15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Scholarship Fund

“What is the difference between a king and a tyrant?”

Professor Thorne waits quietly in the large classroom. She doesn’t quite look at me, but I can feel her waiting. Plotting. I’m in danger every moment I sit here. Part of me wants to run away. The other part knows that I have nowhere to go.

Tanglewood University was my only sanctuary.

I’ll make my stand here.

The Society will come after me, of course.

It’s the morning after the fire. Probably I’ll be carried off in a dark hood in a white van, made the subject of one of its violent little stunts as retribution for the one I ruined in the forest. Someone will have to cut off my head; maybe the same way Malcolm does to Macbeth. Either that or it will be a soulless, modern killing.

I’m not even sure which one is worse.

A few people have raised their hands.

Thorne casually flicks her manicured fingers at one of them.

“Duncan is referred to as a king, because he shows bounty, perseverance, and mercy. While Macbeth is considered a tyrant due to his violent temperament.”

She doesn’t even grace the student with a glance. “What a very, very…literal interpretation. Yes, that is what the text says. What does it mean?”

A couple of the hands fall, not wanting her disdain.

Though several brave souls keep their hands in the air. This is a senior-level class, after all. They know they’ll face worse criticism and derision than that, if they want to share their ideas once they graduate.

Academia eats its own.

“Matteo,” she snaps, and he straightens in his seat.

There’s a long enough pause to make people shift in their seats, wondering if he will even answer her. The golden boy looks distinctly discouraged today, eyes on his blank desk. Finally he says, “Ambition.”

Thorne’s lids lower. “Keep going.”

“He committed murder to attain the throne. It would always be tainted after that. And more than that, it would never be enough. Because he knew he hadn’t earned the crown, so he could never be satisfied with it.”

My heart gives a hard kick.

A murmur runs through the classroom.

Most of them know the rumors surrounding the Tempest Prize. The way that my essay originally scored highest until they became suspicious of my professor writing the essay for me.

A well-placed whisper in someone’s ear.

And a thick donation to the foundation’s bank account.

Then suddenly second place won instead. It was Matteo’s essay, but it was Thorne who got accolades for mentoring the winning student. Ironic that she probably did write his essay, when I wrote my own. Funny how narcissists give themselves away by accusing people of their own crimes.

Thorne smiles, her beautiful face grim. “In that case, do you think he welcomed beheading in the end?”

Matteo meets her eyes, his energy, even sitting in the small, uncomfortable seats, one of intensity. “Maybe, if it was his only way out.”

“How perverse,” she says with a small laugh. “Maybe Ms. Hill can tell us how it feels to have a sword hanging over her neck.”

Everyone’s face swings to me.

I could shrug. Or maybe walk out. None of it will really change my fate.

Which gives me a form of freedom.

“It feels like the truth,” I say. “Like finally being honest, even if it means you have to die. Nothing less than that is worth living for, anyway.”

Her eyes narrow. I feel her wrath whip around my ankles like cold, wintry air. She stands, and I wonder almost idly if she plans to be violent in the classroom. With Andini at the helm, she’ll probably get away with it.

Suddenly, the door slams open.

Dean Blake Morris steps through, his silhouette framed by the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. He looks like he’s been through hell and back. Not only because of the vicious scar that always mars his handsome face. Also because of the fire that blazes in his eyes. He wears the same suit that another dean might, but he doesn’t look like an academic. Not right now, anyway.

He looks fierce, powerful, like a warrior ready for battle.

I sit up straighter, my hands gripping the desk. What’s happening?

He strides forward, his steps echoing in the now-silent classroom.

Thorne struggles to find her voice. “Why, Mr. Morris. Good morning.”

“That’s Dean Morris to you. Or at least, that’s what you can call me for the next second you’re still working here.”

She gapes. “What is the meaning of this?”

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t just—”

“There’s been a change in management. You know all about those, don’t you?” A man and woman follow Dean Morris inside, remaining stationed by the door. They’re wearing the uniform of campus police. “They will escort you out, to make sure you don’t try to steal the silver on the way out.”

Thorne’s expression is torn between humiliation and imperious fury. In the end, she decides to lift her chin and walk out. The police officers follow, closing the door behind them.

Dean Morris moves to the podium, addressing the class.

“Effective immediately, Luca Andini and Professor Isolde Thorne have been removed from their positions at Tanglewood University.”

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Murmurs erupt, a wave of relief and confusion crashing against the silence.

“I’ve been reinstated,” he says, his voice deep and resonating. “They tried to silence me. They tried to silence us, but they failed.”

There’s something electric in the air, a spark of rebellion igniting in the hearts of every student present.

“They think they can control us using fear and manipulation,” he continues, his voice steady, his gaze unyielding. “But we have something stronger here at Tanglewood University. We have the truth.”

A cheer erupts. Someone slaps me on the back. I’m in shock, numb underneath the confusion. It’s…over? It doesn’t feel over. It feels like they’re lurking underneath the desks, outside the sunshine-y window.

Maybe it will always feel like this, the way that soldiers jump at the sound of fireworks. Maybe Dean Morris knows about that. He used to be in the military, after all, before he began his career as a professor of classical history.

