Chapter 75 Leo
The bike rattled beneath me like it was ready to fall apart. I could feel the vibrations up through my knees, into my arms, a low grinding in the handlebars. My jaw ached from how tight I was clenching it. My ears rang. I pulled into the Phoenix Hall lot too fast, cutting the corner, wheels skidding slightly on the edge of the curb.
I didn’t care.
I killed the engine and sat for a second, straddling the bike in the heat. Sun bouncing off the windscreen, helmet still on. I took a breath, but it didn’t go deep. Couldn’t.
I pulled off the helmet and slung it from the grip.
Heads turned. I didn’t have to look to feel it. A group of girls near the steps stopped mid-conversation. One pointed. Another elbowed her friend and said something I couldn’t hear. Laughter. A glance. A pause.
I didn’t look at them.
I swung off the bike and let my boots hit the asphalt hard.
Phoenix Hall loomed over the parking lot like a fucking courthouse. All glass angles and sharp lines, every surface sterile and polished like it wanted to reflect your sins back at you. I crossed the front walk, felt the burn of sun on the back of my neck. The doors whooshed open and sealed me inside.
Cool air hit me like a slap.
A receptionist sat behind a desk made of black marble. She looked up as I approached, blinking like I’d interrupted something.
“Leo Moretti?” she said. Her voice was clipped, polite, bored.
I nodded once.
“Conference Room A. Down the hall to your left.” She didn’t smile. “The Dean will be with you shortly.”
I turned without thanking her.
The hallway was silent. Carpeted. Every door shut, the blinds down, the overhead lights dull and soft. No footsteps but mine. My breathing felt too loud.
Conference Room A was halfway down.
I pushed the door open.
The air inside was colder. The kind of cold that made your skin want to flinch. Heavy dark furniture filled the space—mahogany table the length of a limo, twelve high-backed chairs arranged like judges’ thrones, windows sealed behind thick navy blackout curtains. No outside light. No warmth.
The carpet underfoot muffled everything.
I moved to the far end of the table and sat.
The chair creaked. It had arms too tight for my frame. I adjusted, then stilled.
My eyes traced the grain of the wood. Deep red, almost black. The edge of the table was sharp under my fingertips. I pressed down until the flesh dented.
I sat there, breathing. Then breathing slower.
I ran a hand over my face, through my hair. My palm came away damp.
I’d rehearsed what I was going to say. On the ride over. In the mirror this morning. Out loud, under my breath. Three versions. All of them sounded wrong now. Too clean. Too stiff. Too… rehearsed.
I exhaled. My knee bounced once, then twice. I forced it to stop.
The clock on the wall ticked so softly it felt imaginary.
The doorknob turned.
I glanced over my shoulder.
The door opened slowly, carefully. Kristen stepped in.
I stared at her.
She closed the door behind her and stood there for a second, her hand still on the knob.
Her hair was down. Wet at the ends, like she’d just showered. She wore a dark gray hoodie and black tights, her face bare of makeup. Her eyes looked bigger than usual. Glassy. Not crying. But not far from it.
“I heard you were here,” she said, voice low. “I thought maybe I could convince you one more time.”
I didn’t say anything.
She stepped further in, leaving the door closed behind her. Her sneakers were silent on the carpet. She crossed the room slowly, her shoulders a little hunched.
“I know you don’t owe me anything,” she said. “I know that.”
I still didn’t respond.
She paused beside the table and looked at me.
I met her eyes.
“Not unless you tell me what you were looking for,” I said.
Her lips pressed together. She exhaled through her nose.
“I figured you’d say that.”
She lowered her gaze. Took one more step.
Then she knelt.
I blinked.
“What are you—” I started.
She sank out of view. Under the table.
“Kristen.”
No answer.
I pushed back slightly in my chair and leaned forward. I couldn’t see her. The thick edge of the table blocked most of the space beneath.
“Kristen, what are you doing?” My voice dropped lower. Sharper. “Get out from under there.”
Still no sound.
I started to rise.
She reached forward and caught the leg of my chair.
I jerked in surprise, but the chair didn’t move far. Her hand was just there. Resting on the wood. Steady. Deliberate.
“I thought I could convince you… another way.”
My skin prickled.
“No,” I said, harsh now. “Stop. Get out. Now.”
She didn’t move. Her hand slid slightly forward and brushed against the side of my ankle.
My pulse rocketed.
“This is insane. Get up.”
She stayed silent.
I reached forward to grab the edge of the table, heart hammering so loud I couldn’t think. I shifted my knees back, about to push the chair out from the table and stand—
And the door opened.
I froze.
Voices.
Two. A man’s, calm and measured. And a woman’s, slightly higher. Friendly. Professional.
They stepped in. I saw the glint of a blazer, a collared shirt, a leather folder.
“Mr. Moretti,” the man said as the door swung shut.
I hadn’t moved. My chair was angled too far forward. The backs of my knees pressed against the wood. I couldn’t see her anymore. Kristen was still under the table.
I could feel her.
Not moving. Not shifting. Not crawling out.
Just staying exactly where she was.
The man walked to the far end of the table and set a folder down.
“This is Mrs. Litt,” he said.
My stomach dropped.
Kristen was completely still. I could feel the heat of her body somewhere near my knees. Could imagine the rise and fall of her breath. I didn’t dare check.
Inside my head, I was screaming.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck