothing between us but polished marble and the fragile pretense that I’ve moved on.
He’s here. Carson is here.
Not visiting. Not passing through.
The dean of Pinecrest Academy.
Quinn’s school.
My stomach twists into a cold knot as the implications unfold.
The school I helped Quinn prepare for, the classroom I reassured her would be safe, and the teacher I swore would be kind, are all under Carson’s authority now.
His influence will touch every aspect of her education, her comfort, and her security.
I reach for a polished mahogany table to steady myself. The wood cools my sweaty palms while my thoughts splinter and scatter.
One, two, three, four…
I count my breaths, a technique I perfected long ago when Carson’s mentorship first revealed itself as control. Slow inhale through the nose, hold for four seconds, exhale through parted lips. The method never fails me, though sometimes it takes longer to work.
A woman in business attire walks through the lobby doors, briefcase in hand. Her heels click-clack across the marble, the sound slicing through my counting. I straighten my spine, release the tension in my shoulders, and smooth the fear from my face.
No one can see. No one can know.
Carson taught me that, too. The importance of appearances. The necessity of control.
The music from the ballroom filters through the closed doors, the celebration continuing without interruption. A waiter passes with a tray of empty glasses, his white shirt crisp under the chandelier light.
Normal. Everything looks normal, except me.
Copper coats my tongue from where I bite the inside of my cheek.
The pain helps center me, a physical sensation to focus on rather than the memories threatening to surface.
Carson’s office. His hand on my shoulder as he explained why my teaching methods needed his guidance.
How he expected more from me. How disappointed he was.
I force air into my lungs, deeper this time, and the oxygen burns on its way down.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
The question startles me. A hotel employee stands two paces away, concern etched between his eyebrows.
“I’m fine.” The words come out steadier than I feel, years of conditioning coming through. “Thank you.”
“You’re a bit pale.” He steps closer. “Can I get you some water? Or call someone from your party?”
“No!” I say, sharper than intended, and smile to take the sting out of it. “No, thank you. It’s warm in there, and the crowd…” I gesture toward the ballroom doors. “I needed a moment of quiet.”
“Of course, sir,” he says, unconvinced but professional enough not to press further. “The terrace offers fresh air, if that would help.” He points to the set of glass doors at the far end of the lobby. “Through those doors.”
“Thank you.” I check my watch, as if I have somewhere to be. “I appreciate your concern.”
He lingers. “Would you like me to show you the way?”
“I can manage.” I strike the perfect balance between gratitude and dismissal, a skill honed through countless faculty meetings where I needed to end conversations without creating tension.
The staff member inclines his head and steps back. “Very well, sir. Enjoy your evening.”
As he retreats, my heart continues to race. The encounter confirmed what I already knew. I can’t stay here, visible and vulnerable. Carson might emerge from the ballroom at any moment, and I can’t let him find me alone in the lobby.
The thought sends a fresh spike of adrenaline through my system. I need air. Space. Distance.
The terrace doors beckon, promising escape. My brain calculates possibilities. I could return to my hotel room, pack my belongings, and be gone before dawn. I could leave Quinn a letter explaining why I had to disappear without saying goodbye.
But the thought of Quinn stops me. Running would hurt her in ways I swore I never would.
Voices rise behind me as a group emerges from the ballroom. I don’t turn, but the sound propels me forward with renewed urgency.
My hand finds the cool metal of the door handle. I push it open and step out into the encroaching darkness.
Salt and diesel fuel fill my lungs, and the ballroom’s warmth evaporates from my skin in seconds, leaving me shivering in my suit despite the late-August evening.
Behind me, the hotel’s golden light spills across the stone terrace in elongated rectangles. Before me stretches the harbor, a canvas of black water stippled with reflected lights from boats and distant buildings. Waves slap against the wooden pilings below, and I strive to slow my pulse to match.
My legs carry me forward toward the balustrade on autopilot, my leather shoes whispering in the quiet. When I reach the edge, my hands grip the cold stone, fingers pressing hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
Bending at the waist, I close my eyes and let the panic crest like a wave, knowing from experience it will recede. I suck in a breath of the briny air, filling my lungs before releasing.
A fishing boat chugs past, its engine throbbing low in the darkness. The scent of fish and brine grows stronger, mingling with the night-blooming flowers planted along the terrace edge.
“He can’t touch you,” I whisper to myself, my words carried away by the breeze coming off the water. “You’re an adult. You have choices.”
But Quinn doesn’t.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach. Carson has positioned himself at the heart of Quinn’s world.
