Jax took the seat beside Avery but didn’t relax. His posture stayed loose, casual—except his eyes never stopped moving.Door. Hallway. Elise’s usual corner near the windows. Back again.
Avery nudged him lightly. “You’re staring.”
“I’m observing,” he corrected.
“Subtle.”
“Never been my brand.”
Luke’s knee brushed mine under the table. His hand rested briefly against my thigh beneath the edge of the table before retreating. A check-in. A question.
I pressed my knee against his in answer. I’m good.
Jax’s gaze flicked to us and then back to the room. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. He just nodded.
Chase leaned back in his chair. “So are we pretending everything’s normal, or are we acknowledging that the entire senior class thinks we’re in a Netflix documentary?”
Theo snorted. “Focus on the power play, not the audience.”
Avery looked at me quietly. Not pushing. Just anchoring.
The day crawled. But it didn’t feel isolating. It felt contained. And that was enough.
The final bell released the building into controlled chaos.
Students spilled into the courtyard in loose clusters, laughter too loud, relief too obvious. The late-afternoon light hit the stone façade in long shadows, gilding everything in false warmth.
I saw it before I understood it. A black sedan idled at the curb beyond the wrought-iron gates. Specifically, a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class Guard. It was a very distinct car, a tank really. Designed to be bullet proof and blast-resistant.
No one at Blackwood drove anything like that. Students slowed as they passed, curiosity threading through their expressions. A few phones appeared discreetly in hands.
My phone vibrated with a text message from Edwardo:You’ll see the car.
My pulse steadied instead of spiking. Edwardo sent a number next.
Luke followed my gaze. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Alert. Focused. The version of him that was built for war.
“Is that—” I began.
“Yes,” he answered quietly.
The driver’s door opened.
A man stepped out in a tailored black suit, shirt crisp, collar sharp against his throat. Sunglasses hid his eyes despite the overcast sky. He didn’t scan the area nervously. He looked once—slow, assessing—as if committing the campus to memory. He folded his hands in front of him and waited.
Then he walked toward us.
The courtyard noise didn’t stop, but it thinned.
Elise emerged from the west corridor with her usual entourage, phone already in hand. She saw the car. Saw the man walking with purpose. Her steps slowed—not enough for anyone but someone watching her closely to notice.
The man stopped a respectful distance in front of us.
“Ms. Callahan.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Several nearby conversations faltered.