Page 5

Sarah

As I sit in the exam hall, my mind drifts away from the easy questions in front of me. The answers come almost automatically, my pen moving on its own as I fill in the blanks, circle the right choices, and jot down solutions. It’s all too simple—almost laughably so—but I force myself to stay focused. Still, my thoughts keep slipping back to Vancouver.

Sophia and I have been talking about the trip all morning, and I can’t help but feel a thrill of excitement every time I think about it. For once, I’ll get a break from work, from the constant tension that comes with living in Kace Preston’s shadow. It’ll be just the two of us, away from the chaos of New York and everything that comes with it. The idea of leaving it all behind, even if just for a little while, is too tempting to resist.

Vancouver. The name itself sounds like an escape, a place where the weight of our lives won’t press down so heavily on our shoulders. I picture us exploring the city, maybe even getting lost in it, with no one to answer to but ourselves. It’s a rare opportunity for someone like me—freedom, however fleeting.

The next question is straightforward, asking for the definition of moral relativism. I write out the textbook answer quickly, the words flowing easily from my pen. My thoughts, however, are miles away, imagining the freedom of being in a city where no one knows who I am—or who I’m pretending to be. A place where I can just be myself, without the pressure of living up to the expectations that come with the Preston name.

Then there’s a case study on ethical dilemmas. I approach it methodically, analyzing the scenario and outlining the possible moral conflicts. My pen moves almost on autopilot, the answers coming naturally, but my mind is only half-present. I’m already thinking about what to pack for the trip, what it will feel like to finally breathe easy, even if just for a few days.

I’m halfway through the exam when I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of my pen. The green of my eyes stares back at me, and my heart skips a beat. I forgot my brown contacts this morning. How could I have been so careless? I force myself to stay calm, to keep writing as if nothing is wrong. Maybe no one will notice. Maybe they won’t care. The thought gnaws at me, making it hard to concentrate.

I finish the exam with plenty of time to spare, going over my answers one last time to make sure everything is perfect. I can’t afford any mistakes—not now, not when I’m so close to getting out of here. I gather my things and stand, making my way to the front of the room. The test monitor takes my paper without comment, and I offer a polite smile before turning to leave.

The hall outside is quieter than usual, and I relish the brief moment of peace as I head toward the exit, my thoughts already on the trip. I’m halfway down the corridor when I hear someone call out behind me.

“Miss Preston?”

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. For a split second, I panic, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities. Did I forget something? Make a mistake? Worse—did someone figure out I’m not really Sophia? I turn slowly to face the voice, forcing a calm expression onto my face.

It’s one of the professor’s assistants, a young man with glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He looks slightly nervous, and that does nothing to calm the anxiety bubbling up inside me.

“The dean would like to see you,” he says, gesturing toward the administration office. “He requested an audience with you after your exam.”

I nod, keeping my expression neutral even though my mind is reeling. Why would the dean want to see me?

“Of course,” I reply, my voice steady despite the unease twisting in my gut.

As I follow him down the corridor, I can’t stop my mind from racing.

We reach the administration office, and the assistant knocks on the dean’s door. I stand there, trying to keep my breathing steady, even as anxiety claws at the edges of my calm.

The door opens slightly, revealing a sliver of the dean’s office. The assistant steps back, gesturing for me to enter.

“Miss Preston,” he says with a nod, “go in; the dean is expecting you.”

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the rising unease. Stepping inside, I’m struck by the quiet of the room. The office is neat and orderly, with shelves lined with academic awards and books, the large mahogany desk at the center dominating the space. Something feels off—there’s no one here.

I glance around, confused. The room is empty, the usual signs of occupancy absent. My eyes flicker to the desk, where papers lie undisturbed, as if untouched for hours. The silence is unsettling, wrapping around me like a cold shroud.

“Dean?” I call out softly, taking a cautious step further into the room. My voice seems to echo in the stillness, unanswered.

Before I can make sense of the situation, the door behind me swings open. I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. Three men stride into the office, their presence immediately overwhelming the small space. The first two are broad-shouldered, with hard faces that speak of a life spent on the wrong side of the law. It’s the third man who catches my attention—there’s something about him, something that exudes danger and control.

He’s tall, with dark hair and sharp features, his eyes cold and calculating. He moves with a kind of confidence that sends a chill down my spine. There’s no mistaking it—this is a man who’s used to getting what he wants. His gaze locks on to mine, and I feel a jolt of fear in my chest.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound strong.

The man steps forward, ignoring my question as he studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His gaze travels over me, taking in every detail, and I feel exposed, like he’s stripping away the layers of my disguise with just a look.

“Where’s the dean?” I demand, taking a step back, my heart pounding faster. “What’s going on?”

The men exchange a glance, a silent communication that only deepens my sense of dread. The one who stands out—he must be in charge—finally speaks, his voice deep, carrying a heavy accent that confirms my worst fears.

“Miss Preston,” he says slowly, his tone laced with something dangerous, “we need to have a little chat.”

His accent is unmistakably Russian, and that one detail sets off every alarm bell in my head. Russians. The Bratva. Kace’s enemies. My blood runs cold as I realize who they are—what they are.

I try to steady my breathing, to think clearly. I can’t let them see the fear, can’t let them know they have the upper hand. It’s hard to keep calm when the walls seem to be closing in on me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to keep my voice firm. “If you’re looking for my father, you’re wasting your time. He’s not here.”

The man’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smile. “Oh, we know where your father is. You… you’re coming with us.”

Panic flares in my chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I snap, taking another step back. “Get out of my way.”

He takes another step forward, unfazed by my attempt to assert control. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Miss Preston.”

I glance around the room, searching for something, anything that could help me. There’s nothing—no escape, no weapon, just the cold, unyielding reality that I’m trapped. My mind races, weighing my options. Running isn’t feasible—I’d never make it past them. I can’t just let them take me. I have to do something.

Without thinking, I lunge for the door, but one of the men is faster. He grabs me by the arm, his grip like iron. I twist and pull, trying to break free, but he’s too strong. Desperation fuels me as I kick out, striking him in the shin. He grunts, loosening his hold for just a second, and I use the opportunity to wrench myself away.

Before I can make it more than a few steps, the leader—he must be the leader—moves swiftly, his hand shooting out to catch me. I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist, yanking me back toward him. I stumble, trying to fight, but his grip is unrelenting.

“Let go of me!” I shout, panic rising in my throat. I struggle against him, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I try to twist out of his grasp. It’s no use—he’s too strong, too practiced.

His eyes narrow as he watches my futile struggle, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something like pity in his gaze. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, calculating look.

“Enough,” he says quietly, and before I can react, he swings his free hand toward me.

Pain explodes in my head as his fist connects with my temple. The world tilts, dark spots dancing across my vision. My knees buckle, the fight draining out of me as everything goes blurry. I’m vaguely aware of the floor rushing up to meet me, the sound of my own labored breathing filling my ears.

The last thing I see before everything goes black is the man’s face, impassive and unmoved by my fear. His voice echoes in the darkness that overtakes me, the cold, clinical tone of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

“Take her.”