Every morning, five days a week, she’ll walk into his domain, a place where his word is law, his authority unquestioned. He’ll have access to her records, influence over her teachers, and power over which accommodations are granted or denied.
My fingernails scrape over the stone as my hands curl into fists again. The Wright Pack has resources to protect Quinn. But they don’t know what they’re protecting her from because I never told them.
Shame burns hot in my chest, competing with the cold fear. I should have disclosed my history with Carson when I interviewed for this job. But disclosure meant questions and explanations I didn’t want to give.
Confrontation is impossible. Carson thrives on direct challenges, turning them back on the challenger like a master conductor.
I tried once, three years ago, by presenting documentation of his mentorship methods to the school board.
My evidence disappeared from the files, my witnesses recanted under pressure, and my professional reputation suffered wounds that never truly healed.
I had tried again when I sent in my resignation, pulled up stakes, and ran away. And now Carson is here, in an even better position, in a new community, charming to the Wright Pack.
Reporting failed again and again, and now there’s the added complication of Quinn caught in the crossfire.
My options narrow to a single imperative to protect Quinn while maintaining enough distance from Carson to preserve my own sanity. The equation feels impossible, with variables canceling each other out until no solution remains.
The rhythmic tap of a cane on stone cuts through my thoughts, and my spine straightens, my shoulders relaxing as I school my features into quiet appreciation for the view.
By the time the tapping stops a few feet away, I’ve reassembled myself into the calm professional everyone expects.
“Quite a view,” Grady says as he moves to stand beside me at the balustrade. “The Wright Pack throws a good party. It’d be a shame to miss it.”
I don’t turn, focusing instead on the distant lights of boats bobbing on the black water. “I needed air.”
Grady lets the statement hang, and the silence stretches, filled with the soft splash of water and the distant creak of boat rigging.
The hotel’s lights illuminate half of Grady’s face while shadows claim the rest. His hazel eyes catch glints of gold from the windows behind us, sharp with intelligence.
My collar constricts around my throat, but I resist the need to loosen it.
“The stars are clearer from the island,” I say, gesturing upward. A safe observation. Neutral territory.
“They are.” Grady’s free hand grips the balustrade. “Though I’m not sure the view is what drove you out here.”
“Sometimes crowded rooms overwhelm me. But don’t tell Quinn,” I say, infusing the words with the right amount of conspiratorial amusement. “I’d never live it down after all my pep talks this week.”
Grady turns to me, and the wind carries the scent of his cologne with notes of sandalwood and vanilla to me. Expensive but not showy. Like everything about Grady.
His brow furrows. “Are you okay, Leif?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “The noise was just a bit much.”
“The noise.” He repeats the words as he studies me. “That must be it.”
I shift from one foot to the other. “Events like this drain me. I’m more comfortable with smaller groups.”
“Like our Saturday Market trips?” Grady offers.
I latch onto the lifeline. “Yes. Exactly like those.”
“But you stopped coming to the market.”
I flinch at the reminder. Yet another fear-triggered response, one that could have jeopardized my friendship with Grady. And for what? Carson is never going to leave. Avoiding Pinecrest was pointless.
Grady turns back to the harbor, affording me the dignity of composure. “The new dean seems nice.”
The words hang in the air like bait, and my pulse spikes, blood rushing in my ears. “I should head back to my hotel soon. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course.” Grady doesn’t push, but all the questions he won’t ask fill the silence, along with the answers I won’t volunteer.
“Quinn will be up early tomorrow,” I continue, feeling the need to give him excuses. “She wants to show Sprinkles the tide pools before breakfast. It’s a good thing Kyle is always up at dawn and agreed to come pick me up.”
Grady chuckles. “She’s always up for an adventure.”
“She is.” The words come easily, my affection for Quinn genuine.
Another silence stretches between us, filled with the sounds of the harbor night.
“Will you be at the Homestead for unpacking tomorrow?” Grady asks, finally. “I’m helping with the books.”
“As much as I can,” I hedge. “Quinn has a full schedule before school starts Monday.”
And I need to come up with a strategy. The game has changed, but the rules remain familiar. Carson taught me those rules himself, never imagining I would use them against him.
“I should go.” I straighten my cuffs to occupy my hands. “Will you give the Wrights my regards?”
Grady lets out a slow breath. “Of course.”
“Thank you.” I step back from the balustrade. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”
“Leif.” My name stops me before I can retreat further. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
The offer hovers in the space between us, but Grady can’t help with what he doesn’t understand, and I can’t explain without making a mess of Quinn’s future.
“I appreciate that.” I manage. “Goodnight, Grady.”
His gaze follows me as I turn and walk away, certain Carson has already decided what comes next.