21
── ? ──
AURORA
The water breaks.
Not naturally. Not with the smooth parting you see in movies when someone surfaces gracefully.
It explodes.
Tristan Virelle erupts from the lake like something feral, water streaming from his dark hair, his expensive clothes plastered to his body. He's got Evander in a grip that looks more like a wrestling hold than a rescue—one arm wrapped around his chest, the other hooking under his shoulder.
Evander is limp. Completely. His head lolls back against Tristan's shoulder, mouth open, skin a shade of gray-blue that makes my stomach drop.
He's not moving.
Not breathing.
The paramedics are still clustered around Liam on the shore—wrapping him in thermal blankets, checking his vitals, asking him questions in that calm, professional tone that's supposed to be reassuring.
Mrs. Calloway is there too, her hands shaking as she smooths Liam's wet hair back from his forehead.
Liam is coughing. Conscious. Alive.
But Evander—
"Help him!" The scream tears out of my throat, raw and desperate. "Someone fucking help him!"
Two paramedics break away from Liam's group. They wade into the shallows, grabbing Evander from Tristan, dragging his heavy, waterlogged body onto the muddy shore.
I'm running before I make the conscious decision to move. My feet slip on wet grass, my knees hitting the ground hard enough to send pain shooting up my thighs.
I don't care. Don't feel it. Don't feel anything except the absolute terror that's wrapped around my chest like a vise.
They lay him flat on his back. His head tilts to the side, water streaming from his mouth and nose. His lips are blue. His face is gray. His eyes are closed.
He's not breathing.
"Evander!" I'm crawling toward him on hands and knees, my voice breaking on his name. "Evander, please—"
A paramedic blocks my path. Female. Maybe thirty. Her face is professionally calm but her hands are already moving, checking Evander's pulse, tilting his head back, preparing to start CPR.
"Ma'am, I need you to step back—"
"No." I try to push past her. "I need to—I need to see him—"
"You need to let us work." Her partner—older, male, built like he's been doing this job for twenty years—positions himself on Evander's other side. "Step back. Now."
Strong hands grab my shoulders. Pull me backward. I fight against them, try to break free.
"Let me go! I need to—"
"Aurora." Tristan's voice in my ear. Quiet. Controlled. Completely soaked and shivering but still maintaining that clinical calm. "Let them work. You being there won't help him."
"I can't—" My voice breaks. "I can't just watch—"
"Yes, you can." His grip tightens. Not painful. Just firm. Grounding. "You can and you will. Because that's what he needs right now."
On the ground, the female paramedic positions her hands on Evander's chest. Interlaces her fingers. Locks her elbows.
And starts compressions.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The sound is horrible. Wet. Heavy. Each compression forcing water from Evander's lungs, making his whole body jerk with the impact.
I count with her. Can't help it. Can't stop myself from tracking every compression, every second that passes without him breathing.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
She tilts his head back. Pinches his nose. Seals her mouth over his and breathes.
His chest rises. Falls.
Nothing.
She goes back to compressions. Harder this time. Fast enough that I can hear something crack.
His ribs.
The sound makes bile rise in my throat. Sharp. Sickening. The unmistakable pop of bone breaking under pressure.
"Come on," the male paramedic mutters. "Come on, kid. Breathe."
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
Another rescue breath.
Nothing.
More compressions.
I can't watch this. Can't keep counting while they break his ribs trying to restart his heart. Can't keep sitting here while Evander Laurent—the Crown Prince, the untouchable, the man who controls everything—lies gray and lifeless on muddy ground.
"Please." I don't know who I'm talking to. The paramedics. God. The universe. "Please don't let him die. Please."
Tristan's grip on my shoulders tightens. He doesn't say anything. Just holds me in place while I fall apart.
Thirty compressions. Two breaths.
Thirty more. Two more.
The cycle repeats. Again. Again.
How long has it been? A minute? Two?
How long can someone go without oxygen before brain damage sets in?
My mother's voice echoes in my head—some half-remembered conversation from when I was young, before she got sick. Two minutes without oxygen, baby. After that, parts of you start dying. The parts that make you you.
How long was Evander underwater?
How long was he trapped down there before Tristan found him?
Thirty compressions. Two breaths.
"Come on!" The female paramedic's professional calm is cracking. "Don't do this. Don't you dare—"
Evander convulses.
Violent. Sudden. His entire body arching off the ground, mouth opening in a silent scream.
