Chapter 7
Clara
The main floor is half-empty, bathed in the cold blue glow of laptop screens.
The silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s pressurized, full of unspoken deadlines and the frantic, near-silent tapping of keys.
Students are scattered across long tables, some hunched over books with a desperation I recognize, others pretending to study while their eyes flick constantly to their phones, always looking for a better offer.
The air smells of printer paper, burned-out toner, and an overworked HVAC system humming a low, monotonous drone.
It’s a place scrubbed of secrets, too polished to feel like real knowledge ever dirtied these tables. It’s all facade.
I set up my materials with surgical precision: Statistics on the left, Biology on the right, History in the center.
Color-coded index cards squared at perfect angles.
Two pens, two backups, one highlighter. My notebook lies open to a blank page where I write the title: Tutoring Plan: Adrian Hale.
I underline it twice. Control is in the preparation. Lose that, and you’re prey.
I sit up straighter, fold my hands on the chilled surface of the table, and wait.
At 4:55, I glance at the door, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of my heart.
At 4:59, I reread my notes, clinging to the neatness of my own handwriting like a lifeline.
At 5:04, I stop pretending I’m not irritated. This is exactly the power play I expected. People like Adrian Hale don’t apologize. They arrive on their own time, expecting the world to warp around them.
I hear him before I see him. Heavy steps, slow, deliberate. Each one echoes down the empty corridor like he owns not just the hallway, but the institution itself.
He fills the doorway when he appears. A dark shape blocking the light, plunging the alcove into shadow.
The air in the room thins, chills. Damp hair from the rink clings to his forehead, a gray Briarcliff hoodie stretched tight across broad, predatory shoulders.
His backpack hangs from one of them as if weightless.
His gaze—the impossible, frosty blue from every highlight reel—locks on me instantly, scanning me from head to toe not with interest, but with a cold, detached calculation, like prey dissected on a slab.
The smell of cold air and cedar soap clings to him, a clean, sharp scent that cuts through the sterile space.
He drags the chair opposite me with a loud, grating screech that vibrates up my spine. The sound isn’t careless; it’s a deliberate shriek of metal meant to unsettle me. A reminder: I could be dangerous if I cared to be.
“So you’re the genius they assigned to babysit me.” His voice is a low drawl, like gravel smoothed over by expensive whiskey, lazy but with an edge to it. A dare.
I refuse to let the sound rattle me. I look up, slow, unblinking. “I don’t babysit,” I say, my voice even and cold. “I correct statistical outliers. Right now, that’s you.”
One corner of his mouth hooks upward, a predator’s tell. “Same thing. You talk, I nod, we pretend you saved me.”
“We pretend you earned it,” I bite back.
That lands. A flicker in his jaw. I slide the statistics book toward him, and it bumps his hand. The contact is brief, but his skin is an unexpected shock of warmth against the cold corner of the book. A jolt, sharp as static, arcs up my arm. He doesn’t move his hand.
“You’ve got exams coming,” I say flatly, pushing past the electric crackle of the moment. “You fail, you’re benched. And this isn’t a five-minute major, Adrian. It’s a game misconduct. You’re out. Your dad loses face. The whole dynasty gets a crack in the foundation.”
His gaze sharpens. “You know a lot about me, Tutor Girl.”
“I had ten hours and a grudge,” I reply, my voice sweet with venom. “It’s amazing what you can find when you’re properly motivated.”
He just sits there, a wall of damp cotton and muscle, restless energy radiating off him and making the small room feel even smaller. “And if I don’t care about any of that?”
“Then you’ll waste my time.” I lean back, crossing my arms, mirroring his posture to claw back space. “And I don’t waste time. My time is the only thing I truly own.”
The silence slithers between us, coiling around my throat like barbed wire.
“You’re not scared of me,” he says finally. Not a question; an observation laced with disbelief.
I’m scared of failing, I think. I’m scared of shadows and loud noises and being trapped. But you? You’re just a boy. My hand, which was clenched in my lap, deliberately relaxes. I raise an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
He doesn’t answer. “If I wanted to pass, I’d pass,” he says, voice low. “Don’t mistake boredom for stupidity.”
