Chapter 20 ANATOMY OF A BREAKDOWN
POV SYLVIE
The door to my dorm room didn't just close; it felt like it sealed a tomb.
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't take off my shoes. I just walked straight to my bed and collapsed, my body hitting the mattress with the weight of a thousand lead weights. For a long, agonizing minute, there was only silence—the kind of ringing silence that happens right after a bomb goes off.
Then, the first sob broke through.
It wasn't a pretty, cinematic single tear. It was a jagged, ugly sound that tore out of my throat, raw and unpolished. I buried my face in my pillow, the one that still smelled faintly of the laundry detergent from home and—if I breathed in too deep—the sandalwood ghost of Nathaniel.
"I hate him," I choked out into the feathers. "I hate this family. I hate this school."
But the lie tasted like ash in my mouth. I didn't hate him. That was the problem. I had spent three years hating a version of Nathaniel Cavill that I’d built in my head—the arrogant heir, the boy born with a silver spoon stuck in his eye. But the boy who played the piano in a dusty loft? The boy who called me a "beautiful marshmallow" and fought for my dignity on a jumbotron?
I couldn't hate him. And that was why it felt like my ribs were being crushed by a hydraulic press.
I rolled onto my back, staring up at the dark ceiling. My eyes were already burning, the salt from my tears stinging the skin. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Arthur Cavill’s face—the cold, calculating way he’d offered me my own future as a ransom.
Choose the scholarship or choose the boy.
It was a rigged game. If I chose Nathaniel, I’d be a dropout with no future, a disappointment to my mother, and eventually, a burden to a man whose family would never stop trying to destroy me. If I chose the scholarship, I’d be a success—but I’d be a hollow one.
"You're eighteen, Sylvie," I whispered to the empty room. "You're supposed to be worried about midterm curves and whether your crush liked your Instagram post. You aren't supposed to be making deals with the devil for your soul."
I reached for my phone, my hands shaking. I had sixteen missed calls. All from him.
Nathaniel (16 Missed Calls) Nathaniel (4 Text Messages)
I didn't open them. I couldn't. If I read his words, if I heard his voice telling me that we’d find a way, I’d break. I’d run back to that estate and let Arthur Cavill win just to feel Nathaniel’s hand in mine again.
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the rug with a soft thud, the screen glowing for a second before going dark.
I stood up, stumbling toward my small desk. I needed to do something. I needed to be "Academic Weapon Sylvie" again. I opened my Constitutional Law textbook, the pages mocking me with their complexity. Due Process. Equal Protection. Liberty.
The words blurred. A single tear fell onto the page, warping the word "Justice."
"There is no justice," I sobbed, finally letting the full weight of the heartbreak hit me.
I ended up on the floor, my back against the cold wooden bed frame, hugging my knees to my chest. This was the "Virginity Vortex" morning all over again, but without the comedy. There was no Silas to walk in and make a dry comment. There was no Nathaniel to laugh and tell me it was all okay.
I thought about my mother. I thought about the grease under her fingernails at the tire shop. I thought about how her eyes lit up when I told her I’d made the Dean’s List. If I lost that beca, those eyes would go dark. She’d blame herself. She’d work triple shifts to try and pay for a state school I’d hate.
I couldn't do that to her. I couldn't be that selfish.
I crawled back into bed, pulling the duvet over my head, creating a dark, suffocating cocoon. I felt like a teenager in the worst possible way—impulsive, overwhelmed, and convinced that the world was ending. Because for me, for the girl I used to be, it was ending.
The "Academic Rivalry" was a safe war. This? This was real combat.
I spent the next three hours in a cycle of crying until my throat was raw and staring into the darkness until my eyes went dry. I thought about the loft. I thought about the way the city lights looked from his window. I thought about the unwritten rules we’d broken.
Rule Number One: Don't fall for the mark. Rule Number Two: Don't forget that gold is a metal, and metal is cold.
Somewhere around 3:00 AM, I reached out and touched the silver ring on my nightstand. I’d taken it off the second I walked in. It looked different in the dark—less like a promise and more like a handcuff.
"I'm sorry, Nathaniel," I whispered, the words disappearing into the silence of the room.
I finally drifted into a fitful sleep, one filled with dreams of silver dresses turning into lead and pianos that played music only I could hear. When I woke up a few hours later, the sun was peeking through the blinds, indifferent to my misery.
My face felt swollen. My head throbbed. I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the girl staring back. Her eyes were dull, her skin was sallow, and the fire that usually burned in her gaze had been replaced by a heavy, gray ash.
I walked to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Once. Twice. Ten times.
"Get it together, Belrose," I croaked.
I put on my armor—the thickest hoodie I owned, a pair of glasses to hide my puffy eyes, and the silver ring. I had to wear the ring. The "show" had to go on. That was the price of the scholarship. That was the deal I’d made with the monster in the study.
I picked up my phone. One new text.
Nathaniel: I'm outside. We need to talk.
My heart did a painful, stuttering leap. I looked at the door. I could almost feel him on the other side of the brick walls, waiting for me. He was probably messy-haired and desperate, just like I was.
I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door.
"I can't," I whispered.
I didn't open the door. I didn't reply. I just grabbed my backpack, checked that my law notes were in place, and walked to my window. I watched as his dark car sat idling at the curb, a lonely sentinel in the morning fog.
I stayed there until he finally drove away.
The heartbreak didn't go away. It just settled into my bones, a permanent part of my anatomy. I was eighteen, I was brilliant, and I was officially the loneliest girl at Astoria University.
Arthur Cavill wanted a robot? Fine. I’d give him a robot. But robots don't have hearts to break, and as I walked out to my first class, I wondered if I’d ever feel anything again besides the cold, sharp ache of what I’d had to throw away.