The Headmaster’s Rule (Wetherly Prep #1)

1. Theo

Theo

To everyone else, the beginning of the school year signals a fresh start.

To me, it’s a reminder not to fuck up again.

I smooth a hand down my suit jacket as I cross the quad, stomach churning. Less than forty-eight hours until the first day of the semester and I’m already dreading it. The last thing I need is a meeting with the board, but when Helen March’s email came through, I knew better than to refuse.

The main building looms ahead of me in the early dawn light, three stories of ivy-clad stone, perched above the Atlantic.

For over a century, parents have sent their children to Wetherly Cove Preparatory School, believing it will shape them into extraordinary people.

It’s the school where I spent my boyhood.

The school to which I’ve dedicated my entire professional career.

The school I failed to protect.

I shake the thought off as I punch in the alarm code and enter the building.

It’s quiet inside, each footstep echoing through the empty corridors as I climb the wide marble staircase to the third floor.

My father gazes sternly at me from a framed black-and-white photo on the wood-paneled wall, reminding me of my duty, and I forge ahead, knowing I only have three hours until the board arrives.

Three hours to give them answers I still don’t have.

My office is dark when I enter, and I turn on the lights, heading straight to my desk.

As I sink into the chair and slide on my glasses, my gaze lands on the brass nameplate that sits on my desk: Headmaster Wright.

Most schools call the position principal these days, but Wetherly Prep clings proudly to tradition, preferring the old title of headmaster.

Sometimes, it feels like a title I don’t deserve.

Powering on my laptop, I bring up the spreadsheet from last year’s fundraiser, scanning the numbers for what must be the thousandth time. It should have been clear to me. I should have seen what was happening.

With a frustrated grumble, I close the spreadsheet. Going back over that is pointless now. What I need to do is focus on finding a cause for this year’s fundraiser, a decision that is proving to be nearly impossible.

I flick through the handful of open tabs in my browser, rubbing my temple.

All great causes I would have chosen in previous years, but now none of them seem quite right.

Literacy foundations, mental health support, conservation efforts, STEM programs, all worthy causes in their own right, but how can I know where the funds go?

A soft knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance up to find bright morning sun streaming through my window.

Shit, what time is it?

“Good morning.” Margaret Pierce, my executive assistant, lets herself into the room.

Margaret is reliable, direct, and the only staff member who’s been with the school longer than I have.

Ruthlessly efficient, she ensures no one shows up at my office without an appointment or a very good reason.

“I’ve got the new faculty files for you. ”

I take the folder from her. “Thank you,” I say absently, setting it aside without opening it. It can wait.

Her gaze slides across me, and she produces a wrapped bagel, saying nothing.

I look at her over my glasses. “What’s this?”

Ignoring me, she crosses to the window and opens it slightly. “This room needs a little fresh air.”

I begin to protest, then stop. There’s no point arguing with Margaret.

Besides, she’s right. The cool breeze brings in the salty tang of the sea, instantly lightening my mood. I push the bagel away, returning to my screen, but she stops again by my desk, folding her arms, and I look up, sensing her displeasure.

“Theodore,” she scolds, pushing the bagel back under my nose. “We both know you skipped breakfast. Now, eat.”

I stifle a smile at her retreating form as I unwrap the bagel, taking a big bite. Bacon and egg with tomato and mayo, my favorite. She rarely brings me breakfast, but she knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t have made time to eat this morning.

“Don’t forget,” Margaret says, pausing in the doorway. “The board will be here in ten minutes for your meeting.”

I nod, chewing my bagel as she exits the room, the food sitting uncomfortably in my stomach.

Setting it aside, I pick up the new faculty folder, but I can’t focus, my gaze straying to my laptop.

The meeting reminder pops up on my screen, and I rise from my desk with a defeated sigh.

I’ll have to figure out the fundraiser details later.

And hope the board doesn’t ask too many questions.

Three board members wait in the conference room when I arrive, seated under the buzz of fluorescent lights.

The scent of stale coffee hangs in the air, and I extend a hand to Helen, head of the board.

In her early sixties, she’s a former headmistress with a reputation for justice, seldom seen without pearls or a matching sweater set.

“Mr. Wright,” she says crisply.

I respond with a tight smile, shaking hands in turn with Charles McKinley and Patsy Hayes. I’m grateful not to be meeting with the entire board.

Helen motions for me to take a seat, and I adjust my suit cuff, lowering myself into a chair at the long oval table.

“We want to discuss the agenda for this year,” Helen begins. “To ensure we are all on the same page.”

I nod stiffly.

“Academic achievement remains our top priority.”

A relieved exhale slips from me. Academics I can manage. They’re measurable.

“We need to maintain our position as one of the country’s top independent institutions,” Helen continues, tapping her pen to a pad of paper in front of her. “It’s essential that nothing interferes with that.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I assure her.

“Good.” There’s a brief pause, during which she glances at Charles and Patsy, then back at me. “As we head into the fall semester, we also need to address the elephant in the room. This year’s fundraiser.”

My gut tightens.

Charles leans forward, smoothing a finger across his white mustache. “I’m sure you’re aware that all eyes are on us after last year’s fiasco.”

My jaw tenses. “I am,” I grit out.

“The last thing we need is another staff embezzlement scandal,” he continues. “I think we can all agree police cars outside a school aren’t a good look.”

I grimace, rubbing at my jaw in agitation. I’ve agonized about last year’s fall fundraiser for months, trying to figure out how I could have let a member of the faculty steal the funds from right under my nose.

I have one rule: protect the school at all costs.

And I let them down.

“It never would have happened on Walter’s watch,” Charles adds.

I clench my molars. He’s right. Nothing slipped through the cracks when my father was headmaster.

“This year’s focus will be on repairing parent trust and donor confidence,” Patsy says. “Restoring this school’s otherwise unblemished reputation.”

“Which means approaching this year’s fundraiser with great caution,” Helen adds.

“Absolutely,” I agree. “I’ll oversee everything.”

“Good. We’ll expect weekly updates.” She leans forward, her gaze sharpening. “Don’t let us down, Mr. Wright.”

I nod, rising from the table. After another round of cursory handshakes, I slip from the conference room, pulse thumping as I return to my office. My laptop is still open on fundraiser options, and I settle in at my desk again, determined to find a solution.

Determined not to make another mistake.