37. Iris

My phone buzzes against the mahogany surface of Lincoln's desk. The screen flashes with an email notification from none other than Professor Hastings—the gatekeeper of my GPA at this point. My heart does a little dance, not sure if it's for hope or dread.

Miss Shelby, Meeting. My office. I want to discuss your grade. My office hours are extended today.

Just like that. No niceties, no explanation. Could be a break, could be a trap. Relief washes over me first—I've been hounding him about that damn test. But then confusion squirms in, uninvited. This is the same man who's treated my attempts at academic redemption like spam emails.

"Probably just wants to see me cry when he tells me that he's using that test as my overall grade in the class," I mutter under my breath, slicking my hair back out of my face and into a bun that screams ‘I mean business'. "A plot twist. Because my life isn't a mess already."

I stand up, stretching the kinks from my legs, and let my gaze wander across Lincoln's room I've been taking sanctuary in. It's quiet, peaceful. The faint scent of lemon lingers in the air, and I smile, wondering if Lincoln notices that his room is starting to smell like me and my things.

As I make my way down the hallway, I notice Jeremiah's door is ajar. Curled up on Jeremiah's bed, lost in whatever universe her pen is creating on the pages of her journal is Oakley. She's wearing one of his t-shirts that looks like if she stood up, it would come down to her knees.

The gentle scratch of her pen against the paper is almost soothing, the rhythm steady and calming. I pause, teetering on interrupting her trance. But no, I won't intrude on her privacy. I decide to leave without saying anything, because she looks like she's really into whatever she's writing.

I grab my bag that I left near the front door of the mansion and head toward a meeting that might just determine whether my law school dreams stay alive or get buried deep beneath a pile of could-have-beens.

I tap out a quick text to Lincoln, my fingers dancing with a tremor that I blame on the caffeine buzzing through my veins.

Heading to see Prof. Hastings about my grade.

He's going to be pissed that I didn't wait for him to go with me, but things have died down, and if this will save the grade I've worked my ass off for, I need to at least try. Send. The bubble with the checkmark pops up, so at least I know it was delivered.

When I reach the professor's building, a chill slithers down my spine. The hallway is deserted, the quiet more somehow more chaotic than any lecture hall. The soles of my shoes echo against the linoleum like one of those creepy opening sequences of a movie. I stop in front of his door. Locked. Dark. No Professor in sight.

"Seriously?" I hiss, jiggling the handle with a frustration that borders on violence. The metal is cold and unyielding beneath my grip. This isn't right. We had a meeting—specifically set so I could grovel for academic mercy or at least understand why he'd tossed my grades into the gutter. I pull out my phone and double check the email to make sure I didn't misread it in some way.

"Where the hell are you?" The words bounce off the closed door, mocking me with their hollowness. I press my ear against the wood, hoping for a sign of life, but only the ghost of my breath fogs the nameplate. No Professor.

I pivot on my heel, annoyance simmering just below the surface. That's when I spot her—Nicole, click-clacking her way down the corridor toward me. The sight slams into my gut like a sucker punch. She's got this wild look in her eyes, hair dyed a sloppy mimic of my brunette waves, and extensions that are nearly the exact same length as my hair. It's like looking into a twisted carnival mirror.

She stops an arm's length away, her facade a grotesque mimic of mine. Are those fucking contacts? There's something so off about her—a vibe that reeks of desperation and mania. I take a step back, my instincts screaming at me to run. But I stand my ground, arms crossed in an attempt to protect myself.

"Is the professor one of your little helpers, or did you hack into his email?" I tilt my head, daring her to tell me the truth. Honestly, at this point, either option wouldn't surprise me.

The closer she gets; the more details pop out. That's when I see it—the locket. My locket. The delicate chain clings to her neck like a leech. My blood boils, and the hallway seems to tilt as adrenaline courses through my veins.

"Jesus, you really have no shame, do you?" My voice is ice, sharp enough to cut. "How low can you go?" She's crafted herself into a doppelg?nger, a shadow trying to eclipse the real thing. A sick game of dress-up with my identity as the grand prize. "You've been targeting me since you stepped foot on this campus and saw me with Lincoln, haven't you?"

Nicole's lips tremble and her voice shakes when she spits the words, "He's mine!"

"Lincoln was never yours, Nicole," I say, the corner of my lip twitching in a smirk, taunting her. Glance down at my phone, hoping that she doesn't notice that I've pressed a few buttons to record whatever she says. I'm not going to let her get away with anything that she's done to Lincoln.

