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16. Gilt Mirror

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Gilt Mirror

T he roar of the engine fills the silence as Stratford navigates the winding highways of Tanglewood, his hands gripping the wheel with a quiet but unmistakable skill. Tension radiates off him, a stark contrast to the calm exterior he presents. The city lights blur past in a streak of neon, casting an ethereal glow over his features. And over my hands twisting in my lap.

I clutch the robe tighter around myself, acutely aware of the sticky residue between my thighs, a stark reminder of the power he holds over me.

The familiar skyline of Tanglewood's downtown comes into view.

It means we're nearing campus.

That should be a relief, and it is, but a greater part of me doesn't know how to move on from there. I'm no longer Anne, college student. I'm someone far more broken.

"What happened back there? "

"We'll talk about this when we stop," he says, his tone cool and detached. The dismissal stings, igniting a spark of anger that burns through the fog of my emotions.

"You don't get to tell me to wait," I retort, my voice growing stronger with each word. "What happened back there?"

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he navigates a particularly sharp turn at top speed. "Not now, Anne."

"Are you taking me back to the dorm?"

He chuckles, a humorless, mocking sound. "So everyone can see you in the robe and wonder what the Shakespeare Society did tonight?"

"Then where?"

He doesn't answer, his focus seemingly on the road, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw. He's making a decision, and it terrifies me that I have no control over what comes next.

The car continues to speed through the city, the world outside blurring into a sea of lights and shadows. I sit in silence, my mind racing as I try to anticipate his next move. The robe chafes against my skin, a constant reminder of my vulnerability, of the power he wields over me.

We end up at the Provost's house, a place I've been before.

I believed in Stratford then, believed he was helping Daisy, helping me. Then I learned the truth. I felt the lash of his cruelty. And I swore never to return. It just goes to show how little control I have over the situation.

Professor William Stratford is a man of both dominance and tenderness.

He shepherds me inside. I stumble along, not really knowing or caring. He holds out one of his dress shirts, all folded up. "The shower's in there."

Yes. A shower.

That sounds nice.

Except I'm not sure I can get through the mechanics of it all. I want to feel clean, wipe the soil of all those hungry gazes away, but the actual practicality of soap and water escapes me. I'm unraveling, thread by thread.

Stratford could say something cutting and cruel.

Instead he propels me into the bathroom with a surprising tenderness, his hand on the small of my back. He turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature, testing it with his hand. Such mundane things. Such practical things. Without a word, he reaches for the robe, his fingers deftly unknotting the rope at my waist. I flinch, but I don't move to stop him as the fabric pools at my feet, leaving me exposed.

Then he leads me into the shower.

Hot water cascades over my body, a cleansing torrent that I welcome. I want to breathe in the hot spray, to drown in it. Stratford lathers my hair with shampoo that smells like his coffee-colored locks. He rinses the suds from my hair, his touch soothing, almost reverent.

I can't help but gasp when his fingers slip between my legs.

He washes away the evidence of my defilement.

I close my eyes, lost in the sensation of his fingers tracing the contours of my body, mapping out the valleys and peaks of my form with a gentle thoroughness that leaves me both comforted and unnerved.

After that he dries me and places me in the dress shirt, only half the buttons done. I'm cocooned in his shirt, settled onto an armchair, my hair still damp as he leaves to make a few low, voices phone calls.

He returns and picks me up in a strong motion.

I expect him to carry me into the bedroom, and it's a surprise that I don't mind the idea. That's not where we go. Instead we end up in the office, its walls lined with bookshelves, each one crammed with leather-bound tomes and academic journals. A large oak desk dominates the space, its surface neatly organized with stacks of papers, a computer monitor, and an old-fashioned fountain pen set.

A Persian rug adds a touch of warmth to the polished wooden floor, and the room is illuminated by the soft glow of a green banker's lamp. In one corner, a high-backed armchair sits beside a floor-to-ceiling window, draped with heavy velvet curtains. It's a space that speaks of wisdom and tradition, a sanctuary where the pursuit of knowledge is both revered and relentless.

It's the place where I discovered his connection to the Society.

As he sets me down on the armchair, I catch my own reflection in a gilt mirror that hangs on one wall. My eyes are wide, my expression blank. Too blank, I think. This must be dissociation. I shouldn't be this calm.

After I'm settled, he kneels in front of me, one knee on the ground. If I were sitting instead of standing, this is the same pose we'd be in for a marriage proposal. Which is so far from whatever the fuck is happening here that it strikes me as funny.

A completely inappropriate giggle escapes.

