Chapter 18

Something is wrong today.

I can't place it, can't pinpoint it, but I feel it deep in my gut, and my gut is never wrong. It's what makes me a good businessman.

The class is quiet as the students focus intently on their exams. It's the last exam of the year before the final paper is due mid-December. It's weighed the heaviest, but by now, after a few months of debates, policy papers, and hours of coaching in office hours, I'm hopeful the class will perform well.

She isn't sitting in her usual spot today, front and center a few feet away from me, my temptation within arm's reach. Instead, she's sitting in the back with her friend, Jocelyn, in a shadowed corner of the classroom, like she's ashamed of something and wants to be invisible. But how can she be invisible? It's impossible. She shines brighter than the sun cutting through the clouds on a rainy day.

Jocelyn coughs and I see Millie glancing up, her teeth savagely attacking her bottom lip. She sneaks a quick look at her friend before shuffling in her chair. Then her eyes dart to mine and quickly flicker away.

Something is definitely wrong.

Quicksilver slowly seeps into my veins, and a foreboding heaviness settles on top of my lungs. My stomach flips.

It reminds me of the dread I felt at the playground right before school was dismissed the day Mom died. The sun was shining brightly, the usual New York humidity in the air. Friends were running around playing tag or kicking a ball across the lush, green lawn, not caring if they were making their uniforms dirty. It was a normal day. But my hackles were up. Something felt horribly wrong.

The hour passes by quickly—a strange, eerie calm—and instead of being one of the first students to hand in her paper, she's one of the last, along with her friend.

Millie keeps her eyes down as she walks up to my desk, her shoulders hunched, and a thin layer of sweat beads on her forehead. Her test paper is crumpled at the corners from her tight grip. She lets out a soft sigh before placing the paper on top of the stack of exams on the table.

A nervous energy filters through me, and I stare at her bowed head, silently beckoning to her. Look at me, little lark. Tell me what's wrong, so I can fix it.

She doesn't look up, doesn't try to catch my eyes, or flash me that sweet smile of hers. Instead, she and Jocelyn slip out of the classroom, as quiet as phantoms.

I release a stale breath. I want to go after her. To fight and defend her against whatever is plaguing her. To be her avenging warrior.

"Professor Anderson? I have a question regarding next week's class," a student asks.

Giving the closed door one last glance, I turn to the jock in front of me. "Yes?"

It's for the best. The distance.

But why does it feel so wrong?

"Professor Anderson, here are the top ten scorers on the exam as you requested." Johnny, my TA, who helps me with grading sometimes, hands me a small stack of papers.

I always skim through all the graded exams, but I like to read the top scorers in detail. The insightfulness in them usually has my heart pounding, and a warmth filling my veins.

They're a reminder of why I love this job and how I'm shaping my legacy. They tell me to continue, despite Fleur taking up my entire life, leaving me little to no time for myself. No hobbies other than the very occasional trips to the forest to birdwatch or hunt. No women other than mindless fucks in Noire, a way for my body to satiate the beast inside me. But despite everything, I still carve out the precious hours for academia.

"Thank you, Johnny. You can go home now."

He nods before slinging his messenger bag over his shoulders and walking out of my office, leaving me in blessed silence.

I flip through the pile of exams, wanting to see what my little lark has come up with.

My lips tilt in a smile as I take in the familiar feminine script, beautiful like art, on one of the papers. Of course, she's one of the top scorers. A thrill sweeps through me, and I eagerly grip the pages and begin reading. Every answer is immaculately thought out. I can feel her passion in her words. God, she'll become a damn good educator someday.

Setting aside her test, I take the next exam in the stack, noting the name Jocelyn Song. Interesting. Jocelyn hasn't been doing well in the class. I wonder if Millie helped her friend study.

My eyes skim over the responses—some are clunky, but the correct sentiments are there. Nonetheless, I'm impressed, since this is a significant improvement compared to her past assignments and exams.

I'm about to set the exam aside, but something stops me…something small and insignificant but raises my hackles.

Frowning, I pick up Millie's test once more. I scan through the answers, noting the phrase that prickles my mind.

One must consider individual happiness in order to achieve happiness in the group.

She made a similar sentiment in her first paper, the one I read on the plane while traveling back to New York for Dad's birthday dinner.

Flipping to the same question in Jocelyn's exam…there it is.

Verbatim.

A breath lodges in my throat as the warmth inside my chest quickly roils and churns, changing flavor. The thumping in my heart becomes a chaotic riot.

Sweat gathers on my upper lip as I review their exams side by side, including the multiple-choice questions. There are differences, a few questions Millie gets right that Jocelyn doesn't, phrasing of sentences that are slightly different between the two of them. But they express the same sentiments, the same opinions.

