Chapter 8 RUMOR MILL HAS TEETH

POV SYLVIE

Astoria University’s courtyard was usually a place for frisbees, overpriced lattes, and people pretending to read Kant under oak trees. But today, it felt like a high-security prison yard.

Every head turned as I walked toward the Law Library. I could practically hear the notifications pinging on everyone's phones. Look, it’s the girl from the photos. Look, she’s wearing a ring that cost more than the library’s heating bill. Look, she’s still breathing.

"Don't look at them," a voice muttered behind me.

I didn't need to turn around to know it was Nathaniel. He was walking half a step behind me, his presence like a physical heat at my back. He was dressed in a dark sweater and slacks today, looking slightly more "student" and slightly less "corporate overlord," but the way the crowd parted for him said otherwise.

"Hard not to look when people are literally pointing their iPhones at my face, Cavill," I hissed, tightening my grip on my backpack straps. "I feel like a zoo animal that’s about to be fed to the lions."

"You’re not the animal, Sylvie. You’re the guest of honor. There’s a difference."

"Yeah? Well, the guest of honor wants to crawl into a hole and stay there until graduation."

We reached the steps of the library, and that’s when I saw the first sign of Elena’s handiwork. A group of girls from the Alpha Beta sorority—Elena’s old clique—were huddled near the entrance. As we approached, one of them laughed loudly, her eyes locked on mine.

"I heard the ring is a rental," she whispered, loud enough for the entire quad to hear. "I mean, can you imagine? A Cavill marrying someone who still uses a student loan for her meal plan?"

I stopped. My blood didn't just boil; it turned into a pressurized jet of steam. I started to turn toward her, my mouth open to deliver a line that would probably get me banned from the student union, but Nathaniel’s hand caught my elbow.

"Don't," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "They want a reaction. Don't give them the satisfaction of knowing they can even touch you."

"They’re talking about my life, Nathaniel. My real life."

"No," he said, stepping in front of me so he was blocking the girls from my view. He looked down at me, his grey eyes unusually sharp. "They’re talking about a version of you that doesn't exist. Let them gossip. While they’re talking, you’re winning. Your scholarship is back. Your name is cleared. Let them choke on it."

He turned his head slightly toward the group of girls. He didn't say a word, but the look he gave them was so cold, so utterly dismissive, that the girl who had spoken actually stepped back. The laughter died instantly.

"Move," Nathaniel commanded.

The girls scrambled out of the way like pigeons in a park.

We entered the library, the familiar smell of old paper and silence wrapping around us. But even here, the peace was fake. Every table we passed had people whispering behind their laptops.

"I need to study," I said, heading for my usual corner in the back. "I have a torts exam on Friday and I haven't looked at my notes in three days because I was too busy being a 'fiancée'."

"I'll join you," Nathaniel said, pulling out a chair next to mine.

"Don't you have your own table? The one with the velvet rope and the golden throne?"

"My grandfather told Silas to keep an eye on us. If we aren't seen 'studying together,' the narrative falls apart. Plus, I actually want to see if you’re as smart as your transcript says you are when you aren't trying to sabotage my notes."

I pulled out my highlighter and my massive textbook, slamming it onto the table. "Fine. But if you breathe too loud, I’m calling the librarian."

For the next two hours, we actually worked. It was the strangest thing we’d done so far. No cameras, no grandfathers, no Elena. Just the scratching of pens and the turning of pages. Every now and then, I’d catch him looking at me—not with a smirk, but with a genuine curiosity.

"You’re doing it wrong," he said suddenly, pointing at my diagram of a liability case.

"I am not doing it wrong. This is the Palsgraf vs. Long Island Railroad interpretation."

"It’s the wrong interpretation for the current board of examiners. They prefer the more conservative approach to proximate cause. If you write that on the exam, you’ll get a B+."

"A B-plus?" I gasped, horrified. "I don’t do B-pluses, Nathaniel."

