Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Leif
My footsteps echo along the polished tile as I head down the main hallway at Pinecrest Academy, past trophy cases and bulletin boards crowded with announcements. A new notice with the superintendent’s signature stamped at the bottom catches my eye.
I slow, scanning the words.
Effective immediately, Carson Whitaker has been placed on administrative leave pending the conclusion of an investigation into professional misconduct…
The words should feel like victory.
Instead, there’s only an empty space in my chest for everything this cost me.
As I continue down the hall, the bell to change school periods rings, and I flinch.
Classroom doors burst open, flooding the hallway with students and noise. Conversations falter as heads turn toward me, taking in the fading bruises beneath my concealer.
I keep walking. If I want to still work here, I need to get used to the stares.
Mrs. Peters steps out of the science lab, her copper hair pinned into a tight bun. Our eyes meet, and instead of turning away, she gives me a nod.
Warmth spreads through me at the acknowledgment.
Mr. Collins from English does the same.
Ms. Rodriguez from Spanish pauses beside me, her hand brushing my elbow. “It’s good to see you back.”
Tears threaten at the simple words.
The administrative office door waits at the end of the hall, frosted glass stamped with the school logo in navy and gold.
I pause before pushing it open.
Inside, Ms. Heinrich types at her desk, glasses balanced on the end of her nose. When her head lifts, her fingers freeze over the keyboard. “Mr. Hollis, we weren’t expecting you today.”
“I’m here to complete the paperwork for my return,” I explain, approaching her desk. “The superintendent said it would be ready.”
“Of course, of course. Let me get that for you right away.” She riffles through a stack of folders beside her computer, pulling one marked with my name. “Would you like some water? Coffee?”
The deference in her manner throws me. While Carson was in office, Ms. Heinrich treated me with professional distance at best, thinly veiled skepticism at worst. Now she speaks to me as if I’m someone to be accommodated.
“Water would be nice,” I say, and she hurries to the water cooler in the corner.
She places a paper cup on the desk beside the folder. “I’ve marked where you need to sign. It’s just formalities, really. Administrative leave with pay, retroactive to last Monday.”
I take the folder and water before settling into one of the visitor chairs. The folder contains several forms outlining my return to duties, the conditions of the school board’s review, and my rights during the investigation. I scan each page before signing, aware of Ms. Heinrich’s anxious stare.
“I just want to say,” she begins, then stops, her fingers pleating the edge of a sticky note. “What happened to you was… Well, it was an inconvenience that never should have occurred.”
An inconvenience. As if Carson’s manipulation and eventual violence were on par with a delayed bus or a misplaced set of keys.
“Thank you for preparing these,” I say, signing the final page, my signature steady despite the slight tremble in my fingers. “When can I resume substitute teaching?”
“Tomorrow, if you’re ready.” Ms. Heinrich accepts the completed forms, tapping the edges on her desk to align them. “We have a couple of teachers who have requested personal leave.”
“Email me the room number to report to.” I gather my messenger bag as I rise. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Her relief is palpable, as if she expected me to make a scene. How many of Carson’s whispered narratives did she accept without question? How many doubts about my stability did she help spread with her gossiping ways?
“Mr. Hollis,” she calls as I reach the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I step back into the hallway, which has emptied again as students returned to classes.
Halfway to the exit, the familiar scent of cherries and iron stops me, my stomach swooping. With him on administrative leave, I didn’t expect to run into Carson, and his presence catches me off guard.
Dread twists my stomach into knots as I turn to find him standing at the intersection of two corridors. His usually impeccable appearance shows signs of strain. His shirt collar is crooked, his tie loosened, and he stares at me in a way that would have scared me a week ago.
“You,” he snarls, the single word dripping with venom. He stalks forward, eating up the distance between us with purposeful strides. “You couldn’t just submit, could you? Couldn’t take what I was offering?”
I stand my ground, though every instinct screams to run. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I came to collect my belongings,” he spits out.
“Well, I’m just here to complete paperwork.” I move to go around him. “I’m leaving now.”