I shake my head in disbelief and fall back into my chair.

The furtive glances between her and her friend. Her sitting in the back of the room. Every little innocuous move from this morning. The complete one eighty in Jocelyn's performance on this test.

Something is off. This doesn't make any sense.

My lungs ache. My breathing comes in heavy pants. I can only come to one conclusion in my mind.

Cheating.

The word echoes in my mind. But it can't be. She can't be a cheater. She can't be the same as the others. She can't be the same as her.

"You're a fucking cheater, Sydney." I staggered back as I stared at the beautiful girl in front of me, the girl of Maxwell's dreams…and of mine.

"Ryland, please. You don't understand. I…I love him too. But we married too young. I don't think I realized, but I've learned it's possible to love two people at the same time. I can't get you out of my mind, Ryland." She stepped forward, each movement a betrayal to my brother, her husband, the man she eloped with after high school graduation.

I'd never seen Maxwell so happy before. The sparkle in his eyes. His usually rare smile not leaving his face. It was like he stepped into the sunlight from the shadows, and he was warm for the first time.

He told me the other night, before we went back to our rooms at the estate, "I'm so happy, Ryland. This curse is bullshit. Look at us, we're still standing. Sydney is still alive and well. We beat the curse. And one day, in a few years when I'm older, I can tell Dad. I'll tell him I don't need to marry some girl I don't know. I already have a wife I love, and everything is fine. All fucking superstitions."

Tears fell from her lush green eyes, marring the soft cheeks I'd admired from afar. She stood an inch before me, my back plastered against the wall in front of my bedroom, which was right next to Maxwell's room.

"I've thought about it. Long and hard. And I realize, if I have to choose, it'll be you. All along, it has always been you, Ryland. You were the one I first saw at the art exhibit. I remembered losing my breath over you, at the way you smiled at the patrons and gestured to the art. I thought you were Maxwell, that it was your exhibit."

"Then why did you start a relationship with him?" My heart slammed against my rib cage and I wanted to throw up.

I could've loved you.Her sweet smiles, her kind heart. The way she brought light back into the house. The way she'd tease me and make me smile when I had a bad day. The way she was a sore loser when we played Scrabble. How she'd laughed when I brought her a bowl of ice cream as penance. Then Maxwell started losing on purpose, doing everything he could to please his angel.

They were all fucking lies. A disguise hiding an ugly, corrupted heart.

There was no satisfaction in her confession. I'd thought about it before, in the middle of the night, when images filled my mind of the only girl who made my heart skip a beat, even though it wasn't the thrashing against the rib cage sensation I'd heard about. But it was happiness, a coveted taste of joy. What if she was with me instead? And then the heavy guilt would eat at me, a corrosive acid burning a hole in my gut. Maxwell was so happy with her. He found the happily-after-ever he wasn't supposed to have. How could I feel this way?

And now, as she stared at me with the eyes I used to love, the tears which should've torn my heart into shreds were turning my stomach with revulsion instead. No. This was not what I wanted. I shook my head. I was absolutely disgusted.

"You said your vows, Sydney. For better or worse," I growled.

"I regret them! Ryland, don't you see? I can't go on living like this. You feel something for me. I see it in your eyes. This," she motioned between us, "this is right. The right thing to do. Stem the bleeding now before it hemorrhages. We can't help what the heart wants!" she cried before throwing herself on me and pressing those soft lips of hers onto mine.

I froze for a second before wrenching her off me. "Excuses. All of it. You disgust me!"

And worst of all, for a moment when her lips touched mine, my body reacted. My heart skipped a damn beat again.

I was disgusted with myself.

Shoving the memory away, I crinkle the exam in my hands, lava flowing hot in my veins, but my eyes are no longer focused on the beautiful writing in front of me. It's a blur of gray against white.

Sydney died a week later. A boating accident. Maxwell was devastated, withdrawing into his cold, hard shell once more. The curse is real…and there's no way on God's green earth I'll ever let him know his wife, the woman he once loved, made a move on me mere days before she passed. That she wanted to leave him. I'll never do that to him.

I stare at the exam in front of me, my breathing rapid, a thin layer of sweat coating my skin. It can't be. She can't be a cheater. But the lead sinks deeper inside my chest.

I need to get to the bottom of this.

My phone pings with an incoming text.

Maxwell

Sorry, Ryland. We need you back here. There are some issues with the IPO and it'll take all hands on deck. When can you get back?

My hand grips the phone, wanting to throw it against the wall and see it shatter into pieces. Time to go back to the real world where hundreds of years of Anderson history falls on me to uphold.

But first, there's something I need to do.