"Then listen to me." He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine. He started explaining the nuances of the case, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, intelligent tone that always made it hard to remember why I hated him. He was smart. Annoyingly, brilliantly smart.

I looked at his profile—the straight line of his nose, the way his eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be. He wasn't just a trust fund; he was a brain. And that was the most dangerous realization I’d had yet.

"Are you listening, Belrose? Or are you just staring at my jawline again?"

"I was not staring at your jawline! I was... analyzing your logic."

"Sure you were." He smirked, but then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and the smirk vanished. "It’s a link. To the campus blog."

He turned the screen toward me. My heart dropped into my shoes.

THE ASTORIA WHISPERER: Is the Belrose-Cavill Romance a Fraud? Sources close to the Cavill family suggest that the emerald-clad 'engagement' is nothing more than a cover-up for the recent scandal. Is Sylvie Belrose a victim, or a brilliant social climber who used a fake photo to trap an heir? And who is the mystery blonde seen arguing with the couple at the Cavill estate last night?

The comments section was a bloodbath.

“She’s totally a gold digger.” “I heard she made the photos herself just to get his attention.” “Elena Vane is way better for him. This scholarship girl is trash.”

I felt a wave of nausea hit me. I pushed the phone away, my hands shaking. "She did it. Elena leaked it."

"Of course she did," Nathaniel said, his jaw tightening so hard I thought it might crack. "She’s marking her territory. She wants you to break, Sylvie. She wants you to run so she can step back in."

"I can't do this, Nathaniel. It’s one thing to have people whisper. It’s another to have it written down, to have the whole world calling me 'trash' in the comments."

I stood up, grabbing my bag. I didn't care about the torts exam anymore. I didn't care about anything. I just needed to be somewhere where I wasn't 'the scholarship girl' or 'the gold digger.'

"Sylvie, wait!"

I ran out of the library, the cold air hitting my face as I burst through the doors. I didn't stop until I reached the secluded garden behind the chapel—the only place on campus where the Wi-Fi was terrible and the people were few.

I sat on a stone bench, burying my face in my hands. I was eighteen years old. I was supposed to be worrying about my grades and my first year of freedom. Instead, I was a pawn in a game I didn't understand, being dragged through the mud by people who didn't even know my middle name.

"Go away, Nathaniel," I said without looking up as I heard the crunch of gravel.

"No." He sat down next to me, but he didn't touch me this time. He just sat there, his presence a steady weight in the chaos. "They’re wrong, you know."

"Doesn't matter if they’re wrong. Everyone believes it."

"I don't believe it."

I looked up, my eyes red and stinging. "You’re the one who started this! You’re the one who offered the deal!"

"I offered you a way out," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "I didn't realize it would be this hard for you. I’m used to it, Sylvie. I’ve been a headline since I was six. I’ve had people lie about me, hate me, and use me since I could walk. I forgot... I forgot that you haven't."

He reached out, his hand hesitating before he finally rested it on mine. "We’re going to fix this. Not with a PR statement, but with the Engagement Party. We’re going to show them that we aren't just an 'arrangement.' We’re going to make them so jealous they can’t breathe."

"How?"

Nathaniel leaned in, his face inches from mine. "By making them believe that I’m so obsessed with you that I’d burn this whole university down just to keep you safe."

"And how do we do that?" I whispered.

"By practicing," he said.

And then, before I could process what was happening, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.

It wasn't a fake kiss for the cameras. It wasn't a "staged" moment. It was desperate, hungry, and tasted like the sparks of a fire that had been waiting for three years to catch. My brain screamed no, but my heart—my stupid, treasonous heart—screamed finally.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. The world was quiet. The rumors were gone. There was only the sound of the wind in the trees and the terrifying realization that the game had just changed forever.

"Practicing?" I breathed, my voice trembling.

"Practicing," he whispered, his eyes dark with something that looked a lot like the truth.