Chapter 6
Clara
The last hour of my shift at the Briarcliff Café is its own brand of purgatory.
The frantic afternoon rush has bled away, leaving a sterile, echoing space haunted by the ghost of a thousand six-dollar lattes.
I wipe down the gleaming espresso machine for the third time, the scent of cleaning solution sharp as ammonia in my nose, trying to scrub away the underlying stench of burnt coffee and entitlement.
My body aches from the grind of six hours on cracked linoleum, but my mind is unraveling—strung too tight, one careless thought away from snapping.
On a small table tucked behind the counter, my laptop screen glows with Adrian Hale’s hockey stats.
Each impossible number is another cold slap of dread.
Goals, penalty minutes, shots on target—it reads like a rap sheet.
Not a student, not a teammate. A force of nature.
Something that can’t be reasoned with. And I’m supposed to tame that with conditional probability?
This is a mistake. I can’t do this. He’s not a problem set; he’s a storm looking for something to destroy. And now my entire future has been chained to his. Even the numbers on the screen feel like shackles, glowing digits that cinch tighter every time I read them.
The bell on the door chimes, a jagged sound tearing the hush. I look up, ready to deliver my automatic, “Sorry, we’re closing,” but the words die in my throat.
“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”
Zoe stands just inside the door, defiant as always.
Two high pigtails bounce with each shake of her head.
Her sweatshirt blares ‘Good Girl with Bad Habits’ in neon pink.
She stabs a perfectly manicured finger toward my laptop, her perfume cutting through the bitter tang of espresso, her expression a mix of disgust and wild amusement.
“We are not letting you spend your one free night drowning in the existential void of Captain Ice Veins. Clock out, Harrington.”
Before I can muster an argument, Genny follows her in, sidestepping a wet patch on the floor with practiced elegance.
She brings a gust of cold autumn air with her—sharp, cleansing, but never quite enough to cut through the rot that clings to these walls.
She leans against the polished counter, composed in a cashmere sweater and dark jeans, her presence as deliberate as a chess move.
“She’s right,” Genny says. Her voice is cool as cut glass. A blade sliding free. “You look like you’re waiting for an execution, not a tutoring session.”
“It feels like an execution,” I admit, tossing the rag into the sink with more force than I intend. “My execution.”
Zoe hops onto a stool, spinning once, the metal squeaking in the nearly empty space. “Alright, spill. We got your 911 text that read, and I quote, ‘My life is over.’ What’s the crisis? Did you finally get a B-plus? Did the café run out of oat milk?”
I untie my stained apron, the exhaustion of the day settling deep in my bones where fear and anger have already taken root.
I take a breath that tastes like metal, and the words spill out—clipped and clinical because it’s the only way to say them without shattering.
Lansing’s ambush. The threat to my scholarship.
The noose knotted from someone else’s GPA.
The way my entire future is now yoked to a boy who probably uses his textbooks as coasters.
Zoe listens, eyes wide and shining with a kind of horrified delight.
When I finish, she lets out a long, low whistle.
“Holy shit. They chained you to the Titan’s anchor.
That’s not a tutor assignment; that’s a human sacrifice.
” She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“But also—you’re going to be trapped with him.
Alone. The kind of dangerous that turns caution into obituary headlines. ”
A groan escapes me as I drop my head into my hands, nails digging into my scalp. “That is not helping.”
“She’s not wrong about the dangerous part,” Genny says quietly, her humor gone, her voice cutting close to a warning. “This is more complicated than just grades, Clara. You need to be careful.”
Zoe scoffs. “Oh, come on, Gen. It’s a tutoring session, not a mob hit.”
“With the Hales?” Genny’s eyes never leave mine. “The line is thinner than you think. Their family doesn’t just have money, Clara. They have power. The kind that makes problems—and people—disappear.”
My breath catches. I’m thinking of the Laurent name on half the buildings on campus. “Like your family?”