“Good.” I flip open the book. “Then we’ll move quickly.”
“You expected me to be an idiot.”
“I expected you to be late,” I say, sliding a practice problem forward. “Which you nailed.”
His gaze flicks to the page, then back to me. “What’s in it for you?” The question is sharp, probing for a weakness.
“My scholarship is tied to yours,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “If you fail, I lose everything. This isn’t about helping you. It’s about my survival.”
That makes him still. “They told you that?”
“Not directly. But Lansing made it clear. You’re an asset. I’m a safeguard.”
He taps a knuckle against the table. “Asset. Safeguard. Same thing.” His tone is flat, dismissive, but I see the barest flicker of a muscle in his jaw, a split-second glance away before his eyes lock back on mine, colder than before.
His hands tense on the table for a moment, like he’d rather break something than admit it stings.
“Fine,” I slice back. “Asset or not, you need a seventy-two in Statistics. We’re starting with conditional probability. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
His stare sharpens. “I want to get this over with.”
For ten minutes, I teach, breaking down the logic.
He doesn’t write a single note. He just watches, eyes narrowed.
It’s not boredom; it’s scrutiny. He’s studying me, not the formulas, and the intensity makes a bead of sweat prickle under my collar.
Finally, he mutters the calculation under his breath, and I see it click.
He’s not dumb. His brain just runs on different circuitry.
“Try this one yourself,” I say, nudging a pencil across the table.
He picks it up and leans over the page, the scratch of graphite loud in the narrow alcove. When he finishes, he tosses the pencil down. “You always this patient?”
“Only when something’s salvageable.”
His mouth tilts, humorless. “So I’m salvageable?”
“You’re balanced on a blade, Hale. One slip, and you bleed.”
A sharp laugh escapes him. “You don’t act like a tutor.”
“No?”
“You act like someone who’s never learned how to lose.”
I slot the pencil back into its pouch. “You act like someone who’s never been told no.”
That earns a thin, dangerous smile. His gaze flicks to my bare wrist. “Most tutors watch the clock. You haven’t checked the time once.”
My hand stills. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything.” It’s not a brag; it’s a warning. His stare clings, dissecting, claiming.
“I’m not your opponent,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
“You sure?”
The silence stretches, knifelike. I snap my folder shut. “That’s enough for today. Same time Wednesday.”
“I have practice.”
“Then move it.”
His jaw ticks. He doesn’t push back. “I’ll be here.”
I shoulder my backpack and stand. He doesn’t move, just watches as I walk out, the weight of his stare burning between my shoulder blades.
I nearly collide with Talia Addison in the main corridor.
She’s heading in the other direction, a stack of what looks like quiz papers clutched in her arms. Her eyes meet mine, wide with a kind of weary sympathy.
She gives me a small, tight smile—a silent acknowledgment of the thankless job we now share.
I nod back, grateful, but as I pass, the thought claws at me: being seen walking out of this room is dangerous.
One wrong pair of eyes, one Chronicle whisper, and I’m not a tutor.
I’m the scholarship girl chained to the captain.
Even outside in the sharp, chilly October air, I can still feel his stare, like hooks under my skin.
My phone buzzes.
Zoe’s name flashes on the screen. I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.
“You little traitor,” she says, her voice loud as ever. “Do you know how boring Elm was without you last night? I was forced to dance with econ majors. Econ, Clara. I suffered.”
I huff a laugh, brittle but almost real. “You’ll live.”
“No, I won’t. You owe me. And don’t think that gets you out of plans for the rest of the week—”
“I already told you, I’ve got tutoring on Wednesday,” I cut in.
“And study hall Thursday. God, you’re a hermit. Bring Hale to Elm. Let’s see how he acts when it’s not his territory.”
“Not happening.”
“Coward.” The line goes dead.
Genny: Ignore her. But text me if she kidnaps you. Again.
I smile, the first real one since I sat down with Adrian. But it fades fast. Underneath it all, I can still feel his eyes on me. This was supposed to be simple. But he had looked at me like he saw things I hadn’t meant to show. I don’t know if I can solve him. And I don’t know if I want to.