Dean Morris puts up a hand, gradually quitting the tidal wave of support and solidarity. “We have exposed their corruption. We have taken back what’s ours. And we will bring those responsible to justice.”

His words are a battle cry, a call to arms that resonates deep within me. I feel a surge of emotion—anger, determination, hope—all intertwined, all burning bright and hot in my chest.

Dean Morris takes a deep breath, his expression softening slightly as he looks out at the crowd. “But it will be a long road. They managed to damage many things here in the department in their short tenure. We have uncovered evidence of gross misconduct, of financial impropriety, and of actions that put our students in harm’s way. News of those things will come out in the next few weeks, which will also tarnish Tanglewood University’s reputation.”

My hands tremble, and I clench them tighter, nails digging into my palms. I knew about the Society’s stunts, of course, having been involved in one myself quite recently. I’m concerned about other misconduct, about financial impropriety. Surely the university won’t have to close or anything drastic? Surely there are checks and balances in place to keep that from happening?

“I know you’re scared. I know you’re angry, not only at them, but at those in power who should have known better. Those who should have protected you. Including myself. I knew when I left to protect my family that I would leave you undefended, even though I also worked to make it temporary. I’m sorry for that. I also know that you are strong. And though you shouldn’t have to be, you are resilient. You are the heart and soul of this university. And together, we will overcome this.”

His words are a balm, soothing the raw edges of my fear, my uncertainty. I feel a sense of resolve settling over me, a steely determination.

“I want to be clear,” Dean Morris says, his voice rising, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “This is not the end. This is the beginning. The beginning of a new era at Tanglewood University. An era of transparency, of accountability, of integrity. An era where the safety and well-being of our students come first. Always.”

The classroom erupts into a chaotic symphony of voices, students chattering loudly as they gather their things and begin to file out. I’m still glued to my seat, my mind a whirlwind of disbelief and uncertainty. Eventually, I manage to pick up my bag and stand, my legs feeling like they might buckle beneath me.

Dean Morris calls out, “Ms. Hill, a moment, please.”

I walk over to him, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. He waits until the last of the students filter out, leaving us alone in the now-silent classroom.

“How are you doing?” he asks, his voice gentle yet firm.

“Fine,” I reply, the word automatic, hollow.

He nods, seeing right through me. “I need to talk to you about something,” he says, his expression growing serious. “As I mentioned earlier, there’s more coming out in the next few weeks. Specifically about the scholarship fund.”

Dread settles in my stomach, a heavy stone sinking deeper and deeper. “What about it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “It’s been drained.”

Not stolen from, not reduced. Drained .

I stare at him, the words echoing in my mind, their implications crashing over me like a tidal wave. How could that be? What does that mean for me? For Daisy? For all the students who rely on that fund to make their education possible?

“I don’t understand,” I manage to choke out. “How could that happen?”

He shakes his head, a grim look in his eyes. “We’re still investigating. But it seems that Thorne and Andini were able to siphon funds using fake student profiles. They were careful, covering their tracks.”

I feel a surge of anger, hot and fierce.

Just as quickly, I deflate.

Maybe the grief process is supposed to take time, but it feels like seconds.

“So, what now?” I ask, my voice hollow. “What happens to us?”

“You’re covered for the rest of the semester. Those bills were paid months ago. But next semester, your last semester? I won’t lie to you, Ms. Hill. They moved the money offshore, so it will be tricky to get it back. It probably won’t happen by January when tuition and housing is due. But I promise you, we will fix this. The department will make this right.”

I nod, trying to absorb his words, trying to find comfort in them. But the dread in my stomach remains, a gnawing fear that whispers, what if they can’t? What if it’s too late? I’m not meant to go to college in five years or however long it takes to get money back from overseas. How will I even live in the meantime?

“I wanted to tell you in person, so that you know that, whatever you hear in the news, we’re going to fix this. You have my word.”

I meet his gaze, seeing the determination in his eyes. And for a moment, I allow myself to believe him. To hope. “Thank you, Dean Morris. I’m glad that you’re okay. And that your family is okay?”

The question comes out higher pitched at the end, as if it’s a question. I remember the sunny smile of his wife in the photo on his desk, the two chubby-cheeked children, and my pulse speeds up.

His brown eyes warm. “They’re safe. I had to make sure they were protected before I could truly fight for the school.”

“I’m glad,” I tell him honestly.

There’s no anger, that he should have put us first. Of course his wife and two small kids are his highest priority. That’s how a family should work. I know that, even if I’ve never really been part of one.

As I walk out of the classroom, the weight of his words presses down on me, a crushing burden that leaves me wondering, what now? What happens next for a broke kid from Port Lavaca? Because my parents have never made sure I was safe, have never protected me, not once. I’ve taken every step on my own, fought for every single thing I’ve ever done.

Perhaps I should keep fighting.

Isn’t that what he said in the classroom?

But I’m just so tired. So tired of fighting, of struggling, of always having to be strong. I want the luxury, the privilege, the someday-dream of getting to be weak, for even a moment.

Maybe that’s what Macbeth felt as the sword fell.

Maybe he knew he’d finally get to rest.