Chapter 7

Linnet's POV

The library's basement archive room had always been my secret sanctuary—a forgotten corner of St. Pellan where yellowed fluorescent lights hummed overhead and nobody ever bothered to look for anyone. The thick wooden door groaned on its hinges as I pushed it open, my arms laden with history textbooks and my mind already organizing the essay outline I needed to finish before dinner.

I froze.

Bryson Doyle sat at the reading table like he'd been waiting for hours. The harsh overhead lighting cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the clean lines of his jaw and cheekbones in a way that made my brain stutter for half a second before I could stop it.

Damn it. I hated that I noticed. Hated that even now, with my stomach still churning from our cafeteria disaster, some traitorous part of my brain registered how unfairly perfect his face looked even under the unflattering basement lights. The kind of perfect that made me want to smash that strawberry cake right into it, just to see if anything could mess up those flawless features.

"Linnet, wait—don't go." He shot to his feet, and I caught the flash of something almost vulnerable in his eyes before his usual confidence reasserted itself. "I came to apologize."

I felt my eyebrows climb toward my hairline. My grip tightened on my textbooks as I took an instinctive half-step backward. "Apologize?" The word came out sharp enough to cut. "You're telling me you actually tracked me down to apologize for that little scene in the cafeteria?"

I deliberately emphasized you, loading it with all the skepticism I could muster. People like Bryson Doyle didn't apologize to people like me. They moved through the world assuming their intentions were always good enough, their charm always sufficient, their money always able to smooth over any inconvenience they caused.

"You're right," he said, and the admission caught me off guard. "I'm not just here to apologize."

His voice stayed level, but I noticed the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Noticed, too, the way his gaze had snagged on me when I'd first walked in—that split-second pause before he'd stood up. Had he been staring? The thought made something uncomfortable twist in my chest, something I immediately crushed under a wave of irritation.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Of course you're not. So what do you actually want, Bryson? Because I have an essay to write, and standing here listening to whatever this is wasn't on my schedule."

He took a breath deep enough that I saw his shoulders rise and fall. When he met my eyes again, there was something almost desperate lurking beneath that golden-boy exterior. "I know you're ranked first in school. Perfect 4.0 GPA. So I want to hire you to tutor me. I'll pay you."

The words hung between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.

For five full seconds, I just stared at him. Then the fury hit, cold and sharp as a blade between my ribs.

"So you came here to humiliate me with money." My voice came out flat, dangerous. "Is that it?"

"What? No!" He stepped forward, hands raised like he could physically push back my accusation. "I absolutely didn't mean—"

"Then what did you mean?" I cut him off, and I heard my voice start to shake—not with weakness, but with the kind of rage that came from being seen through, from having your worst vulnerabilities laid bare and exploited. "You know my family's broke. You saw me with that free lunch tray. So you figured you'd wave some cash around and I'd come running like a grateful puppy, right? Is that how this works in your world?"

"I said this was a fair trade!" His voice rose defensively, and I watched his jaw tighten with frustration. "You provide knowledge and time, I pay you for it. What's wrong with that? Getting paid for your expertise is completely legitimate!"

He genuinely believed it. I could see it in the stubborn set of his shoulders, hear it in the righteousness threading through his words. He actually thought this was a fair, respectful business proposition.

That somehow made it worse.

"Fair trade." I repeated the words slowly, tasting the bitterness of them. "You want to know what's wrong with it? You're not offering me a choice, Bryson. You're cornering someone you know is desperate and calling it fairness."

I watched the color drain slightly from his face, watched understanding start to dawn. But I wasn't done.

"And what makes you so sure I'd even say yes?" My eyes were burning now, and I hated it, hated the way emotion was leaking through my carefully constructed walls. "You think because I need money, I don't have any dignity left? That I'll just roll over because you've decided I'm worth purchasing?"

The thing was, he was right. God help me, he was absolutely right. Every word out of his mouth had been the truth I'd been trying not to face all week. One hour of tutoring him would equal a full day of my mother's wages at the convenience store. Eight hundred and fifty dollars for college applications. The overdue medical bills sitting on our kitchen counter. Mom's exhausted face when she thought I wasn't looking.

The numbers wrapped around my throat like chains, choking off the refusal I wanted to scream at him. And I hated him for knowing it. Hated him for being so certain I couldn't afford to say no. Hated myself for the fact that he was right.

But most of all, I hated the way my heart had jumped when I'd first seen him sitting there under the lights, before my brain could remind it that beautiful faces often hid the ugliest assumptions.

"I..." Bryson's voice had lost its defensive edge. He looked almost stricken now, and I hated that too—hated that he could look hurt when I was the one being cornered. "I'm not trying to insult you. Really. I just thought—"

"You thought you could buy me." The words came out quiet now, deadly. "Just like everything else in your perfect life. Just write a check and the problem goes away."

Something shifted in his expression then. The defensive anger melted into something more complicated—confusion, maybe, or the first uncomfortable stirrings of actual understanding. His hands flexed at his sides, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower, softer.

"My life isn't perfect."

The words were so unexpected, so raw, that I almost lost my grip on my anger. Almost.

"As if," I said, and I couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of my voice.

For a moment, something flickered across his face—something that looked almost like pain. His jaw worked like he wanted to say more, wanted to explain, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad, scribbling something quickly before tearing off the page.

"Look." He set the paper on the table between us, careful not to come any closer. "I know you probably have... opinions about me. About my life, my motives, whatever. But I'm asking—genuinely asking—for you to think about it."

He paused, and I watched him choose his next words carefully, like he was navigating a minefield.

"You can name your price. Whatever feels right to you." His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "I need your help. And you..." He stopped himself, visibly reconsidering. "You could get something you need out of this arrangement. I'm not trying to offend you. I swear I'm not."

The careful way he'd avoided saying you need money felt almost worse than if he'd just said it outright. Like he was trying to dress up the humiliation in prettier words.

He pulled out his phone, typed something, then set it face-down on top of the note. "That's my number. If you decide—either way—just let me know."

Then he did something I didn't expect. He turned to leave without waiting for an answer, without pressing his advantage, without trying to charm or convince or negotiate. At the door, he hesitated, his hand on the handle, and glanced back.

The fluorescent lights above us flickered slightly, casting unstable shadows across his features, and for one suspended moment I saw something in his expression that looked almost like genuine regret. His gaze found mine across the dusty archive room, and I felt that same traitorous flutter in my chest that I'd felt when I first walked in.

Then his eyes dropped to where I stood, probably seeing what he'd reduced me to—shoulders trembling, eyes too bright, fingers white-knuckled on my textbooks. I must have looked exactly like what I felt: a cornered animal, all my defenses up, ready to bite anyone who came too close.

Something shifted in his face. His hand tightened on the doorknob, and for a second I thought he might come back, might try to... what? Apologize again? Explain? It didn't matter. He didn't. He just pushed through the door and let it swing shut behind him, his footsteps echoing away down the hallway.

The silence he left behind was deafening.