22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Not Very Shakespearean

Matteo carries a tray with a bottle of water and what appears to be a sandwich wrapped in plastic. It looks like the kind you get in the stop-and-go delis on campus, alongside string cheese, bottled water, and number two pencils. We’re far away from campus now, but the tendrils of the school wraps around us—for good or for evil.

His footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. This is the same place where his father threatened to have sex with me as part of some society ritual. The same place where William saved me…by doing it himself. It was a problematic method of protection but one that I infinitely preferred. Matteo’s hair is disheveled, not in the fashionable, debonair way it usually is. It looks messy, and faintly oily, as if he hasn’t showered in days. There are dark circles under his eyes. This is a far cry from the literary king of campus.

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, he hesitates, his gaze flickering over my face. I’m sure I look even worse, my cheek still stinging from Luca’s slap, my eyes puffy from dry tears. I lift my chin, refusing to show him how scared I actually am.

Matteo walks over, setting the tray down on the rickety table beside me. He doesn’t say a word, just pushes the bottle of water toward me. I stare at it, then at him, suspicion coiling in my gut. I want it, but my hands are tied—literally.

Does he want me to beg? I wish I could be sure I wouldn’t.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out rusty.

“You need to eat. And drink.”

“You’re suddenly concerned about my well-being? Why is that hard to believe?”

Matteo’s jaw tightens. “Just...take it, okay?”

A lump forms in my throat, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I blink them away, opening my lips. Matteo fumbles with the cap. His hands tremble slightly as he tips the plastic bottle to my lips. Cool liquid soothes my parched throat.

I can’t help but close my eyes in relief.

Matteo watches me, his eyes unreadable. “You need your strength.”

“For what? So your dad can rape me?”

He flinches. “Don’t talk like that.”

“You have to let me go. This is kidnapping. It’s crazy.”

“It’s already done.”

“So undo it.”

His eyes flick away from mine. “I’m in too deep.”

“Too deep?” I echo, disbelief coloring my voice. “You’re not a criminal. You’re a student, a scholar , a brilliant one. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t throw it away for...for this.”

“You don’t understand. My father...he’s not a man you say no to.”

I did, though that didn’t seem to help. “So, what?” I say, my voice rising. “You’re just going to do whatever he says? Kidnap innocent people? Hurt them?”

His gaze flicks to my cheek. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

“Then help me,” I say, my voice filled with urgency. “Let me go. Please.”

“I can’t. I wish I could, but... I can’t.”

Frustration and anger bubble inside me. “That’s an excuse. Too many people in the world have said they had no choice. It’s self-interest and ambition disguised as fear.”

His head snaps up, his eyes flashing. “You think I’m ambitious? You’re the one who wanted the fucking Tempest Prize so badly. I told you to leave it alone.”

“I’m the one who won it. You’re the one who stole it. That’s the difference.”

“I didn’t want them to cheat.”

“It happened anyway.”

“Which is just fucking proof that I have no control over the situation.”

He’s not going to help me. I lean back, the cold metal of the chair pressing into my spine, a sigh escaping my lips, ignoring him as he goes to stand by the door.

I’m unimpressed by this so-called lack of choice.

It’s a stark contrast to me. To Daisy. To all the scholarship students in Hathaway who saw their futures go up in smoke, even though the Andinis were already wealthy.

We fought against our circumstances, against the hands we were dealt. Matteo thinks he has no choice, but that’s an illusion. One that conveniently serves him. There’s always a choice. It might not be easy. It might not even be safe, but it’s there.

Privilege isn’t just about having more clothes and a nice car.

It’s about believing that you can be a victim of your circumstances, even as you accept a prize you don’t deserve and obey your criminal father. It’s about pretending you don’t have control even as you steal and lie and hurt people around you.

The cavernous basement looks even larger without the crowd of hooded society members. I need to find a way out, a weapon, anything. My eyes land on a pile of old crates in the corner, dusty and forgotten. I doubt there’s anything useful, but I have to check.

I stand up, my chair scraping against the concrete floor.

Matteo’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”

“I need to pee,” I say, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

Matteo hesitates. “Fine. But make it quick.”

He stands up, gesturing for me to follow him. I do, my heart pounding in my chest. He leads me to a small, grimy bathroom, the door creaking as he opens it. My hands are still tied in front of me. He makes no move to untie them, so I guess I have to go like this.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says, his voice a warning.

Inside, the faucet sputters to life. I splash some water on my face, my reflection staring back at me in the cracked mirror.

The young woman looks battered.

And determined.

She looks like a fighter.

Which is nice. I wish the reflection would share some bravery with me.

I flush the toilet, the sound echoing in the small space. I take a deep breath, then another. I step out of the bathroom, my heart pounding in my chest. Matteo leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

He straightens up as I approach, his eyes narrowing.

“Can I have some more water?” I ask, my voice soft, innocent. I need to keep him distracted, need him to think I’m compliant, cooperative. “Please.”

He sighs. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch him go, my heart in my throat. This is it. This is my chance.

When he’s gone, I rush back to the pile of crates. They’re made of wood. Nailed shut.

Damn it.

What’s inside?

Anything useful like a weapon? Or maybe just a bunch of cotton fluff that wouldn’t help? I can’t find out. Except that when I nudge one, it’s clearly heavy. Well. This will have to do. It’s a large, blunt object.

Not very elegant.

Not very Shakespearean.

Good thing I don’t need Shakespeare to survive.

I position myself behind a crate, heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I can hear footsteps approaching. There’s only one shot. He won’t trust me again. The door creaks open, and Matteo steps in. I watch him from behind as he scans the room.

“Anne?” he calls out, his voice echoing in the vast space.

He takes one step forward, then another. He’s wary. That’s why he turns, spinning—too late. I slam the crate into his shoulders.

It hits him with a sickening crack.

He crumples to the ground.

And groans.

Not dead, at least. Which is nice. I probably shouldn’t care about that, but I’d rather not become a murderer tonight. Then I’m up and running up the stairs.

I need to get out of here, need to get back to campus.

I reach the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m so close, so close to freedom. I can taste it, can feel it. I need to make it out of this basement, out of this house. How far is this place from campus? Even farther than the woods, I think. And my hands are still tied. Maybe I can break through the rope with something I find in the woods.

I’m thinking too far in the future.

The door bursts open.

Luca stands at the top of the stairs. He surveys Matteo’s splayed body, the cracked crate with a sneer. “You little bitch,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You think you can outsmart me?”

I stare at him, my heart in my throat.

Yes, I thought I could. But clearly I was wrong.

And that might be the death of me.