Genny’s mask of composure slips for just a fraction of a second, her gaze turning distant. She pauses, then meets my eyes again, her voice a cool, even tone. “The game is the same,” she says softly. “Just different jerseys.”
She lets the weight of that settle before continuing, her focus sharpening back to my problem. “Briarcliff has worshipped Adrian Hale since the moment he set foot on campus. He’s never been told he’s failing. He’s definitely never been forced to accept help. Especially from…”
She trails off, but I finish the thought for her, the words thick with shame. …a scholarship girl. The help.
A cold dread, sharper than the fear of failing, crawls up my spine. This isn’t just an academic problem. I’ve been thrown into a game where the other players own the board, and I’m the piece they’ll break if it serves them. One rumor, and I won’t just be a tutor. I’ll be branded his shadow.
“So what am I supposed to do?” The words scrape out, low and jagged.
“You go in there and you handle it.” Genny’s tone is steel, a lifeline.
“Don’t be intimidated. Don’t be impressed.
Don’t let him see any weakness. This is a transaction.
You provide a service. Set your terms, stick to them.
Document everything—every session, every assignment. You build a paper trail.”
Zoe throws her hands up. “Or! Hear me out—you wear that little black top I love, make him so flustered he can’t even see the book, and get him to do whatever you want.” She winks. “There’s more than one way to get an A at Briarcliff.”
“I’m not trying to seduce him, Zoe. I’m trying to survive him.”
“Same thing at Briarcliff,” she mutters.
Genny ignores her. “She’s right about one thing, though.” She looks at me, gaze unwavering. “Don’t let him think you’re a pushover. The second you walk into that room, you’re in charge. He’s on your turf now.”
Her words drive in like rebar, bracing me against collapse.
A paper trail. Set your terms. You’re in charge.
My mind latches onto the concepts, the strategic coldness a welcome antidote to my panic.
All my life, I’ve survived by being meticulous, by planning ten steps ahead because I could never afford a mistake.
I’ve always seen it as a defense mechanism, but Genny’s right.
My over-preparedness isn’t a weakness. It’s a weapon.
I can use the skills I honed in the shadows to protect myself in the spotlight.
My panic calcifies into something sharp enough to cut. My hands, which had been trembling, are still now on the table.
“Okay,” I breathe, sitting up straighter.
The fear is still there, an icy knot in my gut, but now it has a purpose.
I cross to my laptop and shut his stats with a flick that’s almost violent.
I open a new document: Adrian Hale—Tutoring Log.
The title looks like a threat stamped on the screen. “Okay. Terms. A paper trail.”
Zoe groans. “Ugh, you two are so boringly practical. Can we at least get a detailed report on his muscle definition and general scent profile? For science.”
A tight, unwilling smile cracks through. “No promises.”
“I’ll take it,” she proclaims.
Genny gives me a slight, approving nod—a rare, silent blessing. “You’ve got this, Clara. Just don’t forget who you are. And don’t forget that you have us if he tries anything.”
Looking at them—Zoe, all bright, chaotic energy, and Genny, a fortress of calm, strategic strength—the knot in my stomach loosens, just a fraction. I’m not alone in this, even if the fight is mine.
“Thanks, guys,” I say, meaning it as I shrug on my battered jacket.
Zoe grins, linking her arm through mine. “Of course. Now, let’s go. I’m buying you a real coffee—one you didn’t have to make yourself. And you’re going to spill every rumor you’ve ever heard about the hockey team. Your survival may depend on it.”
As we step outside, the evening wind claws at my cheeks, sharp and biting.
The October dark already presses against the edges of campus, swallowing the golden light from the library windows.
I pull my jacket tighter, welcoming the sting of the cold on my skin.
It’s a shock to the system, a dose of harsh reality that chases away the last of my panic and leaves a cold, clear sense of purpose in its place.
The world feels smaller now—not safer, but more focused.
A battlefield narrowed to a single room, a single opponent.
Every gust of wind whispers his name, as if the night already belongs to him.
I can feel the storm gathering, waiting for me to step into the lion’s den.
Waiting for Adrian Hale.