Chapter 31 Deirdre
Deirdre
“There were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without, was the “Red Death.” Edgar Allan Poe
By Thursday afternoon, the air on campus feels different. Lighter, airy—like everyone is already halfway gone, their minds on spring break and not their midterm grades. Claire and I are buzzing with it too, though for an entirely different reason.
Our dorm room looks like a hurricane hit and threw up a whole shopping mall.
Curling irons, makeup palettes, half-empty coffee cups, and the garment bags that once held our gala dresses litter every available surface.
Claire hums to herself as she smooths red lipstick over her lips in the mirror, her dress already zipped and sparkling like something out of a dream.
“I swear, D, I haven’t been this excited since prom,” she says, fluffing her curls with a manic grin. “Except this is, like, prom on steroids. Masks, gowns, champagne. Professors in tuxes. Or in your case, Kieran in a tux.“ She waggles her brows at me. “Tell me you’re ready for that sight.”
My stomach flips, heat curling in places I don’t admit out loud. “I’m going to have to work on my restraint.”
The truth is, the dress still feels like I am playing a game of truth or dare, and it’s the dare.
The thigh-high slit is enough to cause a scandal itself.
It’s beautiful, but it’s not me. Or maybe it is?
The me I’m only just discovering over the last few months.
Either way, every time I picture Kieran’s face when he sees me in it, my nerves knot tighter.
Claire notices.
Of course she does.
She snaps her compact shut and turns on me, hands on her hips. “Hey! Don’t start spiraling on me now. You look lethal. He’s going to combust the second you walk into that museum, and I cannot wait to watch.”
A knock rattles the door before I can answer. Gabe’s voice follows, warm and theatrical. “Ladies, your chariot awaits! And by chariot, I mean my car, which I cleaned just for this occasion. You’re welcome.”
Claire squeals and snatches up her clutch. “Showtime.”
We sweep out into the hall, our heels clicking in unison, and descend into the crisp night. Gabe walks ahead of us, in a deep navy-blue suit that fits far too well, and makes Claire’s eyes bug out of her head.
Grinning from ear to ear, he opens the back door with an exaggerated bow.
“Wow, ladies,” he says, eyes glancing over Claire then to me. “Cornelia’s not ready. Especially you, D. Damn. McKnight is going to blow a gasket.”
I laugh, but the nerves don’t leave. Because this isn’t just a night of gowns and champagne for me.
It’s going to be full of Sheridan lurking, whispers, and stolen glances.
It’s Kieran waiting at the top of Scholar’s Landing, like my knight in shining armor, in a museum perched above the city like a fortress.
The ride to Scholar’s Landing is a short one, but every turn of the road knots my stomach tighter. Claire’s excitement fills the car, Gabe cracks jokes from the driver’s seat, and I try to offer small smiles here and there, but my mind is already at the top of the hill.
The museum looms above Cornelia, with its Gothic stone walls and towering stained glass windows glowing with colorful light.
Paper lanterns line the broad steps up the hill, guiding the steady stream of guests toward its arched entrance.
Sequined gowns and black suits glint in the night like stars against the night sky.
Inside, the air hums with strings from a live quartet and the low murmurs of conversation. Crystal chandeliers on the ceiling scatter light over marble floors and gilded columns. Everywhere I look, there are masks—lace, satin, feathers, gold filigree—hiding familiar faces in plain sight.
Claire grabs my arm, nearly vibrating. “This is insane. It’s like walking into The Phantom of the Opera. Okay, champagne first, then dancing!”
I nod, though my pulse skips because out of the corner of my eye, I see him.
He’s standing in the shadows near a marble column, apart from the crowd.
His suit hugs his muscles in the most perfect way, the fabric of his coat fighting across his broad shoulders, with a black vest and lavender button-up shirt.
His mask is a matte two-toned black and gold with glittery swirls around the eyes.
It conceals just enough of his face to make him look even more dangerous, and I didn’t think that was possible. But his eyes—there’s no mistaking them.
