Chapter 13
Angela
The world outside the tinted windows of the Range Rover was a blur of white and grey.
We had left Sterling University two hours ago, trading the manicured brick campus for the jagged, unforgiving spine of the Rocky Mountains. The road wound upward, flanked by walls of snow that were taller than the car, cutting us off from civilization.
I glanced at Elijah in the driver’s seat.
He looked different here. The tension that permanently knotted his shoulders seemed to unravel with every mile marker we passed.
He was wearing a flannel shirt over a thermal—no suit, no team gear—and a beanie pulled low over his messy hair.
He drove with one hand on the wheel (his left), his injured right hand resting on his thigh, the wrap significantly lighter than the boxing glove he’d worn yesterday.
"We’re almost there," he said, his voice quiet against the hum of the engine and the heater.
"Where is 'there' exactly?" I asked. "Because my GPS stopped working twenty minutes ago. If you’re taking me into the woods to murder me, just tell me now so I can delete my browser history."
He cracked a smile—a real one. "If I wanted to murder you, I’d have done it in the penthouse. Less digging."
"Comforting."
"It’s a cabin," he explained. "My grandfather built it. It’s off the grid. No cell service. No wifi. Just a generator, a fireplace, and snow."
"The Fortress of Solitude," I mused.
"Something like that."
He downshifted as we turned onto a narrow, unplowed access road. The Rover crunched through the powder, the tires gripping the ice.
We crested a hill, and there it was.
It wasn't a cabin. Not in the Lincoln Log sense. It was a structure of glass, steel, and dark timber that seemed to grow out of the cliffside. It hung over a valley of pine trees, suspended in the white void. It was beautiful, severe, and lonely.
Just like him.
"It’s incredible," I breathed.
"It’s quiet," he corrected.
He parked the truck. The silence when the engine cut was absolute. No highway noise. No sirens. No shouting students. Just the wind sighing through the trees.
"Come on," he said. "Let’s get inside before we freeze."
The interior was stark but warm. A massive stone fireplace dominated the living room, which was furnished with deep leather sofas and heavy wool blankets. Elijah busied himself with the fire, kneeling on the hearth with a practiced ease, striking a match with his good hand.
I wandered around the perimeter, touching the books on the shelves (classics, worn spines), the framed maps on the walls.
I stopped at a small bar cart in the corner.
It was stocked with crystal decanters. Amber whiskey. Clear gin. And a bottle of vodka. Grey Goose.
I stared at the frosted glass bottle.
My chest tightened. A phantom memory washed over me—the smell of cheap vodka, cheap cologne, and despair.
"Angela?"
Elijah’s voice was close. I hadn't heard him move.
I jolted, pulling my hand away from the bottle as if it had burned me.
"Sorry," I said quickly, turning around. "Just... looking."
Elijah was watching me. The fire was roaring now, casting flickering orange light across his face. He saw the panic in my eyes. He didn't miss anything.
"You don't drink vodka," he stated. "I’ve noticed. You drink wine. Or champagne."
"I hate vodka," I whispered.
"Because of him?"
He didn't say your father. He just said him.
I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself. The cabin suddenly felt too small. The isolation, which had been peaceful a moment ago, now felt like a trap.
"Do you want me to pour it out?" Elijah asked. He stepped toward the cart.
"No," I said. "It’s fine. It’s just... stupid."
"It’s not stupid." He took my hand—the one that had been hovering over the bottle—and pulled me toward the sofa. "Sit down. I’ll make tea. No alcohol tonight."
He left me by the fire. I sat on the plush rug, staring into the flames.
Why was I like this? Why did a simple bottle of liquor turn me into a shaking ten-year-old?
Elijah returned with two mugs of tea. He sat down next to me on the floor, his long legs stretched out, his back against the sofa. He handed me a mug.
"Talk to me," he said.
"About what?"
"About the ghost in the room," he said gently.
"You know about my mom. You know about the overdose. You know why I’m a control freak.
But whenever I ask about the arrest... about what happened to your dad...
you give me the press release version. 'He stole equipment. He got caught. He went to jail.'"
He took a sip of tea, watching me over the rim of the mug.
"I want the real version, Angela."
I looked at him. We were miles from anyone. There was no one to impress here. No donors to charm. No students to deceive.
"It wasn't just equipment," I said, my voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
Elijah set his mug down. He turned his body toward me, giving me his full attention.
"What was it?"
"It was cash," I said. "Petty cash from the office. Auction proceeds. He was skimming for months. But that night... the night he got caught..."