Her expression contorts, and she launches into a tirade. "You witch! You think you're so clever, seducing him. You try to be so perfect, but you're not. I made sure you failed that test so you'd understand that you're not better than anyone else!"

I flinch inwardly at the accusation but keep my demeanor calm, adopting an expression of mock innocence. It's like she's unraveling before me, thread by pathetic thread. A part of me pities her, but most of me wants to revel in this moment of unhinged jealousy.

"Really, bitch? That's what you're going with?" I prod, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Because last time I checked, Lincoln has a mind of his own. Or is that concept too advanced for you? This might be hard for you to hear, but he approached me. He wanted me."

"What else, Nicole?" I coax with a sly grin. "Your delusion is showing. Tell me what else you did to me and Lincoln."

She's oblivious to the trap, caught up in her own narrative of scorned love and betrayal. Each word she spits out is another nail in her coffin, and I'm here, silently collecting them all. Evidence of her instability, her willingness to go to extremes—it's all being recorded in crisp, clear sound.

"Lincoln was never meant to be with someone like you," she shrieks, her voice cracking with hysteria.

"Someone like me?" I echo, feigning curiosity. "And what kind is that, Nicole? The kind that doesn't need to cosplay someone else to feel worthy?"

My casual demeanor hides the rush of adrenaline that courses through me. This recording is more than just protection; it's a checkmate waiting to happen. Let her dig her grave with her own vitriol—I'll gladly hand her the shovel.

"Go ahead. Tell me more about how I've ‘bewitched' him," I taunt, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. "This is fascinating stuff, really."

Deep down, under the layers of mockery and bravado, I know I need to stay one step ahead. And right now, my phone is silently ensuring just that.

I arch an eyebrow, leaning back against the cold metal of the professor's door. "Come on, Nicole, you can do better than that," I drawl, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Vandalizing Lincoln's car? That's amateur hour. You got Brandon to help you. We already figured that out."

There's a visceral snarl twisting her lipstick-smeared mouth. "You think you're so clever, don't you?" she spits the words.

"Somewhat," I reply, shrugging nonchalantly. "But I'm more interested in your confession. So, about Lincoln's football drug test results… How did you manage that? Swapping his test for dirty piss?"

Nicole's eyes flash, a wild, untamed fire burning within. "I swapped it with Brandon's! He doesn't deserve to be the star when he humiliated me and treats you like a fucking fairy princess."

The air is thick with her rage, and it reeks of desperation. It's almost too easy, like coaxing a confession from a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

"And destroying my room was a nice touch, by the way," I say, tutting. "I didn't realize you only did it so you could steal my style. I would have let you borrow my clothes." I shrug in a noncommittal sort of way, trying to get under her skin. "I guess that was to scare me off campus, but all it did was make Lincoln force me to move in with him and sleep in his bed. Every night."

"Stop it!" Nicole shrieks, covering her ears with her hands. Her eyes look demonic. "Lincoln will love me!"

"Is that why you said he raped you? Even though he never touched you?" I say, praying she falls for the bait. I need this recorded, and she doesn't disappoint.

"If I can't have him, no one is going to!" She lunges then, her movements erratic and frenzied. But I'm ready for her. I sidestep, and her hands grasp at air.

"Is this what they teach in cheerleading tryouts? Because you suck at it," I quip, even as my heart races with the thrill of confrontation.

Nicole growls, wearing a mask of distorted fury. She charges again, and this time her fingers find purchase on my hair. The sting sharpens my senses, and my response is primal. I reach up, tangling my fingers in the straw-like extensions that cling desperately to her scalp.

"Get off!" she screams, her nails clawing at my arms.

"Shoddy work on these," I hiss, giving a fierce yank. The extensions give way, and strands of artificial hair float between us like candy corn-colored confetti.

"Let go, you bitch!" Nicole screeches, her blows flailing wildly.

I dance back, avoiding her fists with a grace born of necessity. My breath comes in short bursts, the scent of her body odor clogging my nostrils.

"Lincoln chose me, Nicole. Get over it," I throw the words at her like daggers, each one calculated to wound.