And then he's coughing.
Choking. Gagging. Water pouring from his mouth in thick, dark streams that smell like mud and decay.
The paramedics roll him onto his side. Support his head. Let him empty his lungs while they murmur encouragement and check his vitals.
He keeps coughing. Can't seem to stop. Each expulsion sounds painful, wet, like his lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out.
But he's breathing.
His chest is rising and falling. Ragged. Uneven. But moving.
He's alive.
The relief hits me so hard I actually collapse. My legs give out completely and I'm suddenly on the ground, my hands pressed into cold mud, my whole body shaking so violently I can hear my teeth chattering.
He's alive.
Evander's coughing finally slows. Stops. He's taking shallow, rapid breaths now—the kind that suggest his lungs aren't working properly yet but at least they're working.
His eyes flutter open.
Steel blue. Unfocused. Blown wide with trauma and oxygen deprivation and whatever hell he just experienced underwater.
He's looking around. Trying to orient himself. Trying to understand where he is and what happened.
His gaze sweeps across the paramedics. Past Tristan. Past the growing crowd of students and teachers.
And then it finds me.
Locks onto me with sudden, absolute focus.
Our eyes meet.
And something in his expression breaks. Cracks wide open in a way I've never seen before.
His chest hitches. A ragged, exhausted breath that sounds like it hurts.
He's trying to say something. His mouth opens but only a weak rasp comes out.
The female paramedic leans over him. "Don't try to talk. Just breathe. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
But Evander isn't looking at her. Isn't listening to her. He's still staring at me with those wide, traumatized eyes.
And very quietly, in a voice so broken I almost don't recognize it, he whispers: "Liam?"
The question makes my chest crack open.
He just drowned. Nearly died. Spent god knows how long trapped underwater in his worst nightmare.
And the first thing he asks about is my brother.
"He's okay." My voice is shaking so badly I can barely form words. "He's alive. You got him out. He's okay."
Evander's eyes close. His entire body goes slack with relief.
And then he passes out.
The hours that follow are a blur.
Ambulances. Hospital. Fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic and doctors speaking in calm, professional tones that make everything feel both urgent and routine at the same time.
Liam is fine. Mild hypothermia. Some water in his lungs that they clear quickly. He's conscious, talking, asking for me. Mrs. Calloway stays with him while I handle the paperwork, answer questions, deal with the police who want to know what happened.
Thomas Hastings is arrested. Campus security has him in handcuffs before the ambulances even arrive. Assault. Attempted murder. A list of charges that will probably put him away for years.
I don't care. Can't bring myself to care about anything except the fact that Liam is safe.
And Evander—
Evander refuses medical treatment.
The paramedics try. The ER doctors try. They explain that he needs monitoring, that near-drowning can cause delayed complications, that his broken ribs need x-rays.
He signs the waiver declining care. Walks out of the hospital with Tristan supporting his weight, moving like every breath hurts.
Marcus is waiting with the car. He takes one look at Evander and doesn't ask questions. Just drives.
I stay with Liam until he's officially discharged. Mrs. Calloway promises to keep him home for a few days, to watch him closely, to call if anything changes.
And then—because I don't know where else to go, because my brain is still stuck on the image of Evander lying gray and lifeless on muddy ground—I go to the penthouse.
The door is unlocked.
I push it open slowly. Step into the silent space.
Evander is standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He's showered—his hair is damp, no longer matted with lake water. Changed into dark sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt that hangs on his frame like he's lost weight he didn't have to lose.
But he looks like a ghost. Pale. Hollow. His shoulders are hunched slightly, one arm wrapped around his ribs where the paramedic broke them.
On his glass desk sits an ashtray I've never seen before. Inside it are ashes. Still smoking slightly.
I walk closer. Look down.
The remains of paper. Legal documents. I can just make out fragments of text through the ash.
...debt agreement...
...Laurent Holdings...
...William Lane...
He burned them. Burned the contracts that bound my father's debt to him. The leverage he's been using to control me for months.
"The debt is gone."
His voice makes me jump. I didn't realize he knew I was here.
"Evander—"
"The front door is unlocked." He still hasn't turned around. Still staring out at the rain that's started falling again. "You can pack your things. I won't stop you."
I stare at his back. At the way he's holding himself so carefully, like he's afraid he might shatter.
"You nearly died," I say quietly.
"I know."
"You dove into the thing that terrifies you most to save my brother."
"Yes."
"Why?"