I closed my eyes. I could still see the flashing lights reflecting off the snow in our driveway.
"I was seventeen. It was a Tuesday. I was doing homework at the kitchen table.
Dad came home late. He was... happy. Manic happy.
He had a bag. He dumped it on the table.
It was thousands of dollars. Cash. He told me we were going to go on a trip.
He told me he was going to buy me new pointe shoes. The expensive ones."
I took a shaky breath.
"He smelled like vodka. He always did. But I didn't care. I was just happy he was happy. I thought maybe he’d won the lottery. I thought maybe we were safe."
"And then?" Elijah prompted softly.
"Then the pounding on the door."
I opened my eyes. I looked at the fire, seeing the blue strobe lights in the flames.
"I opened the door, Elijah. He told me not to, but I did. I thought it was a neighbor. It was the police. Three of them. And the Athletic Director."
"My father wasn't there?" Elijah asked, his voice tight.
"No. Just his minions." I swallowed hard. "They came in. They saw the money on the table. Dad tried to... he tried to run out the back. They tackled him in the kitchen. He knocked over the table. The money went everywhere. My homework was covered in it."
I felt the tears hot on my cheeks. I hadn't told anyone this part. Not even Chloe.
"He was screaming at them. Screaming that he earned it. That the Vances had millions and he was just taking his cut. And then he looked at me."
I shuddered.
"He looked at me, pinned on the floor, handcuffed, and he shouted, 'Tell them, Angie! Tell them I won it! Tell them!'"
"He asked you to lie," Elijah said. The anger in his voice was dark, vibrating.
"He asked me to be his accomplice," I corrected. "And for a second... I wanted to. I wanted to lie for him. Because he was my dad. Because he bought me ballet lessons when we couldn't afford rent. But I couldn't. I just stood there and cried."
I looked at Elijah.
"They dragged him out. They seized the money. They seized his truck. And I was left in that kitchen with my homework and the smell of spilled vodka."
"Angela," Elijah whispered.
"The worst part," I confessed, the shame burning in my gut, "isn't that he stole. It’s that... I understood why. I looked at that money, Elijah, and I felt relieved. For five minutes, I felt safe. I’m his daughter. I have his blood. What if I’m like him?
What if, when things get hard, I just take what I want? "
"You aren't him."
Elijah moved. He grabbed my shoulders, turning me to face him completely. His grip was firm, grounding.
"Look at me. You work three jobs. You dance until your feet bleed. You study until your eyes cross. You took a deal with me—a deal that terrified you—just to save your mother. That is not greed. That is sacrifice."
"I feel tainted," I whispered. "Everyone at Sterling looks at me and sees a thief."
"Let them look," Elijah said fiercely. "They don't know you. I know you. I know the girl who puts ice on my hand when I’m being an asshole. I know the girl who stood up to a billionaire’s wife in a casino.
You have more integrity in your little finger than my entire family has in their bank accounts. "
He pulled me into his chest. I collapsed against him, burying my face in his flannel shirt. He smelled like woodsmoke and soap—clean, solid scents.
"You aren't poisoned, Angela," he murmured into my hair. "You’re just hurt. And hurts heal."
"Yours didn't," I said, my voice muffled against his chest. "You still carry yours."
"I’m working on it," he said. "With you."
We sat there for a long time, the fire popping and hissing. The silence wasn't oppressive anymore. It was shared. It was the silence of two people who had just shown each other their ugliest scars and hadn't run away.
"Elijah?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to sleep in the guest room tonight."
"Good," he said. " because there isn't one. The cabin is a loft. One bed."
I pulled back to look at him. A small smile tugged at his lips.
"Presumptuous," I noted.
"Optimistic," he corrected.
He reached up and cupped my cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear.
"I don't want to just sleep," I whispered. The emotional excavation had left me raw, exposed. I needed to be filled up. I needed to feel connected to something other than my past.
"What do you want?"
"Make me forget," I said. "Make me forget the kitchen. Make me forget the police. Just... make me feel you."
Elijah’s eyes darkened. The pupil swallowed the blue.
"I can do that," he promised.
He led me up the spiral staircase to the loft.
The bedroom was open to the living area below, but it felt private, enclosed by the sloped ceiling and the wall of windows looking out into the snowy canopy. The bed was a massive nest of down comforters and pillows.
He didn't turn on the lights. The glow from the fire downstairs cast long, dancing shadows on the walls.