Chapter 5
Elle POV
Sleep refused to come. I lay in my narrow dorm bed staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles, watching the orange glow from the campus streetlights paint shifting shadows across the plaster as tree branches swayed in the wind outside. My roommate's breathing had settled into the deep, even rhythm of unconsciousness hours ago, but my mind kept replaying the same scene on an endless loop: standing in that hallway outside that archive room, hearing her voice mingling with his, the unmistakable sounds of intimacy that had frozen me in place before I'd turned and fled.
I hadn't seen them. Some part of me was grateful for that mercy, but my imagination had filled in the gaps anyway, constructing images that felt more vivid than memory—his hand on her waist, her fingers in his hair, the way neither of them would have noticed even if I had opened the door. The worst part wasn't the betrayal itself. It was the hollow recognition that some part of me had been expecting it all along, that I'd been performing the role of devoted fiancée while knowing, on some level I'd refused to acknowledge, that Dominic had never truly seen me as anything more than a convenient solution to his grandfather's demands.
My phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a cold blue glow across the darkness. Three fifteen AM. The notification showed a message from Dominic, sent an hour after I'd gotten back to campus: "Where did you disappear to last night? Leaving without a word in front of my family was incredibly disrespectful. We need to discuss your behavior."
No acknowledgment of what I'd overheard. No explanation. Just another reprimand wrapped in the assumption that I was the one who owed him answers, because in Dominic's world, the hierarchy of obligation always placed him above reproach. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, muscle memory ready to type out some version of apology or excuse, but something stopped me. Instead, I found myself thinking about Adrian's hands as he'd handed me that glass of water in the greenhouse, the careful way he'd maintained distance while still making me feel protected rather than abandoned. The contrast between the two brothers had never felt more stark.
I typed slowly, each word feeling like a small act of rebellion: "I think we need to meet. There are some things I need to ask you about." Then I set the phone face-down, as if not seeing the screen could somehow shield me from what was coming.
The memory rose unbidden, sharp and clear despite the years that had passed: myself at fifteen, standing in the circular driveway of the Callahan Estate with a battered suitcase held together by duct tape and hope, every muscle in my body tensed against the fear of not belonging. The house had looked like something from a period drama, all Gothic Revival peaks and leaded glass windows, and I'd been certain that someone would realize there had been a mistake, that girls like me didn't get to live in places like this.
Then the front door had opened, and Adrian had appeared in the threshold. He'd been twenty-two then, home from medical school for the weekend, wearing a soft gray sweater that made him look approachable despite the obvious wealth that surrounded him. While the housekeeper had fussed with paperwork and Dominic had remained conspicuously absent, Adrian had simply walked down the steps, taken the handle of my suitcase without asking, and bent down until his eyes were level with mine.
"Welcome, Elle," he'd said, and his voice had been warm in a way that made the word feel like a promise rather than a platitude. "You're safe here."
I'd believed him then. Lying in the dark six years later, I wondered if that safety had always been an illusion, or if I'd simply been looking for it in the wrong brother.
When my alarm finally went off at seven, I felt like I'd been awake for days. The girl in the bathroom mirror looked hollowed out, dark circles smudged beneath eyes that seemed too large for her face, but I forced myself through the motions of normalcy: shower, skincare routine, the careful application of concealer that never quite managed to hide the evidence of a sleepless night. I dressed in a white button-down and charcoal slacks, choosing armor that made me feel like I had some control over the situation, even though we both knew I didn't.
The rain had started again by the time I left the dorm, a fine mist that clung to my hair and made the September morning feel more like November. I should have gone straight to Butler Library, should have gotten the confrontation over with, but my feet carried me toward the campus bookstore instead, drawn by some instinct I couldn't name.
The bookstore smelled like coffee and old paper, a combination that usually soothed me but today only emphasized how unsettled I felt. I wandered toward the medical anthropology section more out of habit than any real intention to study, my fingers trailing along book spines without really seeing the titles. My mind was already at the café, rehearsing conversations that would probably never happen, imagining Dominic's reactions to accusations I wasn't sure I had the courage to voice.
"That book's author was my mentor at Hopkins."
The voice came from directly behind me, low and familiar, and I spun around so quickly I nearly knocked over the stack of journals on the display table beside me. Adrian stood there in a dark blue wool coat beaded with rain, his hair damp enough that water droplets clung to the ends and occasionally fell to his shoulders. He held a copy of The Lancet in one hand and looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read—concern, maybe, or simple curiosity about why I was haunting the medical section when I should have been in class.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, and something in his tone suggested he knew exactly how on edge I was, even if he didn't know why.
I tried to smile and felt my face do something unconvincing. "It's fine. I was just..." I gestured vaguely at the bookshelf, unable to finish the sentence because I didn't actually know what I was doing there.
Adrian's gaze dropped to my hands, and I realized too late that I'd been unconsciously rubbing at the scrape on my palm, the one I'd gotten yesterday when I'd stumbled on the manor stairs, my mind too distracted to notice the rough stone wall I'd caught myself against. It wasn't serious—just a shallow abrasion that had seemed to be healing—but flipping through books this morning must have reopened it, leaving a small smear of red on my shirt cuff that hadn't been there when I left the dorm.
He didn't ask how it happened. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a small box of adhesive bandages, the medical-grade kind that came in plain packaging rather than decorated with cartoon characters. Without a word, he stepped closer, his movements economical and precise as he tore open the packaging and reached for my wrist.
His fingers were cool against my skin. It stung, but his touch was so gentle that I barely felt it, as he turned my hand palm-up to examine the wound. He cleaned it with an alcohol wipe he'd also produced from that apparently bottomless pocket, and I watched his face as he worked, noting the way his jaw tightened slightly when he saw how the abrasion had reopened, the minute adjustment of his glasses as he bent his head closer to make sure he'd gotten all the debris out.
