Chapter 21 The Real Enemy

Chapter 21 The Real Enemy


By morning, the note still burns in my head.

I hardly slept, not in the library where I camped out under the pretense of studying, not curled against my backpack with my phone clutched in my hand like a weapon. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those words again, sharp and smirking in black ink. You’re not the only one with secrets.

It wasn’t Jace.

That’s the first thought I can’t shake.

If it had been him, he would have gone straight for the throat. That’s how he works—direct, brutal, the kind of precision strike you can’t mistake for anything else. Subtle games, notes, riddles left on pillows… that doesn’t feel like him. It feels like someone else entirely.

The idea gnaws at me as I shove my way through the morning crowd in the Blackridge courtyard. I watch faces more closely than usual. The way Harper whispers to her friend, both of them giggling. The way Cole adjusts his cufflinks like he owns the ground under his shoes. Even the way teachers glance over their shoulders before entering the building, as if the students they teach could devour them whole.

Everyone here has secrets.

The question is, who knows mine?

I grab a coffee from the kiosk and claim a bench in the shade, notebook open in my lap. My mind sketches possibilities. If it wasn’t Jace, then who had the access? A staff member? One of the elite with parents on the board? Someone who knew Noah?

That last thought sticks like a burr. Because there’s no way anyone would’ve gone hunting for Ava Carter’s ID unless they already suspected I wasn’t Eva Sinclair. That means they had reason to look. And if they had reason, maybe it ties back to Noah.

“Sketching strategies again?”

The voice startles me. Jace. Of course.

I snap the notebook closed and look up, masking my panic with a thin smile. He’s standing a few feet away, coffee in hand, watching me with those storm-colored eyes that never seem to miss anything. His tie is loose, his sleeves rolled up like he doesn’t care about rules. But his gaze… his gaze pins me in place.

“Doodling,” I lie smoothly. “Not everything’s a scheme.”

“With you, it usually is,” he replies, his mouth curling into something that isn’t quite a smirk. He sits without asking, too close, the bench dipping under his weight.

I shift my bag between us, a flimsy barrier. “What do you want, Jace?”

“Funny,” he says, leaning back, “I was about to ask you the same thing. You’ve been… restless.”

My heartbeat jumps. Does he know?

But his eyes flick to my hands, to the coffee, then back to my face. He’s watching me carefully, but not like someone who already has the answers. More like someone desperate for them.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, my voice calm, steady.

“Sure you don’t.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the crowd buzzing around us. For the first time, I notice the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. He looks like he hasn’t slept either. And that makes me wonder—did the raid at his house take more from him than I realized?

I shouldn’t care. I remind myself of that every time my chest aches when I see him unravel. But sitting here, inches away from him, it hits me like a punch to the ribs: maybe he’s not the one pulling all the strings. Maybe he’s tangled in the web, too.

A group of students walks past, whispering. Their eyes dart to Jace, then to me, and back again. He ignores them. I try to. But the whispers are getting louder, and the rumors will only grow.

Jace suddenly leans forward, his voice dropping low. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Sinclair. Just be sure you know who the real opponent is.”

The words land heavy. Too heavy. Because I’m starting to think even he doesn’t know who the opponent is anymore.

Before I can answer, he stands, tossing his empty cup into the trash. “See you in class.”

And just like that, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

I exhale shakily, my fingers gripping the notebook in my lap. He thinks I’m restless. He’s not wrong. But he also doesn’t realize how close I am to unraveling.

The note wasn’t from him. That much I know in my gut. Which leaves one terrifying possibility—someone else knows who I am, and they’re moving pieces on the board while I’m too busy watching Jace.

Later, in history class, I can’t focus on the lecture. My eyes keep darting to the door, half-expecting another note to be slipped under it. Harper nudges me, whispering a joke about the teacher’s monotone voice, but I barely hear her. My mind is spinning too fast.

When the bell rings, I shove my books into my bag and head straight for the library. It’s quiet, empty except for a few kids pretending to study. I grab a table in the back corner and spread out my notes.

If someone’s pulling strings, I need to trace the threads.

I flip back to the page where I taped the first note. My gaze lingers on it, the words taunting me. You’re not the only one with secrets.

I circle it, then draw arrows to possible suspects. Harper? She’s too sweet, too normal, but sweetness can be a mask. Cole? He’s cruel enough, but reckless, not precise. Lena, Jace’s sister? Maybe, but why would she target me?

My pen hovers, then writes a name I’ve been avoiding: Headmaster Gray.

He’s had access. He’s the one who let me in, who looked me in the eye when I handed over forged papers and pretended not to see the cracks. What if he knew all along?

A shiver runs down my spine.

I slam the notebook shut when the librarian passes by. But the thought doesn’t leave. If it’s not Jace, if it’s not his friends, then maybe it’s someone higher. Someone who’s been here longer, who’s been guarding secrets bigger than mine.

When I leave the library, the halls feel different. Heavier. Every set of eyes I pass feels sharper, hungrier. Like they all know something I don’t.

By the time I reach my dorm, the paranoia is buzzing through me so loudly I can barely think. I lock the door behind me and sink onto the bed, staring at Noah’s picture on the pinboard.

“Whoever you pissed off, Noah,” I whisper, “they’re still here. Still playing.”

The silence answers, like always.

I pull the note from my notebook again, smoothing it flat. Then I take out a fresh sheet of paper and start writing. Dates. Names. Patterns. If there’s another player in this game, I’ll find them.

But as I write, the weight of what Jace said earlier creeps back into my head. Be sure you know who the real opponent is.

For the first time since stepping into Blackridge, I wonder if maybe I’ve been aiming at the wrong enemy all along.

And that thought is more terrifying than anything.

Because if Jace isn’t the monster, then someone worse is hiding in plain sight.

A noise at the window makes me freeze.

Slow. Deliberate.

I set my pen down, heart hammering, and turn toward the glass.

The window is cracked open again.