Chapter 71 Kristen
I didn’t want to call anyone, but I had run out of options.
My feet were pounding against the carpet as I paced in circles, phone pressed to my ear, trying not to let the panic that had been building for hours show in my voice. My breath was too fast, too loud in my ears, and every step I took felt like I was running in place instead of toward a solution.
“Please tell me you’re already on your way back,” I said, voice cracking slightly even though I tried not to let it.
Patricia’s voice came through thin and distant, the static crackling like it was an ocean away. In a way it was.
“I’m not,” she said, and there was a quiet exhaustion in her tone that wasn’t usually there. “I’m in McMurdo Station, Antarctica, for the summit. The flights are grounded until next week. There’s no way out until the weather clears.”
I stopped pacing and blinked, picturing her on the edge of the world in a parka, wind howling at her back, rather than in my childhood living room where she should have been. Of course she wasn’t here. Of course she was impossible to reach. Of course.
I groaned and threw my head back, letting the frustration roll out of me like heat rising in cold air.
“I need your help with Dean Horowitz,” I said, the words stumbling out faster than I meant them to. “I’m in serious trouble.”
There was a pause so long that my panic shifted into something heavier. Something like realization.
“Kristen,” Patricia said finally, slow and sympathetic but firm, “I wish I could help. But I can’t. There’s nothing I can do from here.”
Her words were gentle, but they hit me like a door closing. Not slammed. Just closed, final and cold.
I closed my eyes and exhaled sharply, feeling the breath leave me in a heartbeat.
“I don’t want to call Leo,” I said quietly, almost to myself, “because he’ll just make everything worse.”
Patricia didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease. She just sounded tired in the way only adults who carry too many obligations sound tired.
“Then who else can they assign?” she said.
“Exactly,” I muttered. “I need someone who’ll actually help. Someone who’ll listen. Someone who won’t try to run my life.”
There was another pause. A sigh. Something that sounded like a heavy weight being lifted off someone’s shoulders and set down somewhere far away.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Patricia said. “I really wish I could.”
That was the end of that. No instructions. No backup plan. No promise that help was on the way. Just a reminder that I was alone.
I ended the call and stared at the wall for a moment. My phone slipped from my fingers and clattered against the floor somewhere behind me, but I didn’t move to pick it up. My mind was still reeling from Patricia’s words.
I didn’t want to call Leo.
Because I knew him too well.
I knew his instincts.
I knew the weight of his control.
I knew how he took over situations instead of guiding them.
I knew what it felt like to be watched.
Really watched.
Not like a daughter being protected.
But like a problem someone wanted to own.
I stepped backward without thinking and bumped into something solid.
My back hit the edge of the couch.
I steadied myself, bracing against it, hoping the vertigo in my brain would fade.
And then I heard the voice behind me.
A low voice.
Familiar.
Far too close.
“You don’t want to call Leo, huh?”
I spun around.
There he was.
Standing in the living room, as if he had been waiting for me.
Dark shirt, black jacket, matching pants — the whole outfit was calm precision, like he walked out of a wardrobe labeled control and lethal competence. His hair was neat. His stance was relaxed. Only his eyes were wired tight, like he was measuring every inch of the room before he stepped into it.
And then he smiled.
Not a kind smile.
Not an encouraging one.
But a smile with an edge — a blade buried inside it.
“Dean Horowitz already called me,” he said. “Meeting’s set for tomorrow.”
Just like that. Casual. Declarative. The sentence hit my chest like it was an order.
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or furious.
Neither emotion got the chance to arrive before he continued.
“Maybe it’s time to get you out of Phoenix,” he said.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He spread his hands just enough to show he was being reasonable.
“Your father wasn’t thinking clearly when he enrolled you.”
I felt something inside me curl up with sharp resentment. The old words again. The familiar reasoning that tried to shrink me down into something I wasn’t. Something controllable. Something smaller. And oh, how I hated that implication.
“You’re just mad I got into the database,” I said, jaw tightening.
He didn’t flinch. He met my eyes with the same cold certainty.
“Damn right I’m mad,” he said. “That was reckless. And it made noise. If you think Caleb was the last threat, you’re dreaming.”
I stood there, burning up, because there was truth in that sentence and also a dismissal of everything I could say in return. He didn’t say it kindly. He said it like a fact. Like a problem. Like something to be fixed.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’m recommending suspension — if not expulsion.”
My breath caught.
“Let me guess,” I said, voice flat but cold, “this is all for my own good.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“You bet it is.”
Then he turned and walked out.
Just like that.
Not a backwards glance.
Nothing to soften the blow.
Nothing to apologize for.
Just a door closing and footsteps fading into quiet.
I watched his retreating form in silence.
The room felt bigger all of a sudden. Too big. Too empty. Too cold.
I sank onto the couch, hands trembling, eyes unfocused.
He had said it with absolute certainty. Suspension or expulsion.
Like it was a done deal.
Like something written in stone.
I should have felt panic rising in me again, or dread, or fear of losing everything I had even begun to build.
Instead I felt something darker.
I felt betrayal.
Not in the vague sense of disappointment.
Not in the half‑blaming myself sense that usually came with regret.
But in the sharp, burning sense of being misunderstood and dismissed and underestimated and boxed.
He didn’t see my motives.
He didn’t want to know them.
He only saw danger.
And to him, danger needed containment.
Not explanation.
Not understanding.
Not autonomy.
Just control.
I clenched my fists so tight I felt my nails bite into my palms.
You want to play this game, Leo?
That thought struck me like a match lighting in the dark.
I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, chest rising and falling in slow measured breaths, hands still curled like claws.
I was angered.
I was enraged.
I was furious.
And for the first time in a long time, I was not afraid.
Not of the consequences.
Not of Dean Horowitz’s judgement.
Not of expulsion.
Not of being underestimated.
Not even of Leo.
My breathing steadied.
The panic leaked away and what was left was chilling clarity.
A spark.
Slow, dangerous, cleansing.
Something like defiance.
I rested the back of my hand against my cheek, feeling the warmth of my own skin, grounding myself in my own existence.
“You want to play this game, Leo?” I whispered aloud, not to anyone else, just to the quiet of the house. To the echo of his footsteps. To the space he had just left behind.
The words felt satisfying — heavy with intention.
I exhaled again.
This time not shallow.
Not panicked.
Measured.
Purposeful.
This was what I would do next.
I would not cower.
I would not back down.
I would not let someone else shape my fate without a fight.
I might be isolated.
I might be betrayed.
I might be facing consequences bigger than I had ever imagined.
But I was not defeated.
Not yet.
Not by a long shot.
I stood up.
I walked to the window.
The night outside was quiet. The campus lights glowed soft and distant. Everything seemed calm. Peaceful. Ordinary.
But I knew better.
I knew the truth.
Everything was about to change.
And I was finally ready.
I smiled then.
Slow. Precise.
Mischievous.
Yes.
Let’s play.