Silly Campus Boy Is The Biggest Heir

Chapter 9: The Lie He Never Meant to Tell

They ended up trapped in a small, sterile conference room just off the echoing lobby, the heavy glass door sealed shut against the swirling corporate chaos still unfolding two floors above. For a long, suffocating moment, neither of them said a word.

Martha stood with her arms tightly crossed over her chest—not for warmth, but because it was the only physical barrier keeping her hands from visibly shaking. Her eyes moved over him, tracing the tailored lapels and the sharp lines of his face, desperately trying to reconcile the two completely different men occupying the exact same skin.

"You could have told me," she finally whispered, her voice stripped of any soft relief that he wasn't just a broke waiter. It was furious, cracking violently under the weight of a betrayal much older than a simple lie about money.

"Any single night, Leo. Any time I called you crying about rent, about my mother's medical bills, about Alicent's casual cruelty—you could have said something. You had enough wealth to fix my entire life with the stroke of a pen, and instead, you spent it lurking in the shadows, making damn sure I never knew who to thank for keeping my head above water."

Leanor didn't reach for her. He understood, with the cold, hollow clarity that comes only when you've already lost, that he didn't have a clean, comforting defense to offer. There wasn't one.

"I told myself I was protecting you," Leanor said, his voice dropping into a gravelly undertone. "But I think... I was just protecting the only place in my entire life where nobody wanted anything from me because of my last name."

He looked straight into her eyes, letting every ounce of bone-deep exhaustion break through his armor. "You were the one person who liked me before you knew what I was worth. I was terrified of finding out you'd stop, so I never gave you the chance to prove me wrong. That's on me, Martha. Not you."

"So instead, you let me think Chase was the one who cared," she retorted, her voice breaking properly this time as hot tears spilled over her lashes. "You let me fall for his polished lies. You watched me humiliate myself for him for months and said nothing at all."

"Yes," he answered simply. A lie would have been infinitely crueler than the jagged truth, and he had promised himself long ago that he was done hiding behind cowardice. "I was wrong. I don't have a better answer than that, and I'm not going to insult you by pretending I do."

Martha didn't offer forgiveness. She stood frozen for another long, agonizing moment, her jaw locked, her eyes wet and furious. Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the glass room without another word, her sharp footsteps echoing loudly against the polished marble floor, leaving Leanor standing alone in a cage built for negotiations, having just lost the only one that truly mattered.

He let her go. It was the hardest, most brutal thing he had done all week.

Two floors up, in a very different kind of corporate warfare, Alicent was frantically making her own selfish calculations. The fallout from Chase's public dismantling had reached her faster than she anticipated, campus whispers already swirling about her own transactional financial arrangements with the Callum family—favors and gifts exchanged simply for the social capital of being seen with wealth. Realizing the ship was sinking, she wasn't about to let it drag her down with it.

Cornered and desperate, she sought out Luke privately that evening, slipping into his darkened office after his assistants had already cleared out for the night.

"Martha knows things," Alicent told him, pitching her voice low in the doorway as she nervously crossed her arms. "She's the one person outside of this building who could testify to how long Leanor's double life actually ran, if it comes down to a legal war. If that's useful to you, I thought you deserved to know before anyone else does."

Luke, reeling from the boardroom ambush and calculating his next survival move with the ruthless coldness of a man backed into a corner, silently filed the information away. He offered her no promises, his distant eyes already looking three moves ahead on a chessboard only he could see.

Later that night, Martha's phone lit up on her nightstand with an unfamiliar number.

The text message was chillingly cold, specific, and surgical in a way that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck before she had even finished reading the first line:

Stay quiet about what you know regarding Leanor Prime's two years away, or the next scholarship letter you receive will be your last. This isn't a threat. It's a courtesy.

She sat rigidly on the edge of her bed for a long time, the pale blue light of the screen illuminating her pale face, her hands trembling uncontrollably. A strange, sharp clarity cut straight through the lingering ache in her chest. Whatever she had stumbled into that afternoon was infinitely bigger and far more dangerous than a boy who had simply lied to her about his bank account.

Her thumb hovered over Leanor's contact—the number he had given her before she walked out of the conference room, meant to be used only if something felt wrong. Pride slammed the brakes on her impulse, the raw humiliation of the past forty-eight hours still stinging too deeply to make reaching out feel like anything other than losing twice.

Instead, she read the anonymous text a third time, letting the procedural, sociopathic calm of its phrasing settle deep into her bones. This isn't a threat, it's a courtesy. Whoever had sent those words had studied her life closely enough to pinpoint the exact scholarship keeping her in school, which meant she had been watched far longer than just these past two days.

She didn't sleep. Around three in the morning, she gave up trying, sitting up against her headboard with her laptop balanced across her knees. She pulled up a blank document and began furiously typing out everything she could remember: the money, the gifts, the impossible timing, every single detail that had felt like breathless romance a few days ago and now screamed of hard evidence.

If some hidden monster wanted her silence, she decided, staring at the growing dossier as the sky outside her dorm window slowly began to turn a cold, bruised gray, they were going to have to work considerably harder to earn it than a cheap, anonymous text message.