“You destroyed everything,” he hisses, closing the distance until we stand toe to toe, and his cherries-and-iron scent fills my senses, acrid with fury. “Years of work. My reputation. My standing with the board.”
“You did that yourself,” I say as my heart hammers. “Every threat. Every manipulation. Every time you used Quinn’s needs as leverage.”
His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my forearm with bruising force. “After everything I did for you,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. “I created your position. I protected you from the board’s questions about your qualifications. I made you.”
Pain shoots up my arm from his grip, but I don’t flinch. “No, you tried to break me. There’s a difference.”
His fingers dig deeper, his breathing ragged. “You ungrateful little—”
“That’s enough, Carson.”
I don’t turn my head at the new arrival, don’t break eye contact with Carson first, but I hear the sound of multiple footsteps stopping behind me.
Carson’s eyes flick over my shoulder, his pupils contracting as he registers that we’re no longer alone.
His grip on my arm loosens, fingers uncurling one by one. I resist the urge to step back and rub the place where his fingers have left impressions on my skin.
“This is a private conversation,” Carson says, sliding into the smooth, professional voice he reserves for parents and board members. “A professional disagreement between colleagues.”
“No, it’s not.” The man steps forward, and I jolt as I recognize my employer and Quinn’s uncle, Blake Wright.
He stands with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, his tall frame blocking half the hallway.
Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Nathaniel’s blond hair and their Omega, Chloe’s, concerned frown.
She carries a large tray of cupcakes in front of her growing belly that can no longer hide her pregnancy, and I remember Quinn talking about a movie party today.
They must have decided to bring treats for her class.
Carson takes a half step back, his pheromones receding, though acrid notes of anger still permeate the air.
“Mr. Wright,” he says, straightening his disheveled tie. “I’m just trying to understand why a valued staff member would spread such damaging misinformation about our working relationship.”
A door opens down the hall. Mrs. Peterson emerges with her second-grade class lined up behind her, their curious faces peering around her legs at the scene unfolding. She falters mid-stride as she sees Carson facing off with me, Blake, and his bondmates.
“Children, stay together,” she says, directing them to line up at the wall. But she doesn’t retreat to her classroom or try to shield them from what’s happening.
Another door opens, and Mr. Finnegan from history steps out, arms crossed as he leans in his doorframe. A parent volunteer with a clipboard pauses near the office, her eyes narrowed as Carson finally steps away from me.
The hallway, empty just moments ago, now contains witnesses. Dozens of people watching, cataloging, and judging.
Blake takes another step forward, positioning himself between Carson and me. “The investigation has already begun. Your position here is finished.”
A dull red creeps up Carson’s neck to stain his cheeks as his breathing comes faster, nostrils flaring. He looks from one person to the next, seeking an ally and finding none.
“This is absurd,” he says, raising his voice to carry down the corridor. “I’ve devoted years to education. My record is impeccable.”
“Not anymore.” Nathaniel crosses his arms over his chest. “The board has the recording. They’ve heard the threats you made toward our niece.”
At the mention of Quinn, Mrs. Peterson’s hand drops to the student who stands closest. Bethany with her strawberry-blond hair, and one of Quinn’s friends.
The simple gesture speaks volumes about the instinctive protection of a teacher for her student, the exact opposite of what Carson did with his power.
“You don’t understand the context,” Carson says, taking on a reasonable, lecturing tone that makes me shudder with its familiarity. “Working with Omega staff requires certain… accommodations for their emotional nature. Mr. Hollis has misunderstood our professional interactions.”
I feel my jaw tighten, but before I can speak, Mr. Finnegan lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s not what you said in the recording. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Carson’s eyes dart around the growing crowd. More teachers have emerged from classrooms, drawn by the commotion or perhaps summoned by text messages flying between staff. Students whisper behind cupped hands, phones recording what might become the most discussed event in Pinecrest Academy history.
“Omegas are prone to emotional distortion,” Carson continues, desperation creeping into his professional facade.
“Their perception of events often reflects their biological needs rather than objective reality. Mr. Hollis has been under considerable stress, which explains this unfortunate misinterpretation of my mentorship.”