Chapter 155 Scarlet Verdict
Wynter's POV
The crude word landed like a slap in the refined classroom atmosphere. Several students gasped. Evangeline's face flushed red.
"I didn't—" Evangeline started, but Rosalie cut her off.
"Yes, you did," Rosalie said flatly. "You pursued him knowing he was with me. You used the Bond as justification. You won. So enjoy your prize."
She thrust the roses into Evangeline's hands, then turned on her heel and walked out, her spine straight, her head high, leaving shocked silence in her wake.
Connor stood frozen, looking between Evangeline and the door, his face a mask of devastation.
I stepped forward, unable to stay silent any longer.
"She's right, you know," I said, my voice cold as I met Connor's eyes. "Some things are unsolvable. The Mate Bond isn't something you can just fight through with good intentions. Biology wins. It always wins." I paused, letting that sink in. "So stop torturing her with false hope. Let her move on with someone who can actually choose her."
I turned to Evangeline, who was clutching the roses like she didn't know what to do with them.
"And you," I said, my voice hard enough to make her flinch. "You wanted him? You've got him. But don't pretend you didn't know exactly what you were doing when you pursued someone else's boyfriend."
Then I turned and walked out, following the path Rosalie had taken.
I found her in a bathroom down the hall, leaning against the sink, her whole body shaking with silent sobs. The moment she saw me, her careful control shattered completely.
"I did it," she gasped, tears streaming down her face. "I actually did it. I walked away—"
"You did," I said, pulling her into a tight hug. "You were amazing."
"I don't feel strong," she sobbed into my shoulder. "I feel like I'm breaking into a million pieces—"
"Then break," I said fiercely, holding her tighter. "Break here, where it's safe. But Rosie—you chose yourself. You chose your dignity. And that takes more strength than most people ever have to find."
She cried for a long time, and I held her through all of it, offering the only comfort I could—presence, understanding, and the promise that she wasn't alone.
When she finally pulled back, wiping her eyes with shaking hands, she looked at me with something like wonder.
"I really did it," she said again, and this time there was a hint of fierce satisfaction beneath the pain.
"You did," I confirmed. "And I'm so proud of you."
"It hurts so much," she whispered.
"I know," I said gently. "But it won't always hurt this much. Eventually, it'll just be a scar."
She nodded, taking a shaky breath. "I need to go back to the dorm. I can't be around people right now."
"I'll walk you," I offered, but she shook her head.
"No. You have class. Professor Ashwood's class—you can't miss that." She managed a watery smile. "One of us should be living up to our potential."
I hugged her one more time, fierce and quick, then watched as she walked away, her shoulders squared despite the tears still tracking down her face.
---
Professor Ashwood's Luna Studies class had become the measure of my worth, each session a test of whether I was truly capable of standing beside Chase as an equal.
I arrived slightly late, slipping into my usual seat—third row center where Professor Ashwood could see me. Over the past weeks, something had shifted in her demeanor toward me. The cutting dismissals had softened into challenging questions. The skeptical looks had transformed into something that almost resembled respect.
Today, that shift became undeniable.
"Miss Vaughn," Professor Ashwood said ten minutes into the lecture, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant she was about to put me on the spot. "Scenario: you're acting as Luna during your Alpha's absence. A territorial dispute erupts between two minor Packs under Silvermoon's protection. Both sides demand your immediate intervention. How do you proceed?"
I took a breath, organizing my thoughts. "First, I'd gather information from neutral sources rather than relying solely on the disputing parties. Then I'd hold separate audiences with each side to understand their grievances without the pressure of confrontation. Once I had the full picture, I'd propose a solution that addresses the core issues while maintaining Silvermoon's authority."
Professor Ashwood's eyebrows rose slightly. "And if one side refuses your proposed solution?"
"Then I'd make it clear that refusal means forfeiting Silvermoon's protection," I said, my voice steady. "A Luna's authority must be absolute, or it's meaningless. If they won't accept my judgment, they're essentially declaring independence—and they can face the consequences alone."
