12. A Promising Future

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Promising Future

D ean Blake Morris, the gold placard reads.

The door, solid oak, feels like a barrier between me and a path to redemption. My knuckles rap against the wood, the sound sharp and final in the quiet hallway.

"Come in," a voice calls from within, and I push the door open, stepping into the room. Dean Morris looks up from his desk, his face a mask of stern professionalism that softens slightly as our eyes meet. "Anne," he says, his voice a deep rumble, "it's good to see you. Please, have a seat."

I settle into the chair opposite him, my fingers gripping the armrests. The room is impeccably neat, shelves lined with books on military history and framed photographs.

"Looks like something's on your mind," he says, leaning back in his chair, his scarred hands folded on the desk. There's a kindness in his eyes that makes me want to spill my guts, to unburden myself of the tangled mess.

I take a deep breath, the words I've been rehearsing for days finally finding their way out. "Last semester you asked me to let you know about the Shakespeare Society. I got this last night."

I hand him the torn pieces of the invitation, which is still a bit crumpled from when I took it out of the trash. It feels like a betrayal of Professor Stratford to share this. Worse even than kissing Brandon. But I have to choose my side, and it's going to be Tanglewood University. It's going to be my friends, not some twisted affair.

He studies it. "Thank you for showing me."

"I also need to tell you something. Something that's hard to say."

He nods, his expression encouraging me to continue. "Go ahead."

"It's about Professor Stratford," I say, the name tasting like dark spices on my tongue. "I believe he's involved with the Shakespeare Society."

His eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't interrupt me.

"I found some stuff that shows he was part of the Society back when he was a student. And I know some students got expelled last semester, but that didn't stop them." I can't admit that I overheard him talking to Stratford about the society, because then I'd also admit to skulking around the Provost's house. "They're still here."

"I understand your concerns. Professor Stratford was in the Society during his time here as a student, but he's an adult now. A professor. He's working to protect the students, not harm them. The society is dangerous. He wants to stop them."

"I believe he came back to help them. That's why he accepted the job."

The dean's gaze meets mine with an unsettling directness. "I can see why you might think that, but I trust him."

Frustration flickers through me. "What if you're wrong?"

He sighs. "I was wrong to ask you to be my informant. It puts you at risk. It put Ms. Bradshaw at risk. I don't want you to look into them anymore. If they send you another one of these invitations, throw it away."

"What?"

"They're escalating, which means it's more dangerous now than ever."

The seriousness in his voice is a stark reminder of the stakes. Fear shivers through me. Part of me is relieved by his words. I've been dancing on the edge of a precipice, drawn to the Society's allure and repelled by its danger.

Walking away tempts me.

Except I can't just forget what I've seen, what I've experienced.

My gaze lands on the photograph on his desk, a beautiful woman with dark hair holding a child—his family. There's an ache in my chest, an envy for the obvious love in that image, the pure joy on his child's face. Next to the photo, another frame holds artwork made from fingerpaint and uncooked pasta.

It strikes a chord deep within me.

Family can be so sweet. Sometimes.

My own family doesn't have photos like that.

Dean Morris follows my line of sight. His features soften into a quiet reverence when he sees her picture. Despite the rough terrain of the scar, he looks tender, the look of a man whose foundation lies with those precious faces.

His voice is husky. "Erin was a student here. Please believe me that I would never allow any one of you to be hurt if I could help it. I'm doing everything I can to root out the Society for good."

I hear the honesty in his voice. He believes what he's saying, and why shouldn't he? The medals, the scar—he's a protector. A man of honor.

That doesn't mean he's right about Professor Stratford.

"I can't just ignore this," I say. "Daisy is my best friend. If something were to happen, if someone gets hurt, and I did nothing…"

He holds up a hand, stopping me mid- sentence. "I understand your concern, but it's not safe. You're a bright young woman with a promising future. I won't have you putting yourself in harm's way for this."

I feel the sting of disappointment. It's not just about the Society anymore. It's about trust—about the man who has become both my mentor and my tormentor. Stratford's pull on me is magnetic, and I know that as long as he's involved, I'll be drawn back into the fray, no matter the risks.

"I'll handle this from here, Ms. Hill. Focus on your studies. That's where your future lies. Now, is there anything else you need to tell me?"

There's a battle inside me. What would Dean Morris say if I told him what Professor Stratford did to me in the library? What he did to me in the dorm room? It would probably be enough to drive him away from the school, regardless of whether he's part of the Society or not.

Except I can't bring myself to say the words out loud.

What happened between us is too secret. Too sacred.

And I'm an idiot.

What we have isn't sacred, but it still feels unfair to tell on him. He's never coerced me. And he's protected me in his own way, like at the Pinnacle.

"No, sir."

The dean seems disappointed, but he accepts it with a nod.

I leave the office a whirl of emotions. Relief, because I've shared my burden with someone who has the power to act. Worry, because the stakes are higher than I'd imagined. And anger—so much anger, because Stratford continues to pull my strings.

They're escalating, which means it's more dangerous now than ever.

What exactly does that mean? The Society's antics have always been on the fringe of acceptability, but this seems worse. And Stratford is at the center of it all. He's clever, charismatic, and manipulative—the perfect storm for the Society's dark plans.

Part of me that rebels against the idea. Part of me wants to believe the dean is right about him, even though I was there the night I saw the tattoo, the night I found those boxes of society paraphernalia, the night he told me to get the hell out.

That's the terrible beauty of William Stratford.

Even knowing what he is, I don't really want to escape.