Page 1 of Almost Rotten

Chapter one

Tytus

Sawyer’s hand is stiff in mine, her whole form trembling as we face the dean.

I made my declaration.

I played my cards.

I staked my claim.

And despite the twist in my gut that says Sawyer is struggling, I regret nothing.

The dean was startled, then embarrassed, then contrite, creating a trifecta of discomfort that distracted him from asking additional questions about our union.

Sawyer didn’t oppose my statement, just like I knew she wouldn’t. Her lack of opposition transformed the dean into a blabbering, embarrassed husk of a human.

Even better?

He was amenable to my demands once I made my case. Our status as a married couple supersedes the handbook bullshit he wanted to throw at us. Honestly I think the guy is relieved. This means he doesn’t have to go to the title IX meeting this afternoon or talk to Coach about the incident.

His only request? That we try not to “fornicate” in public spaces moving forward. He said it good-naturedly. With a chuckle.

Fucking creep.

Until today, I had no opinion of him, good or bad. But now that he’s seen my girl bent over and being railed by her scumbag of a professor?

I shudder, shoving down the darkness trying to seep in. The dean isn’t my target. He’s a bystander.

All my ire is saved for one man and one man only.

The professor who had the audacity to touch her. The man who willnevertouch her again.

I shift my weight, the fatigue of the two days catching up to me now that my work is done. I want to leave this office. I want to be done with this whole stupid interaction.

But I still have to ensure that the grainy video on his screen is never viewed by another soul.

With one hand still wrapped around Sawyer’s, I grip the desk with the other and angle forward. “Who exactly has seen this footage?”

The dean has the decency to go red in the face. “No one. No one else, I assure you. It would be a gross violation of policy and privacy if—”

“No one? Really? Then how did you receive it? Someone forwarded the video to you, correct?” I challenge. “You just lied to my face, Dean Stalworth. Tell me the truth.”

Sawyer scoffs beside me.

“Think carefully about how you respond,” I continue. “Who else has seen this, and how can we ensure that this footage of my wife hasn’t been distributed to others?”

Stalworth reddens even more.

“I-I can assure you, Mr. Tremblay,” he stammers, “this video was intercepted from an unknown sender by the university’s information services department before it reached its intended destination. We use AI to scan for and flag potential inappropriate content on the servers.” He stands a little straighter, making his paunch more prevalent. “That system identified the video as potentially pornographic, which blocked its delivery and required review by a senior-level member of the information services team.”

Sawyer squeezes my hand, though there’s no affection in the gesture.

The move is a question. One I can’t and won’t answer.

After a handful of silent, tense seconds, when she’s realized I won’t divulge what she’s desperate to know, she zeroes in on the dean.

“And who was the intended recipient of the video?” Her voice is meek, her bottom lip trembling as she holds in the emotion boiling beneath the surface.