(Trish's POV)
I sat at a mahogany table in the back corner of the library. My laptop was open to a blank document.
Because of the limited time given for presentations, we were instructed to hurry up with our assigned partners.
Christian Vane sat accross from me, his chair angled so close our knees occasionally brushed. He wasn't looking at the British Literature text; he was looking at me, his gaze sharp and analytical.
"You're distracted today, Carpenter," Christian murmured, tapping a rhythmic beat on the table with his pen. "Dark circles under your eyes. A certain jumpiness. Did you have a rough night?"
"I'm fine," I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "Can we just focus on the thesis? I want to get this done."
"In a hurry to get home?" He tilted his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Or just in a hurry to get away from me?"
Before I could answer, the library doors swung open. Joseph walked in, looking like he hadn't slept a second. He was followed closely by Anaya, who was practically vibrating with a secret she was dying to tell. They took a table exactly four rows away, close enough to see us, too far to hear.
Joseph's eyes met mine for a split second. It wasn't a look of love but a look of pure, calculated warning that said: 'Don't slip.'
"Oh, look," Christian said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "The King and his Queen have arrived. Though, I heard a rumor this morning, Trish. Something about a guest at Joseph Roland's fancy place yesterday."
My heart heaped. "Rumors are just noise, Christian."
"Is that right?" He reached into his bag, fingers lingering as if searching for something else. When he finally pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, I knew it instantly: it was my rough draft journal. I must have lost it in the scramble by the lockers yesterday.
I carried it everywhere, my catch-all for half-formed thoughts, overheard lines, images that wouldn't leave me alone. Whenever an idea struck, I wrote it down before it could slip away, hoping one day it would grow into something worth calling a book.
"I found this near the hallway," he said lightly, turning it over once in his hands. "You really have a way with words, love."
I moved without standing; he noticed and angled his body back.
"Especially this part," he went on, flipping to a marked page. "The boy who hides his heart behind a crown of thorns." His smile widened, slow and knowing. "Funny thing is… Joseph Roland has a tattoo of thorns on his left bicep."
He tilted his head.
"Coincidence?"
"Give it back," I hissed, my face heating up.
Across the room, I saw Joseph go rigid. He couldn't hear us, but he could see Christian leaning in, saw the notebook, saw my distress. He half-rose from his chair, but Anaya grabbed his arm, pulling him back down with a sugary laugh that echoed through the silent library.
"Is there a problem over there?" The Librarian's voice drifted from the front desk.
"No problem, Mrs. Anita!" Christian called out, his eyes never leaving mine. He slid the notebook back across the table. "Just discussing the nature of secret inspirations."
He leaned in even closer, his breath warm against my ear.
"I won't say anything. Not yet. But the library is a public place, Trish. And the Joseph Roland's mansion - well, that's a very private one. I wonder what would happen to Joseph's future placements and endorsements if the board found out he was sharing his bed with a girl," Christian murmured.
"A girl whose mother passed away. Who has no one left." His lips curved slightly. "Hell, they might even say he's using someone like her."
The words hit harder than I expected. I hadn't realized how many people already knew about my mom's death, or that I had no other parent left. No guardian. No buffer. Just an open wound everyone seemed free to poke at.
I could already imagine it: Mthland High and its pervy gossip mill spinning the story into something grotesque. Joseph, the golden boy, supposedly sleeping with me in exchange for letting a poor, grieving girl with nowhere else to go stay under his roof.
"He isn't sharing his bed with me! We're just good friends, okay?" I whispered, the lie tasting like ash.
"Then why do you smell like his soap?" Christian countered, his voice low and knowing. "We're on the same Mthland High football team. I know that damn smell."
I looked at Joseph. He was staring at us now, his pen snapped clean in half in his hand. He looked like he was one second away from leaping over the tables and ruining everything. I shook my head at him, a tiny, microscopic movement signaling 'Stay down. Stay quiet.'
He saw it. He sat back, his jaw clenching so hard I could see the muscles jump. He turned to Anaya and forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're right, Anaya. Let's do the presentation on Macbeth. It's a story about ambition and betrayal, after all."
The words were deliberate, measured, and loud enough for the whole room to hear. A message. A warning.
Christian laughed like he was enjoying a private joke. "Betrayal," he said. "My favorite theme." His gaze locked onto mine. "Shall we get to work, partner?"
It felt like the opening move of a siege. Christian was starting to piece it together; only a few fragments left. Anaya suspected. And Joseph and I were running out of places to hide.