Chapter 154 Seeds of Doubt
Chapter 154 Seeds of Doubt
Mila’s POV
The second‑floor rare books archive of the Alverstone library smelled like ancient glue and the quiet, suffocating dust of a hundred forgotten endowments. It was supposed to be my sanctuary. High up beneath the soaring Gothic windows where the afternoon light filtered through amber panes in long, dust‑flecked slants, the rest of the campus usually felt a million miles away.
Or so I kept telling myself as I dragged a heavy rolling cart of restored folios down aisle four.
My fingers were smudged with archival graphite, and my temples throbbed with that familiar ache that had taken up permanent residence behind my eyes ever since the photograph appeared on Nate’s windshield. I was running on four hours of sleep, a dangerous amount of black coffee, and a fragile sort of denial. Nate had told me to let it go. He had promised me he was handling the board, that the whispers in the quad were just empty noise, and that I didn’t need to carry the weight of my father’s old debts anymore.
I trusted him. I wanted to trust him. But trust is a fragile thing when your entire life has been built on a foundation of shifting sand.
A floorboard groaned near the arched entrance of the alcove. The footsteps didn’t sweep past toward the reading desks. They stopped right at the threshold, lingering in the shadows of the towering oak bookshelves.
“Looking for a quiet place to hide, Stone?”
The voice was grating, thin, and dripping with a nervous malice I would recognize anywhere. Duane Feeks.
My stomach plummeted, a cold knot tightening behind my ribs. I straightened up slowly from the rolling cart, wiping my hands on my apron, and turned to face him. Duane was standing under the iron chandelier, his shoulders hunched inside an oversized, fleece‑lined jacket that looked ridiculous against the academic solemnity of the room. He looked different than he had a week ago — paler, sweatier, and twitching with a frantic, cornered energy that made my skin crawl.
“The archive is for authorized research only, Duane,” I said, forcing my voice to remain level, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “If you don’t have a student ID clearance for this wing, you need to leave.”
Duane didn’t move. He took a slow step forward into the narrow aisle, blocking the only clear exit toward the winding iron staircase. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and darting around the empty rows as if he expected someone to jump out from behind the rare manuscript cases.
“You think you’re safe with him, don’t you?” Duane laughed — a short, ugly sound with no real humor. “You and Nate playing house in that high‑end loft while the rest of the campus treats you like a walking liability. You think he’s your white knight riding to the rescue.”
“Leave, Duane,” I warned, my fingers curling tightly over the edge of the metal cart. “I’m not doing this with you today.”
“You should ask yourself why he’s keeping you so close, Mila,” Duane pressed, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that echoed off the high plaster ceiling. He took another step closer, his face twisting into an ugly, knowing smirk. “Nate Salvatore doesn’t rescue strays out of the goodness of his heart. Have you actually looked at his family? Have you ever wondered why a billionaire heir from a dynasty that despises yours suddenly decided to make you his entire world?”
The air in the archive suddenly felt too thin. My chest tightened, a cold wave washing over my skin. “Shut up.”
“Nate didn’t save you because he loves you, Mila,” Duane hissed. “He saved you because your parents have something he needs. A bargaining chip. A leverage piece to hand over to his mother on a silver platter. The moment he gets what he wants out of the Stone estate, he’ll drop you just like everyone else.”
A sharp, incredulous breath escaped me. “There’s nothing to get,” I snapped. “My family doesn’t have anything. No assets. No secrets. No hidden fortune. Just debt. Mountains of it. If Nate wanted leverage, he picked the wrong girl.”
But the words didn’t stop the sting. They didn’t stop the way Duane’s voice wormed into the softest parts of me — the places where doubt lived, where fear whispered that maybe I really was just a burden someone could use and discard.
Duane spun on his heel. He turned and bolted down the aisle, his sneakers squeaking frantically against the polished parquet floor until he disappeared down the iron spiral staircase, the metal clattering loudly in his wake.
Silence rushed back into the archive, heavy and suffocating.
I sank back against the rolling cart, my knees suddenly refusing to hold my weight. My hands shook uncontrollably as I gripped the cold metal sides. The room was dead quiet, but inside my head, Duane’s words echoed on an endless, looping track.
He didn’t save you because he loves you…
He saved you because your parents have something he needs.
I stared down at my trembling fingers, the fragile illusion of safety shattering into dust. The physical threats from the outside — the photos, the anonymous notes, the stalkers in the quad — I could handle those. I could fight those. But the seed of doubt Duane had just planted in my chest? That was a poison I wasn’t sure I knew how to cure.
I pressed a hand to my sternum, trying to steady my breathing. The archive suddenly felt too big, too empty, too quiet. The amber light from the windows flickered across the spines of centuries‑old books, but none of it felt comforting anymore. It felt like a place where truths hid in the shadows, waiting to ambush me.
I wanted to call Nate. I wanted to hear his voice, to feel that steady certainty he carried like armor. But the thought of asking him — of repeating Duane’s words out loud — made my throat close. What if I sounded paranoid? What if I sounded accusatory? What if I sounded like I didn’t trust him?
What if Duane was lying…
But what if he wasn’t?
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the sting behind them. I hated that one conversation — one twisted, frantic monologue — had the power to shake me this badly. I hated that someone like Duane could reach inside my chest and twist something so fragile.
But most of all, I hated that a part of me — a small, terrified part — was afraid to find out the truth.