CH187

CH187
She folded, wheezing. Celeste’s eyes went wide. She charged at me. I spun, slamming my elbow into her jaw. She stumbled back, crashing into the stall door.
“What the—” She spat blood, glaring at me. “You don’t even know how to—”
But I did know how to fight. I didn't know how I did, but every move was there, unfolding in my head like I’d practiced a thousand times. I ducked under one girl's swing, grabbed her arm, twisted until she screamed, and shoved her into the tiles.
“Stay down,” I hissed, breath ragged.
She glared, seething, but her cronies weren't out. They screeched and I caught her in the face with a punch that sent her whirling and slamming into the tile. The next girl crashed face-first into the mirror. Celeste pushed out of the stall, nose bloodied and baring her teeth with a shriek. I kicked hard, putting her back through the stall door. She crashed into the toilet with a sharp cry, hitting her head and slumping on the toilet.
The sound of heavy footsteps thundered outside the bathroom. A man’s voice barked something in French.
"The van!"
"Quickly!"
Panic surged. I didn't even think about how I understood what they were saying and bolted for the window, shoved it open, and scrambled out, hitting the grass hard as the bathroom door slammed open.
"She's getting away! Fuck!"
My bag banged against my side as I ran, sprinting across the quad. Shouts followed, the pounding of boots too close behind me. But the instinct to run also gave me direction. Left not right, away from my next class's building, away from where there were more students and, in theory, more help. Right, not left, past the administration building. I ducked around a brick wall, heart hammering. I pressed my back to the cold stone, my breath shaking. My hands trembled. The men thundered past as I darted down the paved path and away.
I waited a breath, then three more before turning and running.
"There!"
I tore across the lawn, lungs burning, the shouting behind me. My instincts yanked me sideways, toward the arts building where the glass front gleamed like a beacon. Was Ben there? Did it matter? The studio doors loomed ahead. I yanked them open and stumbled inside just as the pounding footsteps closed in.
“Here!” one of the men barked.
Before panic seized me, my leg shot out, landing in his chest. He choked at the force, then shadows moved from the edges of the hall. Four men in dark suits stepped forward like they’d been waiting. The pursuers faltered, slowed, then pivoted back. One growled something in French. Another spat. They didn’t try to push through. They turned to run, but the four men tackled them with ease, silencing them quickly and dragging them up.
My knees went weak with relief.
“Vandy?”
I whipped around. Matteo stood in the doorway, paint on his jeans, his hair tied back loosely. His sharp eyes swept over me, taking in the sweat, the flushed panic on my face.
“Come on in.”
I obeyed, legs trembling. He guided me down the hallway past the room full of canvases and easels, his hand was firm on my shoulder, until we reached the smaller studio tucked in the back. The door shut with a heavy thunk.
It was Ben’s private studio. A pile of sketchbooks was by the door, and a half-finished canvas was propped against the wall. Matteo steered me toward the worn couch in the corner.
“Sit,” he said, kneeling in front of me. His gaze softened just slightly. “Breathe. Whoever it was, they’re gone. My people have it handled.”
I nodded, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The adrenaline was still sizzling in my veins, and the memory of Celeste’s bloodied sneer pressed at the edges of my mind.
Matteo pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to me. “Call him.”
My fingers fumbled across the screen, but I found Lukas’s number and hit dial.
It rang once. Then his voice, warm and grounding, filled my ear. “Vandelise?”
My breath caught. “Lukas—”
“What happened?”
“They tried—Celeste, her friends. They cornered me in a bathroom. And then men outside—there was a van—” My voice cracked.
“You're safe now.” There was a beat of silence, the faint sound of his breath steadying through the line. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “You stay there. Do not leave that studio. Stay with Matteo and Ben until I come. Do you understand?”
Tears stung my eyes, hot and sudden. “Lukas, I—”
“You’re safe,” he cut in, gentler now. “That’s what matters. You hear me? You’re safe. Let Matteo handle the attackers, drink some of Ben's tea, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I sniffled. "How'd you know it was me?"
"Matteo would never call me."
I laughed. "I--- I thought you were friends?"
"We are, but he only calls Ben and his family. It is a bad habit. He says he's training me to text."
My shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of me all at once. I clutched the phone tighter. It was the only thing anchoring me. “Okay.”
Matteo leaned back on his heels, studying me with a look that was full of sympathy. He mouthed, Tea?
I nodded, though my heart was still racing. The echo of fists slamming against bone clung to me. My hand started to throb. Lukas’s voice lingered in my ear, steady and certain.
Safe.
For now.
"So," Matteo started. I looked up at him. "Care to fill us in?"

By the time Lukas reached the art building, I was folded on the couch in Ben’s studio and wrapped in a blanket. The second I saw him, the rest of the adrenaline broke. He crossed the room in three strides, cupped my face, and pressed his forehead to mine.
“You’re alright,” he murmured.
I nodded, throat too tight for words, and let him pull me into his chest. Matteo lingered by the door, sharp-eyed, arms folded, while Ben hovered anxiously nearby. It wasn’t until Lukas coaxed me to my feet that I realized how badly I was trembling.