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“We’re done. Get the fuck out.”
I blink, staring at him. “Are… Are you firing me?”
“I’m telling you this whole fucking thing isdone. Get out, now.”
My voice drops to a whisper. “What about our deal?”
“Get out.”
“What about the companies—”
“Get. Out.”
“What about what you promised me—”
“GET THE FUCK OUT!!”
I’m bolting for the elevator before I even realize it, my heart pounding loud in my chest as adrenaline and fear roar through me.
And as tears I don’t even fully understand stream down my cheeks.
16
DAHLIA
Six years ago:
It’s almost halfwaythrough the first semester, and I’m still here.
Fuck knows how.
Despite all the bullying, the mean-girl bullshit, and the fact that just about everyone here who isn’tactivelybeing an asshole to me flat out ignores me, I’m still at Knightsblood.
I’ve started to hit my groove with my classes, and there are some professors here I’ve come to have a good rapport with, and who seem impressed with me. But honestly, the main reason I haven’t run screaming from this place is him.
Whoeverheis.
I’ve spent weeks trying to nail down who on campus I’ve secretly been communicating with and pouring out my most intimate, darkest secrets to, but I haven’t settled on one prospect yet.
I think I have, however, narrowed it down totwo. Except neither of them being my mystery man makes any goddamn sense at all.
Call it a hunch. Or a “vibe”. But over the last few weeks, there’s been times when I could swear I’ve felt eyes on me—a sensation that I’m being secretly watched from a distance. And for whatever reason, that sensation elicits the same feelings deep within of me that I get when I’m reading the latest correspondence with my mystery pen pal.
It’s like whatever wavelength I get from him through words is the same one I get from his eyes following me.
Except, like I said, it’s not just one set of eyes.
It’stwo.
Sometimes, when I feel it and look up, it’s Chase Cavendish who’s smiling at me from across the green or down the hall. Actually, that’s who it is most of the time. Although that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s my pen pal, because somehow we’ve weirdly gotten close over the last few weeks. I still don’t understand why, when the man is almost literally the king of this school, with a line of girls—pardon the awful pun—chasingafter him for the smallest crumb of his attention.
But for whatever reason, his attention has remained fixated on me. He’s frequently there when I leave a lecture, offering to walk me to my next class, or carry my stuff. Or just to talk to me and listen in return.
Part of me is beyond suspicious, because, come on, in what world does a guy like Chase Cavendish talk to a girl like me? But he’s been very persistent, and over the last few weeks he’s slowly been breaking down my walls.
Honestly, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. And I’ve started looking forward to when he bumps into me or walks with me. Especially because, like I say, when I’m with him or when I look up and catch him smiling at me, I get that same “vibe” I get when I read the correspondence with my pen pal. It would be really nice if it was him, I think.
But there’s a second prospect. Another potential candidate to be my mysterious friend. One who, like Chase, gives me the same familiar vibes from reading the book as when I look up and find that it’shimwatching me from afar.
