11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

CANCELED

The Mayfair Dormitory looms ahead, a large gem in the sprawling campus. It could be a postcard of prosperous academia with its red brick and lush ivy, with its arched windows that glint in the setting sun.

Little wonder that this is where the elite reside—the ones who aren’t tucked away in the prestigious fraternities and sororities, that is.

As I approach, the automatic doors glide open, revealing a lobby that’s more like a five-star hotel than a college dorm. The floors are polished marble, reflecting the soft glow of ornate chandeliers above. Leather sofas and armchairs are arranged in cozy clusters, inviting students to lounge.

The soothing environment doesn’t help.

My stomach is in knots.

The air is filled with the scent of fresh flowers, arranged in vases on the polished wooden tables. Soft classical music plays from hidden speakers, adding to the atmosphere of sophistication.

It’s a far cry from Hathaway, where the scholarship kids end up.

Dormitory assignments are supposed to be random, but it never works out that way in real life. There’s a lot that never works out like it’s supposed to.

When I reach her room, I take a deep breath.

It’s just Carlisle. My friend.

I knock on her door, knuckles rapping against the wood in a quick, nervous rhythm. Silence greets me. I wait, wondering if she’s studying or napping. Or maybe in class. Study group. There are a million things she could be doing that aren’t waiting to get accused of betrayal by Anne Hill.

Making this trek again sounds horrible, so I knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. I turn my head and listen. All I hear is the distant hum of voices and the muffled beat of music from down the hall.

I pull out my phone.

Hey, where are you? I’m at your dorm.

I wait, my heart pounding in my ears. But the minutes tick by, and there’s no response. Unease grows inside me, even though it means nothing. She could be in the middle of taking a test right now, her phone safely tucked away. Do they even have tests in music classes? Yes, of course, they must. Though I don’t know how they judge her voice, how any of them could possibly tell her that it needs work when millions of people would fill stadiums to hear her sing.

Then again, they probably disdain popularity as much as the literary establishment does. If everyone loves something, then it must somehow be low brow. It must be incomprehensible to be valuable.

The dorm hallway, usually bustling with life, feels eerily quiet.

I check my phone again, hoping to see a reply from Carlisle.

Nothing.

A knot of worry tightens in my stomach.

Which is silly. I didn’t tell her I was coming. How could she know? Why would she drop everything to be here? It shouldn’t mean anything, except that it’s strange to be at class at seven in the evening. It’s strange that she’s not here precisely when I came to ask her about being the leak to Tanglewood Tea.

It’s a coincidence, obviously.

I turn to leave. And hear a soft click behind me.

Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived. When I turn, instead of Carlisle’s familiar face, an older woman in a maintenance uniform appears, headphones tucked into her ears. She’s pulling out a cart filled with cleaning supplies, the wheels rattling against the threshold.

My eyes flick up to the empty room behind the woman.

The very empty room. The bookshelves are bare, the poster of Mozart that used to hang above her bed is gone. It’s like she was never here at all. A cold shiver runs down my spine.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping forward.

The woman looks up, her expression one of boredom and mild annoyance as she tugs her headphones out. “Yes?”

“Do you know where Carlisle went?”

The woman lifts a brow, her gaze sweeping over me.

“I can’t say where the students live.”

I flush, realizing how this must look—like I’m some obsessed fan trying to track down a celebrity. “Oh, no, I’m not—I’m her friend,” I stammer, trying to explain. The words sound hollow, even to my own ears.

The woman gives me a look, one that says she’s heard it before.

“Never mind,” I mutter, taking a step back.

The woman shrugs, replacing her headphones and turning back to her cart. I pull out my phone, my fingers flying over the screen as I type out another message to Carlisle.

Hey, did you switch rooms?

No answer, but I notice that my previous message shows as read.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the churning in my stomach. There has to be a reasonable explanation for all of this. Carlisle wouldn’t disappear without a word. Would she? I quicken my pace, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the marble floor.

As I push open the doors to the stairwell, my phone vibrates again. I glance down, my heart leaping into my throat. But it’s only a notification from Tanglewood Tea, the latest post popping up on my screen. I follow them in case they have any news on the department takeover, even though many of their posts are about other parts of the university—sports, parties, etc. Anything scandalous. I can’t even enjoy the gossip as entertainment, because I know what it’s like to be the brunt of it. Each person, no matter how smart or beautiful or far above me they may seem, are humans who are suffering.

Then again, maybe I’m projecting.

Maybe some of them actually like being the source of gossip.

