Page 38

CHAPTER 38

ZAIDEN

M y fingers trembled against Coach Hillard's door, not from fear, though. Rage had a way of making everything sharper, clearer, like the first time I'd stepped onto fresh ice at dawn. Everyone in this school preached about integrity while dealing in favors and secrets. I'd learned that lesson freshman year, watching them break their own rules whenever it suited them. Now, at least, I played their game better than they did.

I stood silently listening as muffled gasps and the sound of skin slapping together echoed through the door. A smile twisted my lips. How convenient that giving a blow job off campus was grounds for suspension, but apparently screwing someone's husband during school hours was perfectly acceptable.

If it had been anyone else in the school other than Dean Sweeney, this might have been a different situation, but I had plenty of dirt on her, and I knew she'd reverse her decision.

Digging through the pocket of my jeans, I pulled out my keys.

My fingers traced the cold metal. The master key had been my first real conquest at Westbrook. Freshman year, while everyone else memorized locker combinations, I memorized the janitor's schedule. Three months of careful observation, two weeks of strategic friendliness, and one staged emergency later, every locked door on campus became mine. Back then, I'd only wanted late-night access to the ice arena, a place to practice when no one was watching. Now, as the key's familiar weight settled in my palm, I appreciated how power rarely stays small once you get a taste for it.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I slid it open before clicking on the camera button and switching it to video. I eased the key into the lock, careful not to make a sound. I didn't want to disturb the lovebirds before I got the footage I needed. Not that I didn't have plenty of other things to hold over Dean Sweeney's head. This just simplified everything.

I inched the door open, wide enough for my phone's lens. The ancient hinges stayed silent as I steadied my hand. Through the screen, I watched Dean Sweeney arch her back, her usually pristine blonde hair wild across Coach's desk. Last year, when she'd cornered me after practice with hungry eyes and whispered suggestions, I almost took her up on her offer. Almost. Now, watching her squirm under Coach Hillard, I was satisfied with my decision.

Dean Sweeney was fairly young for her position and incredibly hot. She had long wavy hair that was typically pulled back, and black framed glasses covered her dark brown eyes. She was thin and had decent curves, but she couldn't even hold a candle next to Ariella.

Dean Sweeney's cry of pleasure cut through the air, then choked into silence as her eyes met mine. For one perfect moment, time crystallized: her lips still parted in ecstasy, the realization dawning in her widening eyes, the blood draining from her face. I let my smirk build slowly as she scrambled to push herself up from the desk, dignity scattering like the papers beneath her.

"What are you—" The words died in her throat.

"Get the fuck out!" Coach's voice pitched high, his authority crumbling faster than his reputation was about to. The man lecturing his team about discipline couldn't keep his pants up.

I leaned against the doorframe, savoring the moment. "Please, don't let me interrupt." My tone dripped with honey-sweet venom. "Though I have to say, Coach, your form needs work."

"Knight." He spat my name like a curse, jabbing a trembling finger toward the door. "Out. Now." Coach's voice cracked between rage and terror, the mighty authority figure reduced to a man with his pants around his ankles. Each second of their panic was delicious.

"Well, okay then," I sauntered into the room, ending the video and shoving my phone in my pocket. I rounded the chairs in front of Coach's desk as they scrambled to find their clothes. "I think we need to talk." I dropped down into the chair.

"If this is about—" Sweeney's hands trembled as she searched for her clothes scattered across the office floor.

"That's exactly what it's about." I settled deeper into the chair, enjoying how she flinched at my relaxed tone.

"Well then," she managed, yanking her shirt over her head. The silk caught on her necklace. "You have nothing to worry about. You won't be punished." Her fingers smoothed her skirt compulsively, again and again. "Though I would suggest being more discreet in the future."

I huffed out a laugh. "I could say the same."

Coach zipped his pants. "If that's all, please see yourself out."

"Actually," I leaned forward, the chair's leather creaking beneath me. Their eyes snapped to mine. "We're not done." I let the silence stretch, watching them squirm. It was amazing how quickly power shifts; just minutes ago, they'd been the ones making all the noise.

"Ariella isn't going to be punished either."

"Unfortunately, that's not an opt?—"

"Stop." The word felt soft but sharp. "Let me paint you a picture, Dean Sweeney. It's dinner time. You're sitting across from your husband, Thomas, right? He's asking about your day. Meanwhile, his phone buzzes. Then, your daughter's phone. Then every phone in every home of everyone of your colleagues." I pulled out my phone, turning it slowly in my hands. "How long do you think it would take for this video to reach them? Twenty minutes? Ten?"

The sounds of her early moans filled the small office, and the color drained from her face. Beside her, Coach Hillard's hands had curled into useless fists.

"So yes, Dean Sweeney. It is an option. In fact, it's your only option."

"That's blackmail, Zaiden." Sweeney crossed her arms over her chest, trying to summon the authority that had crumbled the moment I opened that door.

Blackmail. It's such an ugly term for such a useful tool.

"Yeah," I finally said, tasting the power in my pause. "It's what I do best." My phone felt heavy in my pocket, warm with secrets. "But we can skip the moral outrage, Dean Sweeney. We both know you can't afford to let this video see the light of day. And maybe I’ll share how you've propositioned most of the hockey team. Or how your dance coach was forcing dancers to suck his dick to make the team."

"Don't make claims you can't prove." Coach's voice had found its authority again, that same self-righteous tone.

I let my smile widen slowly. My phone slid across his desk. A video that had been passed through every player on the hockey team of Sweeney getting rammed by two hockey players last year. "I never do."

His eyes dropped to the screen, then snapped to Sweeney. "Are you—" The words seemed to stick in his throat. "Are you fucking students?"

Sweeney's silence filled the room. Her perfectly manicured nails dug crescents into her palms as she glared at me, but beneath the rage, I caught it, that flicker of fear.

The leather chair breathed as I rose, taking my time. No need to rush now, the game was already won. "Fifteen minutes, Sweeney." I checked my watch, an unnecessary gesture that made her flinch. "That's how long you have to reverse Ariella's suspension. With a formal apology, of course."

I moved toward the door with unhurried steps. I paused, not bothering to look back. "Oh, and Dean? Make it convincing. Think of it as a performance." My hand rested on the doorknob. "Maybe with less moaning this time."

The door clicked shut behind me with the softness of a whispered threat. In the empty hallway, I finally let myself smile. Sweeney would do exactly as she was told, as people always did when their carefully constructed lives hung by a digital thread.