She howls, the sound unhinged and feral, as if I've struck at the very core of her madness. And in that moment, I know I have her exactly where I want her—unraveled, exposed, and on record. My knuckles whiten as I grip Nicole's wrist, twisting just enough to send a jolt of pain through her arm. She hisses, an animal cornered but not yet defeated. The world shrinks to the space between us—breath hot and ragged, the smell of rage and desperation mixing with the sharp tang of fear.

"You think you're so perfect!" Nicole spits, anger infused in every syllable. Her other hand flies toward my face, nails first.

I duck, a laugh bubbling up despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. "Better than your cheap hair job, sweetie."

Then, crashing through the tension like a wrecking ball, comes the sound of heavy footsteps. A familiar rush of relief floods me, even as I keep my attention locked on Nicole. Lincoln bursts into the hallway, his brothers flanking him like guard dogs sensing danger.

"Get off of her!" Lincoln's voice booms, thick with urgency. His eyes scan over us, assessing the situation with that quarterback precision.

"Nicole," Graham growls, a warning clear in his tone.

Penn, always the wildcard, steps forward, wearing an irreverent grin. "Ladies, if you wanted to wrestle, all you had to do was say so. Next time, let's make it Jell-O, huh?" His chuckle is a near-perfect counterpoint to the tension, absurd and oddly calming.

I can't help it; a snort escapes me, and for a split second, Nicole's maniacal glare flickers with confusion. That's Penn for you—turning a brawl into a bad porno with one quip. I don't know whether to hug him or smack him upside the head.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Nicole snaps, but the bite's gone from her bark, replaced by a shaky uncertainty. It's hard to play the femme fatale when someone suggests gelatin as your next battleground.

Lincoln moves closer, and suddenly I'm keenly aware of the heat radiating off his body. He doesn't touch me, not yet, but the promise is there in the air.

Nicole is screaming, wailing even as she hurls insults at me. Jeremiah's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp as a knife. "Shut her the fuck up, I'm calling the cops!" His declaration slices into my adrenaline-fueled haze, grounding me back to the gravity of what's unfolding.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. Nicole's antics aren't just campus drama anymore; we're in real-world trouble territory now. Penn and Graham move like they're one person, instinctively knowing their roles in this. Graham's got Nicole pinned faster than I can blink, his broad frame an immovable barrier against her thrashing limbs.

"Are you hurt?" Lincoln's hands are on me, gentle but searching, and it's like every point of contact is a balm to my frayed nerves. My skin prickles with the need to lean into him, to hide in the fortress of his arms.

"Scratches and bruises. Nothing I can't handle," I say, but my voice is steadier than I expect. It's not a lie; right now, the sting fades into insignificance. "I got her confession recorded," I tell him, holding up my phone. "She confessed to the drug test and the false rape allegations."

"Let me take you home," he murmurs, his intense eyes scanning me for any sign of serious damage. I expected him to be elated about the confession, but all I see is worry for me.

Lincoln's presence is a tether, pulling me back from the edge where panic claws at my mind. I let him guide me a few steps away.

"Lincoln," I start, not sure what I want to say, only that his name tastes like safety on my lips.

"Shh, it's okay, angel," he says, and I feel his lips brush the top of my head, a silent promise. The world could be ending, but right here, in the haven of his hold, everything else falls away.

The clatter of a plastic hair extension hitting the ground snaps me back to reality. Penn, ever the jester even in chaos, holds up another strand like a trophy fisherman. "Wow, Nicole, did you rip these off a barbie doll? It's kind of... desperate," he drawls, his tone dripping with so much snark it could corrode metal.

"Lincoln!" Nicole screeches, her voice raw, eyes wild and fixed on me as if I'm some witch who's charmed Lincoln away.

"If we didn't need her to confess to everything she did, I'd shoot her in the fucking skull," Graham mutters, but there's no humor in his eyes. They dart around, gauging the threat level like sensors—his way of coping when shit hits the fan.

Lincoln's phone goes off, a sharpness in the eerily quiet. His thumb moves swiftly over the screen, and I strain to catch a glimpse of what's got him so on edge.

"Who is it?" My voice slices through the silence, demanding, unyielding.

"Brandon." Lincoln's voice is a growl, low and dangerous. He turns the phone toward me, and I see the text, the desperate plea spelled out in shaky words:

Can"t find Nicole. I"ll tell cops everything. Please don"t kill me.

I quirk an eyebrow at Lincoln, and all he does is shrug.

"Told you, I had it handled."

And then, we hear the shrill wail of sirens, blue and red lights flooding the parking lot, painting our faces in stark shades.