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It’s the way of the Heirs. Any of our parents—well, maybe not mine so much right now—protect us as if we’re their own. It's why Mr. Porter hasn’t called them all in. Although why he chose Christian is beyond me. He can get a murderer who was caught red-handed a non-guilty verdict in the courtroom. Something tells me Mr. Porter is going into this knowing that we’ll be walking straight out of this office and heading back to class with our slates still clean in less than thirty minutes.
He’s doing what he needs to do. Ticking those boxes to ensure the school board is happy.
It really says something considering the ‘victim’ here is his daughter. It also makes me curious as fuck as to what Mr. Porter might be involved in if he’s going to allow this shit to slide.
“Rumour has it that your boys, and daughter, had a hand in the photographs that were distributed around the sixth form yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Christian says, as slick as you like. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Porter’s face turns purple in frustration. He clearly doesn’t want to have to spell it out, but Christian isn’t the kind of opponent that makes any of this easy.
With a sigh, Mr. Porter is forced to—vaguely—explain what a filthy slut his daughter is to a very shocked-looking Christian. I swear to God, if he ever failed at being a defence lawyer then he’d make a killer actor.
The two of them go back and forth for a few minutes while the five of us sit mute, aware that our input isn’t needed while Christian has our backs. And thank fuck for that, because with Olivia standing next to me, her body heat warming my side and her scent still filling my nose, Darcie fucking Porter couldn’t be further from my mind.
Exactly as I predicted, and without any evidence to back up Mr. Porter’s claims that we were involved in any way, the five of us are allowed to leave.
Liv and I are shoulder to shoulder as we walk toward the door, neither of us slowing down when we get to it. I know I should be a gentleman and let her go first, but the thought of her closing those final few inches when we have to squeeze through is too much to ignore.
She doesn’t back down either, and when she twists to the side to exit, her hand brushes mine, sending a spine-tingling bolt of electricity shooting up my arm.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I fight my need to grab her and back her into any wall I can get to to kiss her like my life depends on it.
Instead, I do the total opposite, and after thanking Christian for his support, I hightail it away from the main building like someone set my arse on fire.
* * *
“Abigail, wait up,” I call down the hallway when I spot her trying to disappear into the crowd at the end of the day. I have to give her credit, she’s got the art of blending in down to a tee.
She hesitates, probably not used to anyone calling after her, and when she turns around, her eyes widen when she discovers the voice belongs to me.
Her husband to be.
Ugh. Why did I even think that?
“Hey, how are you doing?” I ask when I finally reach her.
For the first time since she left her classroom, people actually look her way, and I quickly notice her trying to hide behind her hair. “You shouldn’t do that, you know? You shouldn’t let anyone here have so much power over you that you feel the need to hide.” A weird kind of protectiveness washes through me.
“People stare. It’s easier to take away what interests them so much.”
“Fuck them, Abigail. You should be proud of those scars.”
“And what would you know about it, Mr. Perfect?” she asks, finding a little of the spunk she showed us at the weekend.
A sad laugh falls from my lips. “I think we both know that I’m hardly perfect.”
“Personality, maybe not. But you’re pretty to look at.” Her cheeks blaze red at her confession.
“Pretty? I’m a rugby player, Abi. I’m far from pretty.”
“Yeah, well. You know what I mean. People stare at you because you’re hot, not because you’re disfigured. It’s different.”
“And how would you know they’re not staring because they think you’re pretty?” I ask, hating listening to her talk about herself this way.
Yeah, sure, the scars are… a little distracting. Shocking at first, but only because you don’t expect them. But they’re her, they show her strength. She’s pretty, hot even. All she needs is a confidence boost, and I’m sure everyone will start looking at her differently.
“Trust me, I know. Anyway,” she says, trying to steer the conversation away from her, “is there something you wanted?”
