Chapter 7 Midnight Summons
Stella's POV
I waited until I heard Lucy's violin case thump against the hallway wall—her usual pre-rehearsal chaos—before I slipped back into our dorm room. The symphony orchestra had a three-hour rehearsal tonight, which gave me exactly enough time to pack up my life and disappear before she got back with questions I couldn't answer.
The side entrance to Morrison Hall was blessedly empty. I'd timed it perfectly—dinner rush was over, evening classes hadn't let out yet. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is temporary. Just until I figure out how to fix this mess.
My hands shook as I unlocked the door. The room looked exactly as I'd left it this morning—sheet music scattered across my desk, Lucy's clothes exploding out of her closet, the faint smell of coffee and rosin. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been a normal college senior. Now I was sneaking into my own dorm room like a criminal.
I grabbed my largest suitcase from under the bed and started throwing clothes into it. Jeans, sweaters, the good black dress I wore for recitals. My fingers brushed against a stack of sheet music on my desk—Debussy, Chopin, some experimental pieces I'd been working on—and I froze.
The notes seemed to shimmer on the page, like they always did. Like they'd been doing since I was five years old.
Don't think about it. Don't think about how you've always been able to see music move, how melodies have colors, how you can play anything after hearing it once.
I'd never told anyone about that. Not my parents, not my teachers, not Lucy. Because normal people didn't see music. Normal people didn't feel like the piano was speaking directly into their bones.
I shoved the sheet music into my bag and kept packing.
By the time I dragged both suitcases down the stairs, my arms were screaming and sweat was dripping down my back despite the March chill. I stood on the sidewalk, breathing hard, and suddenly realized something that made my stomach unclench slightly.
Thank God Ethan's apartment isn't in faculty housing.
If it were, I'd have to sign in at the front desk. Show ID. Explain why a senior music major was moving into her professor's apartment. The thought alone made my skin crawl—I could practically see the raised eyebrows, hear the whispers spreading through the music department like wildfire.
Academic misconduct investigation. Forced withdrawal. Disappointed looks from every teacher who'd ever believed in me.
I gripped the suitcase handles tighter. This was temporary. Just until I found the right moment to ask for a divorce. Then everything could go back to normal.
Can it, though?
I told that voice in my head to shut up and started walking.
Ethan's apartment was exactly as I'd left it—pristine, organized, completely impersonal except for those weird antique weapons on the walls. I dumped both suitcases in the corner of the guest room and collapsed onto the bed, my muscles turning to jelly.
The room was so neat. White walls, gray bedding, a desk with nothing on it. Like a hotel room.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal student. Now I'm married to my professor and living in his sterile apartment.
I needed a shower. I needed to wash off the sweat and the stress and stop thinking.
The bathroom was just as pristine as the rest of the apartment, but when I opened the cabinet under the sink, I found brand-new bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner, still in their packaging.
He bought these for me. When? This morning, after I asked for a divorce?
I didn't want to think about what that meant. I turned the shower as hot as it would go and stepped under the spray.
The water beat against my shoulders, and I tried to let my mind go blank. But Ethan's face kept floating up behind my eyelids—those steel-blue eyes, the way he'd looked at me this morning like I'd hurt him.
Stop it. Stop thinking about him.
I scrubbed shampoo through my hair aggressively, like I could wash away the memory of his hands in my hair last night, the way he'd kissed me like I was something precious.
It was just alcohol. It didn't mean anything.
I turned off the water and wrapped myself in a towel that was softer than anything I'd ever owned. My reflection in the mirror looked pale and exhausted, honey-colored hair dripping onto my shoulders, green eyes too wide.
I changed into my oldest pajamas—soft cotton pants and a Haverton Music Department t-shirt—and padded back to the guest room. The bed looked like heaven. I was so tired my bones ached.
I was about to collapse face-first into the pillows when my phone rang.
The screen lit up with Professor Blackwood.
I stared at it for a long moment, my stomach doing something complicated. I still hadn't changed his contact name. It felt too intimate, too real.
It's just temporary. Don't get attached.
I answered. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end wasn't Ethan's.
"Mrs. Blackwood?" A man's voice, unfamiliar, with an edge of concern. "This is Jake Miller, I'm a friend of Ethan's. He's had a bit too much to drink, and I think he needs a ride home. We're at Riverside Bar—could you come pick him up?"
I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, my brain struggling to process the words.
Mrs. Blackwood. He called me Mrs. Blackwood.
The unreality of it crashed over me again. Twenty-four hours ago, I was Stella Harper, music major, normal college student. Now strange men were calling me Mrs. Blackwood and asking me to pick up my drunk husband from a bar.
Husband. God, that word still doesn't feel real.
"I—" My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. "Yes. Of course. Can you text me the address?"
"Already sent it. Thanks for coming."
He hung up. I stared at my phone, watching the address notification pop up on my screen.
My hair was still wet. I was wearing pajamas. I'd just hauled two suitcases across campus and I was so tired I could barely stand.
And now I have to go pick up my drunk professor-husband from a bar.
I looked at myself in the mirror again—damp hair, no makeup, exhaustion written all over my face. I looked like exactly what I was: a twenty-two-year-old college student who was in way over her head.
But Ethan was my husband. Legally, at least. And even if he weren't, he was still my professor. If he got drunk and said something stupid in front of his friends, if he got hurt, if something happened—
The fallout would destroy both of us.
I grabbed my jacket and my keys, shoved my feet into sneakers, and headed for the door.
The March night air hit me like a slap, cold enough to make my wet hair start freezing at the tips. I wrapped my jacket tighter and started walking toward the address Jake had sent.
This is temporary. Just temporary. I just need to get through tonight.
But as I hurried through the dark streets of Boston, my breath forming clouds in the air, I couldn't shake the feeling that nothing about this situation was temporary at all.
