Page 19

And so, I sat, the warmth of the coffee seeping into my hands, the noise of the café a comforting buzz around me. I was in control here. And that was all that mattered.

As I took another sip, I could practically feel the dean’s impatience radiating from his office like heat waves off asphalt. He could use some time to think about how to approach me.

I sighed, standing, stepping out of River Styx. With each step away from the café and toward that office, adrenaline pulsed through me—not fear or regret, but anticipation. My heart thrummed with excitement for what was about to unfold.

After five minutes of leisurely walking, savoring each sip of coffee like it was a fine wine, I strolled up to the admin building and headed straight for the dean's office door. The frosted glass panel readDean John Walkerin bold letters.

I knocked once before opening it without waiting for an invitation inside.

“Good morning,” I said smoothly as I stepped into the room, taking in Dean Walker’s flustered expression. His neatly organized desk stood in stark contrast to my relaxed demeanor.

He blinked at me, clearly taken aback by my nonchalance as if he expected an apology or remorse.

He recovered quickly. “I know what you did,” he spat, his voice low but steady.

I leaned against the doorframe, a smirk creeping onto my lips. “That so?”

He straightened, launching into a tirade that was as predictable as it was tiresome. “You think this is a game? That you can just run around attacking students? The incident with Logan Hartley has consequences, Damien. This isn’t some street fight; this is Crestwood Academy.”

I shrugged, feigning indifference as I toyed with the edge of my hoodie. “What can I say? He had it coming.”

Dean Walker's face reddened. “This is a pattern of violence! You’ve been on thin ice for years now, and I’m tired of covering for you. You think you’re untouchable?”

I leaned back casually against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t think.I know.”

His glare could have burned through steel. “You’re going to ruin your future if you keep this up,” he warned, leaning forward slightly as if trying to physically intimidate me.

“Ruin? Nah.” I chuckled lightly, relishing the control I had in this moment. “You know what they say—no risk, no reward.”

“Reward?” His voice rose an octave as he paced the floor like a caged animal. “You call this chaos a reward? You’re not just jeopardizing your own future; you’re affecting everyone around you—including Holly!”

At the mention of her name, something twisted inside me—not regret or guilt but something raw and fierce. She was mine to protect or destroy; that was how it worked in my world.

“I’m not affecting her,” I said sharply, pushing off from the wall and stepping closer to him. “If anything, she should be thanking me for keeping scum like Hartley away. As should you.”

“Is that what you think? That this violent behavior will earn her respect?” Dean Walker shot back, incredulity mingling with anger.

I laughed again—a cold sound that filled the room with tension. “Respect? No one cares about respect when there’s power involved.”

Dean Walker leaned over his desk, the veneer polished to a shine that reflected his frustration. His jaw clenched tight, eyes narrowed like he was sizing me up for some kind of punishment. “You’re going to face disciplinary action for this, Sinclaire. I’m talking suspension. You think you can just bulldoze your way through life?”

I let him ramble, leaning back against the wall with my arms crossed. His words washed over me like white noise—predictable, tiresome. It felt almost entertaining watching him squirm in his righteous indignation.

“Logan’s injuries could have serious consequences,” he continued, raising his voice as if volume would somehow add weight to his empty threats. “This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about the school’s reputation.”

I stifled a chuckle, feigning boredom as he rattled on about rules and regulations. The truth hung in the air like a storm cloud waiting to burst—Dean Walker didn’t run this place as much as he thought he did.

His authority was just a façade, and I knew exactly how flimsy it was.

“Look,” I said, interrupting him mid-rant. “You think I give a damn about your disciplinary measures? Do you really believe I’m afraid of suspension?”

He opened his mouth to respond but hesitated as if the reality was dawning on him—he had no real power here.

“Let me remind you of something,” I said, pushing off from the wall and taking a step forward. “My last name is Sinclaire.”

A smile crept onto my lips as Dean’s expression shifted from anger to confusion. “You know who my father is—the NHL legend? His name still sells out arenas across the country.”

The air thickened with tension as I continued, savoring the moment.