I pause, my finger hovering over the notification. But something stops me from opening it. Andini lives here. Not the man who took over the literature department. His son, Matteo. I remember catching him in a kiss. Remember his snarling anger at being caught in a compromising situation. Modern-day kids don’t worry too much about sexual orientation, but parents do. And Matteo’s father seems especially stuck in the past.

I also remember which room he was outside of.

Does it belong to the person he was kissing?

Or him?

There’s one way to find out.

That feels ballsy, knocking on someone’s door, not sure of who’s inside. Even if it is Matteo, am I going to confront him about what his father’s doing? Am I really that brave?

Apparently I am.

His eyes widen when he opens the door. I see the idea flash through his eyes, the idea of slamming the door in my face. I shove my messenger bag in the space. Try closing it on the five-hundred-page volume of Art Criticism and Theory , asshole. He sighs with resignation. “What the hell do you want?”

“To talk.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his dark hair. “We can’t—”

I step closer, my hands planting firmly on his chest. I push, hard. He stumbles back, allowing me to enter. Though as he steps back, I realize he’s too solid to be forced into anything. He let me do it.

I’m close to him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the stubble on his jaw. But I don’t back down. I won’t. “Do you want to explain what your father is doing pretending to be a dean?”

He looks at me, his expression torn. “I can’t control him. He wants what he wants, and he won’t stop until he gets it.”

“And what is it he wants?”

Matteo’s eyes close briefly, a pained expression crossing his face. “Power. He wants to shape the future of this university in his image.”

Gross. “And you’re going to stand by and watch as he destroys everything that makes this place special?”

His eyes flash with a spark of anger. “You think I want this? You think I want to see my father tear this place apart? It’s killing me, too. But I’m helpless. I’m a pawn in his game, the same as you, the same as everyone else.”

His voice is raw, filled with a desperation that sends a shiver down my spine. I search his face, looking for any sign of deception, any hint that he’s playing me. But all I see is pain, a pain that echoes my own.

“Matteo—” I start, but he cuts me off, his hands coming up to grip my wrists.

“You think I don’t see it?” he says, his voice low, intense. “You think I don’t see the way he’s ruining everything? The way he’s using me, using you, using everyone to get what he wants? I see it. And it’s tearing me apart.”

His grip tightens, his eyes boring into mine. “But I can’t stop him. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so fucking hard. But he’s too strong, too powerful. And I’m just... I’m just his son. I’m just a tool in his game.”

His voice breaks, and I see it then, the helplessness in his eyes, the desperation. He’s not the enemy, not really. He’s another victim, caught in the web of his father’s ambition. Like me. Like everyone else. Or is he?

But as I stand there, my heart pounding, my hands pressed against his chest, I can’t help but wonder—is there a way out of this web? A way for us to break free, to fight back? To take control of our own destinies, once and for all?

I hurry down the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest. I pull out my phone, hoping to see a response from Carlisle. But there’s nothing.

Only the notification from Tanglewood Tea, taunting me.

I click on it, my breath hitching in my throat as the page loads.

And then I see it.

Carlisle Storm CANCELED. Sources say she’s left Tanglewood U in DISGRACE.

I stop dead in my tracks, my heart plummeting. The world around me blurs, the grandeur of Mayfair Dormitory fading into insignificance. I read the post again, the words burning into my mind.

Canceled. Disgrace.

It can’t be true. Carlisle, with her bubbly personality and infectious laughter, the one who brought life and light into every room she entered. The one who had the courage to walk away from her celebrity life to pursue her dreams. It can’t be true.

But the post is right there, in black and white, the harsh words glaring at me from the screen. I scroll down, my fingers shaking, as I skim through the comments. They’re brutal, a mix of gloating and speculation, each one a stab to my heart.

Knew she wouldn’t last.

Guess the princess couldn’t handle the real world.

What did she do to get kicked out?

I clench my jaw, anger surging through me. I want to scream, to defend her, to tell them they’re wrong. But the doubt lingers, a cold, heavy stone in my stomach. Why hasn’t she responded to my messages? Why did she leave her dorm room bare, like she never planned to come back?

I look up from my phone, my vision swimming. A group of students walk by, their laughter echoing off the marble floors. They’re oblivious to the turmoil inside me, their worlds untouched by the cruel words on the screen. I envy them, their ignorance, their carefree smiles.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

Is she okay? Of course not.

There’s not anything I can do to help, though. Not if she won’t respond to me. And certainly being friends with the outcast of notoriety won’t help her now-tarnished reputation. How did this happen so quickly? I only saw her a couple of weeks ago. Then again, I know how quickly your life can change.

The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the campus. The beauty of it all seems mocking now, a taunt from a cruel college campus.