Chapter 96
Summer's POV
I stared at those five words, reading them over and over like they might change meaning if I looked long enough, like maybe I'd misunderstood. He'd asked them? He'd gone to the school himself and requested this? Requested to trade his future for sixty thousand dollars like it was a business transaction, like his dreams were commodities to be bought and sold?
My fingers fumbled across the keyboard, shaking so badly I had to retype twice. "Why?"
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again, and I held my breath, waiting, hoping he'd tell me the truth—that it was about the video, about protecting me, about making sure Tyler couldn't use those images to destroy my life the way they'd tried to destroy his.
Then:
Kieran: I need the money.
Four words. Cold. Final. Like a door slamming shut in my face.
I felt the tears start again, hot and angry this time, burning tracks down my cheeks as I stared at that message. He was lying—I knew he was lying. He was using the money as a shield, a way to make his sacrifice look like a transaction so I wouldn't feel guilty, so I wouldn't blame myself, so I could sleep at night thinking he'd gotten something out of this deal. But seeing him commit to that lie, even to me, hurt more than the truth would have, because it meant he still didn't trust me enough to be honest, still thought he had to protect me from my own conscience, still believed he had to carry this alone.
The realization settled over me like ice water, cold and clarifying. He wasn't just protecting me from Tyler—he was protecting me from himself, from the burden of knowing what he'd given up, from the debt I'd owe him if I understood the full weight of his sacrifice.
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I wiped my eyes roughly and sat up, my mind racing. Without giving myself time to overthink it, I typed: "How much do you need?"
No response.
I waited five minutes, watching the screen until my eyes burned. Ten. Still nothing, just that damning "read" receipt that told me he'd seen my message and chosen not to answer.
Fine. If he wouldn't tell me, I'd figure it out myself.
The plan crystallized in my mind with sudden clarity. If I could give Kieran enough money—real money, the kind that matched what Tyler's mother had offered—then he could throw it back in her face, could walk away from this deal with his dignity intact instead of carrying the stain of being bought. He could tell the school he'd changed his mind, that he didn't need their blood money after all, that he'd found another way. It wouldn't undo the humiliation of being offered a price tag in the first place, wouldn't erase the fact that they'd tried to purchase his silence and his future, but at least he wouldn't have to live with everyone thinking he'd actually accepted it, that he'd sold his MIT dreams for sixty thousand pieces of silver.
I threw off the covers and padded across my room to the vanity, pulling open the drawer where I kept my jewelry, my fingers moving over the pearl necklaces, the diamond bracelet Victoria had given me for my sixteenth birthday, the various rings and earrings that had accumulated over the years like beautiful, expensive dust. All of it was expensive, all of it would fetch a good price if I sold it, but it was also all too obvious. If I suddenly started liquidating jewelry, Kieran would know, would figure out what I was doing and refuse to take anything because his pride was as much a part of him as his damaged right hand, as integral to his survival as breathing.
I needed cash. Fast. And I needed it in a way that wouldn't trigger his radar, wouldn't make him feel like he was accepting charity.
I closed the jewelry drawer and pulled out my wallet instead—the butter-soft leather one Victoria had given me last year—checking the card slots full of credit cards and store membership cards, the bill compartment holding leftover foreign currency from our last trip to Europe.
I opened my banking app, my fingers moving quickly across the screen as I checked my balances. The checking account held my monthly allowance—Victoria deposited a generous amount every month that I rarely spent all of, money that just accumulated because what did I need it for when everything was already provided? The savings account was more substantial, started on my sixteenth birthday with a significant initial deposit and growing steadily with birthday money from relatives and the occasional modeling gig Victoria arranged. There was also a trust fund, but I couldn't access that until I turned twenty-one, and by then it would be too late, by then Kieran would have already lost everything that mattered.
I did the math in my head, calculating quickly. Between my checking and savings accounts, I could pull together around forty thousand immediately, maybe more if I transferred everything and dealt with the overdraft fees later. If Kieran needed more than that, I could sell some jewelry discreetly or ask Victoria for a loan, make up some story about wanting to invest in a friend's startup or needing money for a summer program.
My finger hovered over the transfer button, trembling.
But I knew if I just sent him money directly, he'd never accept it, would probably send it back immediately with some curt message about not needing my charity. His pride wouldn't allow it, and honestly, I understood—I'd feel the same way if our positions were reversed, would hate the feeling of being someone's project, someone's burden to ease.
I needed to be smarter about this, more subtle, find a way to help that didn't feel like help.
I pulled out my notebook and started making a list of possibilities, my pen moving quickly across the page. Maybe I could hire him as a tutor—make it a formal arrangement so it felt like he was earning the money, like it was a legitimate business transaction. Or perhaps I could arrange for Victoria to offer him a scholarship through Hayes & Co., frame it as investing in promising students from underprivileged backgrounds. Or I could—
My phone buzzed again.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it, my heart leaping with hope.
But it wasn't from Kieran. Just a notification from Instagram, someone liking one of my old photos from last summer when everything had been simpler, when the biggest problem in my life was whether Evan would notice my new dress.
I tossed the phone aside and went back to my list, jaw set with determination, my hand cramping as I wrote faster. Kieran might be too proud to ask for help, might be determined to shoulder this burden alone like he shouldered everything else, but I'd find a way to give it to him anyway, find a way to slip past his defenses and give him back the choice they'd tried to take from him. He could reject Tyler's mother's offer, could walk away from this whole ugly transaction, could keep his self-respect even if it meant losing MIT.
He'd saved me once, in a future that only I remembered, had given his life trying to keep me warm in the freezing water of Walden Pond. The least I could do was save him now, even if he hated me for it, even if he never forgave me for refusing to let him sacrifice himself in silence.
I owed him that much. I owed him everything.