They’re already on me.
Heat swirls down my spine, and my body awakens just at the sight of him.
“D,” Claire whispers, following my gaze. Her grin spreads slowly. “Well. That’s equal parts terrifying and hot. Good luck surviving the night, babe.”
I swallow hard, smoothing my dress as I step away from her, away from Gabe, toward him. Each click of my heels echoes in my ears. The slit of my gown sways with every stride, and I feel his stare follow it with my every move.
“Professor McKnight,” I murmur when I reach him. There’s no way I can say his name with so many eyes around us.
“Miss Ravencroft.” His voice is low, distorted by the mask. He lets his gaze trail deliberately over me before meeting my eyes again. “You’re trying to kill me.”
A tremor flutters through me, but I force a smile. “You approve, then?”
His jaw flexes. “Approve isn’t the word.” He shifts closer, just enough that the sweep of my train brushes his shoes. “I’ll keep my restraint in check with all of the eyes following you in this room, but don’t ask me to like it.”
Claire’s laugh rings out in the room as she walks from the champagne table to join us. “Less ogling, more toasting!” she calls, oblivious to the way my breath catches under his intensity.
Kieran doesn’t look away from me. “Ready?”
I nod, though my heart hammers so loud it drowns the music. “Always.”
And together, hidden under our masks, we step away from the shield of the shadows and into the current of the gala.
The museum swallows us whole.
Light spills from chandeliers like streets of gold, scattering across polished marble floors. Paintings hang in heavy frames on the walls, guests enthralled and analyzing their own meanings. Sculptures stand spread across the floor, bathing in the candlelight.
The air is alive with the strum of strings from a live quartet, the rise and fall of a dozen conversations, the clink of champagne flutes colliding in friendly toasts. Perfume from the flowers hangs thick, a mix of floral and musk mingles with the faint scent of candles burning.
Masks glitter everywhere. Sequins flash under the chandeliers.
Feathers sweep dramatically when guests turn their heads.
Some masks are delicate lace, barely hiding a face; others are elaborate works of art, turning their wearers into birds, gods, or demons.
For an overwhelming moment, it feels like we’ve stepped into another world, one where identity is blurred and secrets can run free.
Kieran keeps just enough distance to be proper, but his presence is overwhelming. The cut of his tux, the black mask, the way his hand hovers at the small of my back without ever quite touching—it makes every nerve in my body want to scream.
“Everyone’s watching,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if it’s true or if I just feel like everyone’s eyes are on me.
“Let them,” he says, his voice low, roughened by the mask’s shadow. “They can look. But they can’t have.”
The words burn through me hotter than the champagne I haven’t yet touched.
A waiter passes, silver tray gleaming. I take a flute if only to give my hands something to do. The bubbles dance across my tongue as it warms my throat.
Across the room, clusters of donors gather near the gallery doors; their laughter is forced, their smiles are way too wide. The faculty circle among them like well-trained dogs, eager to impress. Behind every polite exchange, I can almost sense their unwillingness to be here, just like Kieran.
And somewhere in this crowd, they know Sheridan is waiting.
The music rises, a swell of violins that seems to hush the crowd. A ripple of attention passes through the atrium, and when I follow it, I see why.
President Sheridan steps into the museum as though he owns it, tuxedo perfectly cut, mask trimmed in gold that catches the chandelier light.
Donors turn toward him like moths to flame, eager smiles plastered across their faces.
He greets them with practiced warmth, shaking hands, pausing for compliments, accepting admiration as though it’s his birthright.
But then his gaze sweeps the room.
It skims over jeweled gowns and feathered masks, over faculty and students. I know he is looking for me.
Heat flushes my skin under the lace mask. I force myself not to shrink, but when his eyes reach me, it feels like his eyes pin me in place, stripping away the protection of silk and shadow.
Kieran notices. He shifts, stepping just slightly in front of me, blocking Sheridan’s view with the broad line of his shoulders. He acts like my shield, strong and impenetrable. My breath eases, just a fraction.
