Chapter 2 #2
He gives me a cool, measuring glance that makes me feel as if I’ve been weighed, assessed, and dismissed all in the span of a heartbeat, before finally looking away.
He follows the other two guys to a table nearby, and they take their seats.
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I immediately hate myself for my reaction to him.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m acting like I’ve never seen a hot guy before.
“Why was he looking at you like that?” Nicole, the blonde, asks me with narrowed eyes. “Do you know them?”
“Who?” I ask.
“The Heirs.” She snorts, clearly annoyed by my ignorance. “You know—Rowan Ashcroft, Van Hawthorne. And Silas Blackhollow, of course.”
The last name lands with more weight than I expect.
Blackhollow.
You don’t grow up anywhere near New England without hearing it.
The Blackhollow family’s legacy stretches back generations.
Their multibillion-dollar empire, Blackhollow Industries, has made them one of those old-money dynasties that seem to exist above ordinary people and never follow the rules everyone else does.
Billionaire Damien Blackhollow is at the head of the company these days, despite being accused of murdering his fiancée.
It happened a long time ago, but everyone knows the story.
It made national news. Some sort of rumored ritual cult sacrifice.
His lawyer got him off, but the rumors of his guilt never fully went away.
There were other strange deaths throughout the years, too, all tied to the family in one way or another.
Of course, when Josh was offered the Blackhollow Foundation Fellowship last year, neither of us thought twice about that disturbing history. We were too busy celebrating.
Josh had mentioned Silas, Damien’s son. He said Silas was brilliant but impossible to read, the kind of guy everyone around campus worshipped.
Half the time he’d complain that Silas was the coldest asshole he’d ever met.
The other half he’d tell me about afternoons they’d spent buried in the university archives, chasing some obscure piece of New England history.
As difficult as Silas could apparently be, Josh always talked about him like they were friends.
After the police stopped returning my calls, I’d reached out to everyone Josh had ever mentioned.
Professors. Administrators. Students. Silas was one of the first people I contacted, but he never answered my emails.
Eventually, I accepted he was either unwilling to help me or hiding behind the same wall of silence as everyone else in Salem’s Fall.
Now he’s sitting less than twenty feet away from me.
“I’d kill for him to look at me just once,” Grace says, watching Silas over the rim of her sparkling water bottle. “I’d marry Silas tomorrow. I’d even sign a prenup. No questions asked.”
“You and half the women on campus.” Nicole snorts. “He’s gorgeous, sure, but he’s a cold-hearted bastard. I prefer Rowan. At least he’d probably call you the next day.”
“Boring.” Grace waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t want emotionally available. I want someone who will absolutely ruin me in bed.”
“You’re such a little slut.” Nicole giggles into her drink. “A slut with terrible taste.”
“Excuse you. I think you mean elite taste.”
They erupt into laughter again, and I take a sip of water. I’m taken aback by the sheer intensity of their infatuation with these men. It’s like three attractive guys walk into a room and suddenly everyone forgets how to breathe.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “They’re good-looking, sure, but so what? What’s so special about them?”
“Are you serious?” Nicole looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“Besides the obvious hotness, they’re also brilliant.
And richer than God. More powerful too, probably.
” She giggles. “Their families practically own Salem’s Fall and the university,” she explains.
“What else do you need to fall in love?”
Love.
The word sits strangely in my chest.
I’ve seen what love does to people. My mother loved my father so completely that when he died, the woman became a shell of a person. Love hollowed her out and left my brother and me to survive what remained.
“Love ruins you,” I say. “It’s empty and meaningless and it gives someone else the power to wreck your life.”
They go silent.
Grace studies me for a moment before letting out a low whistle. “Jesus. That’s dark.”
An older man in his late fifties approaches the Heirs’ table. He’s impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and tie, hair neatly combed, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone used to being important.
“Mr. Blackhollow,” he says.
Silas doesn’t acknowledge him right away. Instead, he unfolds his napkin across his lap with unhurried precision. A polished black stone set in a ring on his right hand catches the light. Only when he’s finished does he lift his gaze.
“Dean Whitmore.”
The older man’s smile dims almost imperceptibly.
“I wanted to personally thank your family again for their extraordinary generosity,” the dean says. “The new science center wouldn’t have been possible without the Blackhollow Foundation.”
Silas gives a single nod. “I’m glad the university found the donation useful.”
The dean lets out a polite laugh, as though hoping for something warmer. “I was hoping we’d have the pleasure of seeing you at tomorrow’s trustees’ luncheon. The board would very much like a chance to thank you in person.”
Silas reaches for his water.
“Then they’ll be sorely disappointed.”
The dean blinks. “I… beg your pardon?”
“I won’t be attending.”
“Mr. Blackhollow, if you could please reconsider,” the dean says, his face going pale. “It really is an important event, and I promised several of the trustees who specifically requested your presence—”
“I said no.”
The words aren’t loud, but the dean immediately straightens. “Of course.” A faint flush creeps into his face. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
Silas studies him for another long second but says nothing. The dean forces a strained smile, murmurs more apologies, and then starts to retreat.
“Oh, Dean Whitmore?”
The dean stops immediately and turns back. “Yes, Mr. Blackhollow?”
“The espresso machine in Wintermere Hall has been out of service since yesterday.”
The dean’s expression falters. “I’m… sorry to hear that.”
“I don’t imagine it’ll repair itself.”
“No, of course not.” The dean clears his throat. “I’ll notify Facilities as soon as—” He stops mid-sentence, wilting beneath Silas’s cold, disapproving stare. “Never mind. I’ll stop by myself after dinner and make sure it’s taken care of.”
Another beat passes.
“See that you do,” Silas says and then waves a hand, dismissing the dean, who walks away from the table considerably faster than he’d approached it. By the time he reaches the doors, the back of his neck has gone completely crimson.
A few students laugh as my grip tightens around my tray. I don’t know the dean, but I’ve spent enough of my life watching powerful people humiliate those beneath them. I know exactly how it feels to be stepped on by them, just because they can.
“What an asshole,” I mutter.
I push my chair back and feel someone watching me. I turn slightly and catch the blond Heir—Rowan—staring at me. His blue eyes meet mine and he winks, as if my whispered insult about his friend amused him.
I know I should look away. Make myself small, unnoticeable, especially to guys like him.
But against my better judgment, I pause and maintain eye contact.
There’s something disarming about him. Maybe because he’s the only one of the three who looks as if he might actually know how to laugh at a joke.
My heart is beating a little too fast as I leave Winthrop Commons, which is ridiculous. I didn’t come to Salem’s Fall for hot guys or campus royalty or whatever bizarre hierarchy made half the room tremble when those three men walked inside.
I came for Josh.
By the time I step outside, the sun has slipped behind the old buildings. The last traces of daylight linger over the quad as a warm breeze drifts in from the harbor and the steady chorus of crickets rises from the lawns. I glance back through the tall windows of Winthrop Commons.
The Heirs are still inside, gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers, laughing over something.
Van picks at his food with visible disdain while Rowan says something that makes one of the women at the nearby table blush.
Silas leans back in his chair, watching it all like a prince holding court.
Then, as if sensing my gaze, he turns toward the window, and our eyes meet through the glass once more.
A chill moves through me.
I still don’t know what Josh found here at Salem’s Fall, but for the first time since arriving on campus, I’m certain of one thing. Silas Blackhollow knows at least some of this town’s secrets. And one way or another, I’m going to make him tell me.