Oh yeah, I'm definitely going insane.

Next I'll be singing about baker's daughters and owls, like Ophelia.

"You asked me what happened," he says, his eyes dark and unfathomable. "It was assault. That's what happened. Don't let any of the other bullshit—the Society, our past relationship—hide that. You didn't want that."

I knew that but hearing the word hurts. "Why?"

"Because it was the only way to get you out of there safely." A rough laugh. "Safe. As if what I did to you doesn't matter. It's a terrible form of protection."

"I don't understand."

"They give everyone a special QR code. When Dean Morris tried to crack it in order to find them, they knew you'd given it to someone."

Oh God. "So I did this."

"No," he says, so sharp I flinch. He softens his voice. "They did this to you. I did this to you. And if you want to go to the police, I'll call them. Take you there. Tell them everything. Whatever you want."

Confusion. And then clarity. "You would do that? "

"Yes."

"Even though it would mean jail for you?"

His voice is hard. "It's what I'd deserve."

"It wouldn't bring down the Society, though, would it? They'd just blame it on you, distance themselves. My eyewitness account wouldn't matter. They never believe women, anyway. We'd have no proof of anything."

"A rape kit would show my DNA inside you."

His DNA. It's a strange way to think of his semen, even though of course it's true. It's a deeper intimacy even than sex, putting part of himself inside me, something that could be picked up even after a shower, even after those capable, strong hands washed me so thoroughly.

Except he didn't rape me. "You weren't there to help them, were you?"

A long beat passes. "No."

"You've been fighting them all along, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"So, in that basement…you were trying to protect me?" My voice is a whisper, barely audible in the quiet of the room. I think back to the night he pushed me away, the harsh words that cut through me like a knife. It all makes sense now—his sudden change of heart, his insistence that I stay away from the Society and its dangerous games .

He nods, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that takes my breath away. "Yes," he admits, his voice raw with emotion. "I did it to protect you, but it doesn't change what happened. You were there against your will, and I made the choice to fuck you."

"I'm still glad you did."

"I'm sorry, dearheart," he says, his voice filled with a sincerity that I can't ignore. "I tried to keep you safe, but I failed. I never wanted you to get caught up in any of this."

He doesn't want absolution, doesn't want me to give weight to the fact that he didn't want to hurt me. My relief doesn't care. It's coursing through me. Even as he spat out terrible words to me in this very room, part of me struggled to believe it, didn't want to believe it. Refused to believe it. That's the only reason I could have had sex with him in that library.

"And Professor Thorne?" I ask, my mind racing with the implications of his confession. "Is she involved with them, too?"

Stratford's expression hardens. "She's on Andini's payroll. It's her job to find new recruits. And to make sure his son wins the Tempest Prize."

I think back to the competition in Thorne's class, the way she praised Matteo's analysis of Hamlet, the way she seemed to favor him over the other students. It was never about mentoring. It was about bribery.

I can't help but feel a sense of betrayal. Thorne had seemed so genuine, so passionate about her work. She's someone who found success in a male-dominated space. Why would she want to hurt a female student?

Stratford reaches out, his hand gently brushing against mine. "I know this is a lot to process," he says. "But I want you to know that none of it's your fault."

"Did you think it would come to this? When I was in your class?"

His voice is hoarse. "I told myself it wouldn't. I lied to myself about it, because the truth is I never should have touched you. I couldn't seem to stop, even knowing it wasn't safe for you. You're all I think about."

His words stir something deep within my core. Despite everything that has happened, despite the lies and the deception, I can't deny the connection that exists between us. There's a raw vulnerability in his eyes, a longing that mirrors my own .

"I found you by accident at the Pinnacle that first night," he says. "You captivated me, not just because of your beauty, but because of your passion for literature, your intelligence, your strength."

Warmth spreads through me, a mixture of desire and something more profound—a sense of belonging, of being truly seen by another person. "I don't understand why they even invited me."

"The Society may be power hungry and corrupt," he says. "But they do have a genuine love for Shakespeare. When they saw your potential, your promise as a scholar, it was only natural that they'd take an interest in you."

I look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and the sorrow that lie within their depths. And in that moment, I realize that despite the pain and the heartache, despite the betrayal and the lies, I still care for him—deeply, irrevocably.

"It's not your fault," I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion. "You did what you thought was right. You tried to protect me."

He shakes his head, slow, refusing my forgiveness. "What can I do for you? What do you need? Anything, Anne."

I can't think about what I'm supposed to say. I've never been very good about fitting the mold, anyway. So I answer with the truth. "Hold me."

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