Chapter 6 The broken crown
Chapter 6: The Broken Crown (Liam’s POV)
The rain wasn't just falling anymore; it was punishing the earth. I stood by my Porsche, the engine still clicking as it cooled, watching the scene unfold like a car crash I couldn't look away from.
Elena’s mother was shaking. She looked like a ghost of a woman, clutching that legal envelope like it was a shield against a bullet. And Elena? She looked smaller than I had ever seen her. The "Calm Protagonist" who had spent the morning lecturing me on the French Revolution looked like she was about to be swallowed by the shadows of my own driveway.
"The scholarship?" Elena’s voice was a jagged whisper. "Mom, they can’t do that. It’s an academic merit award. It’s not personal property."
"They’re calling it 'future income,' Elena," her mother sobbed. "They said because the school pays for your housing and meals here, it counts as a financial asset. They want thirty thousand dollars by Friday, or they’ll file the injunction with the Dean."
Thirty thousand. To me, that was a new set of tires and a weekend in Vegas. To them, it was clearly the end of the world.
I should have felt bad. I should have reached out. But all I could feel was this toxic, bubbling irritation. I hated that she was bringing this "poor person drama" to my front door. I hated that I was standing here in the rain, getting my five-hundred-dollar hoodie ruined, watching a girl I was supposed to despise fall apart.
"Can you two take this inside?" I snapped, my voice cutting through the sound of the rain. "You’re making a scene in the middle of the driveway. My father will be home in twenty minutes, and if he sees debt collectors circling the estate, he’ll have you both out of that cottage before the ink is dry on those papers."
Elena whirled around. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her glasses were fogged up, but her eyes... they were like two frozen lakes. The vulnerability I’d seen for a split second was gone, replaced by a raw, burning hatred.
"Is that all you care about, Liam?" she spat, stepping toward me. "The 'scene'? The 'reputation'? My entire life is being dismantled in front of you, and you’re worried about your father’s blood pressure?"
"I’m worried about my peace and quiet!" I shouted back. "I didn't ask for a tutor with a baggage train. I didn't ask for my backyard to become a soap opera. You wanted to be the smart one, Elena. You wanted to play the hero. So figure it out."
I turned and marched toward the main house, my boots splashing through the puddles. I didn't look back. I couldn't.
Inside, the mansion was warm and smelled of expensive wood and silence. I went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the marble island. My hands were shaking. Why are my hands shaking? I told myself it was the cold. I told myself it was the stress of the History quiz. But I knew better. I was seeing the girl I had spent the day humiliating get hit by a bus she didn't see coming, and for some reason, the "victory" felt like ash in my mouth.
"Liam? Why are you dripping on the floor?"
I looked up. My father was standing in the doorway, his suit perfectly pressed, his eyes narrowed as he looked at my soaked clothes.
"The rain caught me," I muttered.
"I saw a car at the cottage," he said, walking over to the espresso machine. "Who is here?"
"Elena’s mother. Just some family business," I lied. I didn't even know why I did it. I should have told him. I should have told him they were a liability and gotten them kicked out right then.
"Make sure it doesn't interfere with your study hours," my father said, not even looking at me. "I checked your portal. Mr. Harrison said you took an advanced quiz today. He seemed impressed. Don't make him a liar, Liam. If you fail that grade, the hockey contract is dead. I won't have a son who is a failure on and off the ice."
"I get it, Dad," I snapped, heading for the stairs.
I spent the next three hours in my room, staring at my History textbook. I couldn't focus. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the pennies hitting Elena’s books in the cafeteria. I saw the way she didn't flinch. And I saw her mother’s face in the rain.
I looked at my bank account on my phone. I had the money. I had more than enough. My grandfather had left me a trust that I could access for "emergencies." Thirty thousand wouldn't even dent it.
But why would I help her? She hated me. She’d threatened me. She’d made my life a living hell for the last week.
I stood up and paced my room. If she loses her scholarship, she leaves. If she leaves, I get a new tutor. A tutor I can pay off. A tutor who won't make me take advanced quizzes.
It was the perfect solution. If I just sat back and did nothing, the debt collectors would do my dirty work for me. Elena would be gone, and I’d be the King of Northview again.
But then I remembered the way Chloe looked at the diner. The way Jax laughed. If I let this happen, I wasn't just a King. I was a monster.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out of my room. I didn't go to the kitchen. I went out the side door, through the rain, toward the guest cottage.
I reached the porch and stopped. Through the window, I could see them. There was no light on—just a single candle. They were sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes. Elena was holding her mother, whispering something to her. She looked exhausted. She looked defeated.
I reached out to knock, but my hand stopped an inch from the wood.
What was I going to say? 'Hey, I know I treat you like garbage, but here’s a check'? She’d throw it in my face. She had too much pride. She’d rather drown than take a life vest from me.
Suddenly, the door swung open.
Elena stood there, her eyes red, her shoulders slumped. She looked at me, and for the first time, she didn't look angry. She just looked tired.
"What do you want, Liam?" she asked, her voice hollow. "Come to watch the eviction in person? Want to see if there are any more pennies you can throw?"
"I... I came to talk about the session tomorrow," I lied. My heart was thudding against my ribs.
"There is no session tomorrow," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm going to the Dean's office in the morning to withdraw. My mother and I are leaving tonight. We can't stay here knowing they're going to come for the school next."
"You're quitting?" I asked. The word felt heavy.
"I’m surviving," she corrected me. "You wouldn't understand the difference. Now, go back to your palace, Liam. You won. The Ghost is leaving."
She started to close the door, but I stuck my foot in the way.
"Wait," I said.
"Wait for what? Another insult?"
I looked at her, and the words came out before I could stop them—arrogant, cold, and classic Liam Vance.
"You can't quit. You’re under contract. And honestly, I’m not letting some debt collectors ruin my GPA. You want the thirty thousand? I’ll give it to you."
Elena froze. She looked at me like I had just grown a second head. Then, she let out a short, bitter laugh.
"You’ll give it to me? Just like that? What’s the catch, Liam? Do I have to be your slave for the rest of the year? Do I have to let Chloe use me as a footstool?"
"The catch," I said, stepping onto the porch, my voice turning into a low, dangerous velvet, "is that you don't leave. You stay here. You keep tutoring me. And you never tell anyone where the money came from. Especially not my father."
Elena stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. "Why? Why would you do this for someone you hate?"
"Because," I lied, pulling my mask back on so she couldn't see how much her being gone actually bothered me, "I’d rather deal with a 'Ghost' I know than a stranger I can't control. Take the money, Elena. Or don't. But if you walk out those gates tonight, you’re letting Chloe win. Is that really how you want your story to end?"
Elena stared at me, the silence between us stretched thin like a wire. She looked at the checkbook in my hand, then back at my face. I could see the battle in her eyes—the pride fighting the desperation. Just as she opened her mouth to answer, a pair of headlights swung into the driveway. My father was home early. And if he saw us like this, the money would be the least of our problems.