“Kieran,” I whisper, my fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve.
“I see him,” he murmurs back calmly. His gaze doesn’t leave Sheridan until he is swallowed again by the crowd of donors.
Kieran exhales, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Then he looks down at me, his voice low. “I need to go over there. If I don’t, it will look deliberate.”
The thought of being left, even for a moment, makes my stomach twist. But I nod. “Go.”
His hand grazes my arm, but it’s fleeting. Then he slips into the group of donors and faculty, his presence instantly commanding the others around him.
I watch as he greets Sheridan, his expression cool and professional.
He shakes hands with donors, speaks with that measured formality that makes every word sound important.
They lean in, nodding, smiling, eager to be seen in his orbit.
Even Sheridan masks his disdain well, returning Kieran’s greeting with false warmth.
From the corner where I stand, I see Kieran’s composure, the way he bends but doesn’t break, how he lets them think he belongs among them even as I know he despises every second of it.
Claire nudges me, pressing another champagne flute into my hand. “Your broody professor is killing it,” she whispers, eyes twinkling. “Donors are eating out of the palm of his hand. Sheridan looks like he swallowed glass.”
“Well, looks like Sheridan’s plan is working. Money-hungry bastard.” I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t put it past him to pocket a lot of the money for himself.”
When he finally breaks away, his eyes find me across the room. He doesn’t hurry, but the crowd seems to part for him, until he’s back at my side, his hand finding the small of my lower back, but this time he lets his fingers graze delicately over the lace.
The quartet’s music drifts like smoke through the atrium, violins sweet and low. Claire and Gabe melt back into the crowd, swept up in laughter and champagne, leaving just the two of us tucked into the corner.
“You handled that well,” I murmur, tilting my glass toward where Sheridan still holds court across the room.
His mouth curves, though it’s not quite a smile. “Years of practice. Pretend to listen. Pretend to care. Donors eat it up.” He glances back at me, his voice lowering. “But I wasn’t thinking about them.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “No?”
His gaze dips, and his fingers delicately slide down the sweep of lace on my arm. “I was thinking about this masked beauty that I can’t wait to get my hands on.”
Mindlessly, I find myself toying with the end of his sleeves with my fingertips before I remember where we are.
I can’t touch him. I shouldn’t even stand this close. But the promise in his gaze is enough to keep me steady. Enough to remind me that no rumor, no whisper, no Sheridan can undo what burns between us.
The music continues to play in the background, violins weaving their elegant notes in the air, but just beyond the hum of conversation, a cluster of professors drifts past us. They don’t realize they slow their steps in front of the very people they’re talking about.
Their voices are pitched low, “McKnight’s lost his edge,” one mutters, dripping with disdain. “He used to gut students alive in lecture halls. Now he lets them ramble, as if half-baked ideas are worth his time. Pathetic.”
“Pathetic, or distracted?” another answers, amusement in his tone. A pause, then a loud, knowing laugh. “We all know by what.”
“Oh, please. Look at her.”
“Ravencroft, is it? Bright enough, maybe. But everyone can see what keeps him circling her. It isn’t her essays.”
A chuckle slides in, muffled behind a glass. “I’d wager she’s on her knees more often than she’s at her desk. Perhaps she polishes more than his drafts.”
Laughter follows, cruel and unrestrained, each note twisting sharper. “He’s going to risk throwing away rigor, throw away his reputation—for a girl half his age who thinks being his distraction makes her extraordinary.”
The words cut deep, each one a blade to my heart. My skin prickles under the lace mask, shame and fury tangling until my chest feels tight.
Kieran goes still. Deadly still. His shoulders draw tight, his jaw clenches like stone, and the wine glass trembles in his hand, the fragile stem threatening to snap between his fingers.
They move on, still whispering, still laughing. And Kieran doesn’t turn to me. He doesn’t move at all. He just stares after them, his fury vibrating in the air between us.
And I know I need to drag him away before he loses all restraint.