“Of course, sir,” he says, unconvinced but professional enough not to press further. “The terrace offers fresh air, if that would help.” He points to the set of glass doors at the far end of the lobby. “Through those doors.”
“Thank you.” I check my watch, as if I have somewhere to be. “I appreciate your concern.”
He lingers. “Would you like me to show you the way?”
“I can manage.” I strike the perfect balance between gratitude and dismissal, a skill honed through countless faculty meetings where I needed to end conversations without creating tension.
The staff member inclines his head and steps back. “Very well, sir. Enjoy your evening.”
As he retreats, my heart continues to race. The encounter confirmed what I already knew. I can’t stay here, visible and vulnerable. Carson might emerge from the ballroom at any moment, and I can’t let him find me alone in the lobby.
The thought sends a fresh spike of adrenaline through my system. I need air. Space. Distance.
The terrace doors beckon, promising escape. My brain calculates possibilities. I could return to my hotel room, pack my belongings, and be gone before dawn. I could leave Quinn a letter explaining why I had to disappear without saying goodbye.
But the thought of Quinn stops me. Running would hurt her in ways I swore I never would.
Voices rise behind me as a group emerges from the ballroom. I don’t turn, but the sound propels me forward with renewed urgency.
My hand finds the cool metal of the door handle. I push it open and step out into the encroaching darkness.
Salt and diesel fuel fill my lungs, and the ballroom’s warmth evaporates from my skin in seconds, leaving me shivering in my suit despite the late-August evening.
Behind me, the hotel’s golden light spills across the stone terrace in elongated rectangles. Before me stretches the harbor, a canvas of black water stippled with reflected lights from boats and distant buildings. Waves slap against the wooden pilings below, and I strive to slow my pulse to match.
My legs carry me forward toward the balustrade on autopilot, my leather shoes whispering in the quiet. When I reach the edge, my hands grip the cold stone, fingers pressing hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
Bending at the waist, I close my eyes and let the panic crest like a wave, knowing from experience it will recede. I suck in a breath of the briny air, filling my lungs before releasing.
A fishing boat chugs past, its engine throbbing low in the darkness. The scent of fish and brine grows stronger, mingling with the night-blooming flowers planted along the terrace edge.
“He can’t touch you,” I whisper to myself, my words carried away by the breeze coming off the water. “You’re an adult. You have choices.”
But Quinn doesn’t.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach. Carson has positioned himself at the heart of Quinn’s world.
Every morning, five days a week, she’ll walk into his domain, a place where his word is law, his authority unquestioned. He’ll have access to her records, influence over her teachers, and power over which accommodations are granted or denied.
My fingernails scrape over the stone as my hands curl into fists again. The Wright Pack has resources to protect Quinn. But they don’t know what they’re protecting her from because I never told them.
Shame burns hot in my chest, competing with the cold fear. I should have disclosed my history with Carson when I interviewed for this job. But disclosure meant questions and explanations I didn’t want to give.
Confrontation is impossible. Carson thrives on direct challenges, turning them back on the challenger like a master conductor. I tried once, three years ago, by presenting documentation of his mentorship methods to the school board. My evidence disappeared from the files, my witnesses recanted under pressure, and my professional reputation suffered wounds that never truly healed.
I had tried again when I sent in my resignation, pulled up stakes, and ran away. And now Carson ishere, in an even better position, in a new community, charming to the Wright Pack.
Reporting failed again and again, and now there’s the added complication of Quinn caught in the crossfire.
My options narrow to a single imperative to protect Quinn while maintaining enough distance from Carson to preserve my own sanity. The equation feels impossible, with variables canceling each other out until no solution remains.
The rhythmic tap of a cane on stone cuts through my thoughts, and my spine straightens, my shoulders relaxing as I school my features into quiet appreciation for the view.
By the time the tapping stops a few feet away, I’ve reassembled myself into the calm professional everyone expects.
“Quite a view,” Grady says as he moves to stand beside me at the balustrade. “The Wright Pack throws a good party. It’d be a shame to miss it.”
I don’t turn, focusing instead on the distant lights of boats bobbing on the black water. “I needed air.”