The taxi rumbled through the city, neon lights smearing past like paint on a canvas gone wrong but still beautiful. Rowan Kane slouched in the back, his beat-up bag on his lap, his worn-out suit sticking to him like a second skin after a long day playing receptionist. He glanced at his watch… shit, he was late. Victoria wasn’t the type to get mad, but he didn’t want to test her. Not tonight. Not after everything. His mind kept drifting back to Lena, standing alone in the lobby, her keys dangling, her tears glinting under that chandelier. Those same tears he used to wipe away when she’d cry in his arms, back when love was real and she wasn’t spitting venom, at least not any that he was aware of. Had he gone too far? All of this… the receptionist gig, the blueprint plan, the date with Jason, buying in, the slow-burn revenge, letting her think he was nothing while he had the world at his fingertips…. was it too much? Her face tonight, crumbling under his words. It hit different.

Zane’s grin faltered, just for a second, like he sensed something in Rowan’s eyes—something deeper than the college kid he’d bullied. But he recovered, laughing, his hand twitching toward his jacket, maybe for another blade. “You threatening me, Kane? You? A nobody in a cheap suit?” Victoria stepped between them, her voice a whip. “Enough, Zane. You want to play dirty? I’ve got dirt too. Those drugs you ran with your cult buddies? The ones you bought with my money? I’ve got receipts. Names. Dates. Camera footage, a whole file of it. You want to play who burns first?” Zane’s face twitched, his goons glancing at each other. She’d hit a nerve. Back in the day, after Rowan’s marriage, Zane had latched onto Vicky, playing the supportive boyfriend while draining her accounts. He’d partied with his crew—some sketchy group called the Iron Veil, half cult, half gang—blowing her cash on coke and worse. When she found out, when Rowan’s divorce hit the news, she’d snapped, kicking Zane out w

When Carson returned to Campus, he walked right up to Mia in the class room to pass the news. “Hey, Mia, you’re good now. I took care of your troubles, aight? No more crying. I handled it.” Mia’s head snapped up, her brows knitting, tears still clinging to her lashes. “What… what do you mean, Carson? What’d you do?” Her voice was shaky, but there was an edge, like she already knew she wouldn’t like the answer. Carson smirked, puffing his chest. “I caught the dickhead, Jason, outside the gate. Laid him out—two punches, bam bam, right to his pretty face. Shoved him against his fake-ass Ferrari. I warned him to stay outta your life. He ain’t gonna mess with you no more, babe. I got you.” Mia’s face went pale, her hands balling into fists. “You what? Carson, why the hell would you do that?” Her voice rose, sharp and panicked, drawing a few glances from passing students. “You went after Jason? Are you stupid? He’s Echelon Eight! You think you can just punch him and walk away?” Carson b

Rowan shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. “I thought you were smart, Rachael. Logical. But you’re betting on this fake bullshit?” He didn’t wait for her answer. He pushed off the counter, his blood boiling, a volcano ready to erupt. Staff stared as he stormed through the lobby, their whispers trailing him like smoke. He was done playing nice. Done playing receptionist, done with all this stupid acting. He had been warned, but he did not listen. And now, it was costing him someone’s life. Someone had set this up, and he knew who. Lena Aston. Mrs. Blackson. They’d crossed a line, using April to paint him as a monster. How far do humans go? How deep was their hate? He’d been soft on Lena, his ex-wife, thinking his slow revenge—buying Obsidian, planting Jason as a decoy—would make her see her mistakes. Her tears the other night, when they’d argued, had seemed real, like she was cracking open. But no. She was spinning a horror show, twisting the plot with lies so dark it could op

The hospital room was cold, aseptic, the kind of place that made your skin crawl. Beeping monitors filled the silent room, a steady beep-beep-beep like a heartbeat that wouldn’t quit. A drip hung by the bed, slow drops falling into a tube snaking into Mia’s arm. She lay there, pale, a bandage wrapped around her forehead, blood crusted at the edges. Jason Cole sat beside her, his hoodie pulled low, black face mask tucked in his pocket as he no longer needed it. He wasn’t hiding today—he needed answers. His chair creaked as he shifted, his hands restless, picking at the frayed edge of his sleeve. What the hell happened? He’d been at the penthouse, receiving some lectures on being a stoic CEO’s son, when the news hit—clips of Priyanka on the fifth-floor lobby, Mia tumbling down the stairs, girls screaming “murderer.” The videos were everywhere, trending with hashtags like #Jason’sGirl’sAKiller. Priyanka, his Priyanka, the girl who’d wiped juice off his shirt when the whole campus