The classroom was silent for a heartbeat. Then Professor Ashwood nodded, something that might have been satisfaction crossing her face.
"Exactly right," she said, and I heard several students shift in surprise at the unqualified approval. "Leadership isn't about making everyone happy. It's about making decisions that serve the greater good, even when those decisions are unpopular." She turned back to the class. "Miss Vaughn demonstrates an understanding that many of you still lack—that authority without the willingness to enforce consequences is just empty posturing."
Through the Bond, I felt Chase's surge of pride from wherever he was on campus. I ducked my head to hide my smile, warmth flooding through me.
The rest of the class passed in complex scenarios and discussions. When it ended, Professor Ashwood's voice rang out clear and professional.
"Before you leave—a word about the diplomatic correspondence assignment." She paused, and something in her tone made my stomach tighten. "Miss Vaughn submitted her letter this morning. I've reviewed it during our break."
My heart began to pound. Around me, I felt the attention of every student shift toward me.
"Miss Vaughn's submission demonstrates adequate research," Professor Ashwood continued, her voice flat, stripped of emotion. "However, it falls short of the standards required for official diplomatic correspondence. The grade is unsatisfactory."
The words hit like a physical blow. The classroom erupted in whispers. Through the Bond, I felt Chase's surge of shock and anger from across campus, quickly followed by his attempt to push reassurance toward me.
Unsatisfactory. After two days of meticulous research, after modeling every phrase on successful precedent, after pouring everything I had into making it perfect.
Students filed out around me, some shooting me sympathetic glances, others whispering behind their hands. I gathered my materials with deliberate slowness, my hands shaking slightly.
When the last student had finally left, I approached her desk. She was gathering her materials, her movements jerky and agitated, completely unlike her usual composed efficiency.
"Professor Ashwood," I said, my voice carefully controlled despite the tremor I couldn't quite suppress. "I need to understand what was wrong with my submission."
Her hands stilled on the papers, but she didn't look up. "The assignment requirements were clear, Miss Vaughn. Your work did not meet them."
"That's not an explanation," I pressed, something in her demeanor—the careful avoidance, the tension radiating from her—making me push harder. "You said it demonstrated adequate research. What specifically was inadequate?"
"Miss Vaughn—"
"I modeled the tone on Lord Aldric's previous correspondence with Lord Julian," I continued, pulling out my notes. "The phrasing mirrors letters that successfully maintained positive diplomatic relations—"
"The precedent is outdated," she cut me off, her voice sharper than necessary. She finally looked up, and what I saw in her eyes made my breath catch. Not disapproval. Not professional criticism. Something closer to anguish, quickly shuttered behind a careful mask. "Political climates change. What was appropriate three years ago may not be appropriate now."
"But you've never mentioned any change in relations between Silvermoon and Emerald Valley," I said, confusion bleeding into my voice. "Just last week you used Lord Julian's territory as an example of successful alliance maintenance—"
"What I said in a theoretical discussion and what is appropriate for official correspondence are two different things," she interrupted, gathering her materials more forcefully now. "You will need to completely revise the letter if you wish to receive credit."
She moved toward the door, but I couldn't let it go. Something was wrong here, something that went beyond a simple grading disagreement.
"Professor Ashwood," I called after her, my voice stronger now. "What's really going on here?"
She stopped in the doorway, her back to me, one hand gripping the frame. For a long moment, she didn't move, didn't speak. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words.
Then, slowly, she turned around.
The expression on her face made my breath catch. Gone was the composed professor, the stern instructor who demanded excellence. In her place stood a woman who looked trapped, haunted, her carefully constructed professional mask cracking to reveal something raw beneath.
"Miss Vaughn," she said quietly, her voice stripped of its usual authority, "do you think I answer only to my own professional judgment? Do you think teaching is the only consideration in my decisions?"