Chapter 76
[Rose's POV]
The third floor of Boston Prep's library smelled of old paper and furniture polish, a combination that reminded me uncomfortably of the Los Alamos technical library in 1943. I'd spent my lunch period here deliberately, choosing the chemistry reference section because it was the one place students avoided like radiation—pun intended, though no one here would appreciate it.
The morning's brutal honesty with Emily, David, and Sarah had drained me more than I'd expected.
I pulled a volume from the shelf, its spine cracked with age: Progress in Theoretical and Applied Chemistry, published by the Soviet Academy of Sciences in 1965. The Cyrillic text felt like coming home. During the Manhattan Project, we'd studied Russian journals religiously, desperate for any hint that the Soviets might be pursuing similar research. Now, eighty years later, I needed to understand what had happened to chemistry while I'd been busy mastering modern physics.
I settled into the corner seat and opened the journal. My fingers traced the familiar alphabet as I scanned an article on coordination chemistry, noting the theoretical frameworks that had evolved from wartime research into peacetime applications.
It was fascinating, really. I found myself sketching molecular structures in my notebook, my handwriting unconsciously mimicking the precise drafting style I'd learned in technical documentation classes at Berkeley.
"You also interested in that?"
The voice shattered my concentration like a dropped beaker. I looked up to find Ethan Harrison standing three feet away, his expression caught between curiosity and something sharper. Without raising my head fully, I extended my left index finger toward the doorway where a metal sign clearly stated: "Silence Zone – No Talking."
The gesture was dismissive, deliberately so. I returned my attention to the page, hoping he'd take the hint.
He didn't.
Instead, Ethan moved closer, his hands coming down on either side of my desk, effectively caging me between his body and the window. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You were so warm to me before. What changed? Is it because of Alexander? Or because you got Sullivan family recognition and don't need to fake it anymore?"
My pupils contracted involuntarily. The accusation stung not because it was true, but because it revealed how little he understood. The original Rose's infatuation with this boy was a fact I'd inherited like bad debt, something to be managed and ultimately dismissed. I gathered my notebook and stood, intending to leave.
His hand shot out, fingers closing around my throat.
The pressure wasn't immediately dangerous—more restraining than violent—but my body reacted with visceral panic. My vision tunneled at the edges as oxygen supply decreased. My hands flew to his wrist, trying to pry his fingers loose, but he was stronger and had leverage. His face was close enough that I could see the confusion and pain warring in his expression, the desperation of someone whose understanding of the world had just been fundamentally challenged.
"Tell me," he said, his voice cracking. "Where did the Rose who smiled at me in the hallway go? What made you change so completely?"
My brain spiraled through two simultaneous tracks: the immediate physical crisis and the deeper psychological terror it triggered.
I stopped struggling. My hands fell away from his wrist as the strength drained from my limbs. Somewhere in the rational part of my mind, I recognized this as shock response, but the knowledge couldn't override the biological imperative shutting down my systems.
Then Ethan was gone.
He stumbled backward, colliding with a bookshelf hard enough to make encyclopedias tremble. A figure stood between us—male, mid-twenties, wearing a tailored charcoal suit. His features were striking: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of storm clouds. Two men in black suits flanked him, their postures screaming professional security. One of them had a telltale bulge at his hip that suggested a concealed holster.
Ethan's anger evaporated into wariness. He grabbed his backpack and fled, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to escape.
I stood frozen, one hand unconsciously rubbing my throat where Ethan's fingers had been. My rescuer turned to face me fully, and I felt my heartbeat accelerate to a dangerous rhythm. Those gray eyes held something I couldn't quite identify.