Chapter 57 Garrett
Garrett
The drive back from Spring Creek felt longer than the forty minutes it actually was.
I've done it.
Didn't think I could be in front of that man again without breaking, but I did it.
He said what I felt for Aslan wasn't impulse or attraction. That's right. It was just conditioning. Physical conditioning.
The spike meant nothing.
The body reacted because I was a goddamned human.
What I felt for Aslan was only physical. He made me hard. That was all. The response could be redirected toward someone appropriate. Toward someone safe. Toward my girlfriend.
I could govern myself.
As long as there were no feelings.
And there weren’t.
Graves had asked directly about emotional attachment, right? I said no, and there has been no green line going up.
End of story.
By the time I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I almost believed it.
The house stood exactly as it always did. Every window glowing warm without ever feeling welcoming.
The front doors opened before I reached them.
One of the house staff stepped forward immediately, taking my coat and gloves.
I immediately felt nauseous and suffocated. This house did that to me.
My father entered from the sitting room and clasped my shoulder briefly before pulling me into a restrained hug. “Garrett,” he said evenly. “Good to see you.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
My mother appeared moments later. She crossed the marble floor gracefully in her lavender gown. The nausea became stronger. I wanted to get out.
She pressed a brief kiss to my cheek, barely touching me.
“Good afternoon, son. I trust your morning was enlightening.”
“Yes, Mother.”
My father guided us toward the sitting room for pre-dinner drinks, the space filled with low lights and the glow of the fireplace.
He poured himself a measure of scotch and offered me one. I accepted—I was gonna need a few of those to make it through the evening...
My mother accepted her usual martini before taking her seat across from me.
Where was Olivia? I could've used her help right about now.
A moment after, Dad excused himself to take a call, leaving us alone in the carefully curated silence.
Mom’s eyes landed right on me.
“I received a full report,” she said, her tone even, conversational, as if discussing weather.
Already? You gotta be fucking kidding me…
“I am disappointed.”
My spine straightened without conscious thought. “I’m sorry, Mother. It was a moment of weakness.”
Her gaze sharpened. “No,” she corrected. “It was a failure. A sin.” She took a sip of her drink as if discussing quarterly earnings. “However, corrective measures are being implemented. I expect improvement by next week.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She studied me with clinical precision. “If not, we may need to remove the problem.”
My pulse kicked sharply in my throat.
“I am informed the distraction is academically competent but institutionally insignificant,” she continued. “Scholarships are, after all, privileges. Not rights.”
She did not say Aslan’s name. She didn’t need to.
She could do it. She sat on the board. She funded half the academy’s infrastructure. A phone call from her could dismantle his future before my lion—before Aslan Rivers. Not my lion. Not my lion—even understood what had happened.
Never.
“There is no problem to remove,” I said quickly, forcing my voice steady. “The distraction is over.”
Her eyes held mine for several seconds. “Good. I should hope so.”
She leaned back slightly, lowering her voice to something almost conversational. “The judge has also been informed of your recent aggression toward your peers. And toward yourself.”
Her gaze dropped deliberately to my wrist.
Heat rushed to my face, but I did not move.
Motherfuckers…
“He hopes we can correct these behaviors without resorting to stronger measures,” she continued. “You were given an extraordinary opportunity at Spring Creek. Many young men do not receive such mercy.”
Mercy.
The word scraped something raw inside my chest.
“I understand,” I said.
“You will not embarrass this family again,” she went on, her tone remaining even. “You will not jeopardize your future over adolescent confusion. If this resurfaces, we will act decisively.”
Decisively meant readmission. Isolation. Removal from Crownwell. Legal oversight. I would die first.
“I won’t allow that to happen,” I replied.
Her expression softened just slightly, the way one might soften toward a promising investment.
“Garrett!”
Olivia’s voice carried warmth into the room like actual oxygen. She descended quickly, heels clicking against marble, hair loose around her shoulders in a way our mother would never tolerate for herself.
“I didn’t know you were already here,” she said, smiling widely.
“Oh, thank God,” I muttered under my breath before crossing the room and pulling her into a hug.
“Guess what? I just got a Renaissance piece from a private collector in Florence,” she said excitedly. “You have to see it. The underpainting is unbelievable.”
“No way,” I said, the first genuine spark of interest breaking through the evening. “You’re joking.”
We were already turning toward the staircase when the doorbell rang.
Olivia stopped mid-step. We both knew what that meant.
She gave me a slow, knowing look.
“I’ll show you later, Garr,” she said softly.
I leaned in slightly. “Please don’t go.”
“Never,” she whispered back. Then, louder, “I want to get to know your girlfriend better.”
The emphasis on girlfriend was telling me she saw through the bullshit.
The front doors opened, and Trisha stepped inside with the confidence of someone who had rehearsed this in her head.
She wore a fitted blue dress that struck the perfect balance between elegant and youthful. Her red hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and she carried herself like she belonged in a house like this.
“Mrs. William,” she greeted warmly as she was guided toward the sitting room.
“Trisha,” my mother replied, already smiling in a way she rarely did. “Welcome. You look lovely.”
Trisha complimented the architecture, the lighting, the art displayed in the foyer. My mother absorbed every word like validation. A drink was offered immediately. She was guided to sit close.
I kissed Trisha on the lips when she reached me. It looked natural enough. Familiar enough. I made sure of it.
Conversation flowed smoothly at first. My father inquired about her family name, which carried weight locally. My mother asked about her father’s business, about philanthropic involvement, about cultural engagements. Trisha responded flawlessly. She spoke about art history electives she loved, about gallery openings she had attended, about Italian Renaissance technique with just enough confidence to impress without threatening.
For a second, I couldn't help but imagine how Aslan would've made it through this kind of interrogation, and I nearly chuckled.
Shit, stop…
By the time we moved into the dining room, my mother had already decided she approved.
Crystal clinked softly as plates were set before us. The conversation shifted, as it inevitably would.
“So,” my father said, smiling mildly, “how did you two meet?”
“We share a couple of classes,” Trisha replied easily. “Art History and European Cultural Studies.”
“And we started studying together,” I added.
My mother dabbed her napkin to her lips before speaking.
“I heard there was a small dispute over you at one point, my dear.”
The table felt colder.
I held my breath.
Trisha blinked once but didn’t falter. “Not really,” she said with a soft laugh. “I was friendly with another student who might have gotten the wrong idea. But it was Garrett I always felt for. When I started spending time with that other student, Garrett finally asked me out.”
My pulse pounded in my ears.
“With Aslan Rivers?” my mother asked, her tone pleasant.
Trisha smiled, oblivious to the undercurrent. “Yes, that’s his name.”
My mother nodded thoughtfully. “Jealousy is a dangerous thing,” she said calmly.
She wasn’t looking at Trisha. She was looking at me, and she wasn’t talking about me being jealous of Aslan, but me being jealous of her.
Olivia leaned forward smoothly, cutting through the tension like a blade wrapped in silk. “And here we are,” she said brightly. “Happily ever after. So, Trisha, tell me—what period of art do you gravitate toward the most?”
The redirect worked. Conversation shifted again. Laughter returned.
By the time dessert was cleared, my mother had already planned the holidays with Trisha.
I was so fucked.
And yet… I was relieved.
I had done what they wanted me to do.
We rose from the table and began moving back toward the sitting room for coffee and what would inevitably become a card game.
That was when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
The sensation hit like a shock through my spine.
I stepped slightly aside, pulling it out, already hoping—absurdly—that it was Aitor. I needed a distraction. Something neutral. Something safe.
Instead, my blood ran cold.
Aslan.