Prologue
Howlongwouldittakeforthewoundonmyhandtobleedout?
Bright blood beads and trickles in a slow rhythm, a stark red against my skin that pulses with each heavy beat of my heart.
My palm, slick with blood, leaves a distinct print on the silk of my dress—a rebellious scarlet against the pale rose—as I climb over the railing.
Beneath me, Memory’s River swirls in the night’s obscurity, its murky waters hidden yet audibly churning in the blackness. The river and I, we’re old acquaintances, its rapid currents whispering familiarly, mingling with the pulsating rhythm in my chest to create a strangely soothing symphony.
Memory’s River—a name dripping with irony for a waterway that has snatched away over twenty-one souls, transforming them into mere recollections in our town. This was our infamous suicide point, a place where people disintegrate into memories, obscured by ripples and forgotten by the stream.
I adjust my position on the bridge’s ledge, the rusty metal gnawing at the delicate skin of my feet.
Could I get Tetanus? My head dismisses the concern almost as quickly as it surfaces. The notion is laughably trivial when I’m teetering on the precipice of oblivion.
Taking a steadying breath, I shift forward, my hand now saturated with a fresh wave of blood. Numbness has stolen any semblance of pain, likely a product of severed nerves.
Warm trails of tears mark my cheeks, a silent testament to the despair gripping my heart, as I close my eyes tightly, willing my body to release its grip.
A whisper escapes, “I’m sorry, Dad,” as my fingers loosen their hold. The expected fall doesn’t come; instead, a viselike grip seizes my wrist, halting my descent.
“No, not tonight, sweetheart—not tonight.”
Chapter 1
Just over a year has passed since the stars saw my brush with death. Since a stranger’s hand snatched me from the abyss.
My nights have been clipped short for as long as I can remember, a habit etched into my bones, a remnant of a past life where the morning hours were filled with the rich, resonant sounds of my violin. Now, the silence of my room hangs heavy through the void where music used to live, a constant reminder of what I lost.
Nightmares often jolt me awake, leaving my skin cold and clammy. In these visions, no savior awaits—only the sharp sting of regret as I fall toward the icy water below. I banish the thought with a fierce shake of my head. Not today.
Silverbrook is supposed to be my chance to build a new life, one I had thought was all mapped out but now has to be rebuilt from scratch.
This school, this scholarship, is all I have left, and despite my worst mistake lurking in these halls, I won’t let it—or him—claim anything
more from me. He has already stolen too much.
I stretch out my fingers, feeling the tightness in my knuckles easing with each flex. The pins and needles that some days are more persistent than others.
Giving up on sleep, I decide to quietly head to the kitchen to make breakfast. My two roommates are still sleeping. Poppy is an early riser too though, and even if I’m trying to be careful making myself some eggs, I know she will be out soon enough. As for Vanessa? I have no fear. No amount of noise can wake her when she sleeps.
Seated at the counter, I unfold my schedule. Packed almost to the point of being overextended, it’s a welcome distraction from a past that’s tethered to my heels. I trail my finger over the color-coded classes. I have colored them based on difficulty, credit, and potential impact on the major I will pick later.
Poppy’s door creaks open midway through my meal. She emerges, her hair a wild tangle of brown curls. “Morning, early bird,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
“Morning,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light despite the serious subject that is clouding my thoughts.
She wraps her hands around her coffee cup, her stomach growling loud enough to echo off the kitchen walls. The sound is an unexpected interruption to our quiet morning. She blushes, and I once again realize that being as thin as she is, is probably not by choice.
I open the oven and take out a plate, the contents of bacon and eggs still warm. “It’s one of those days when I wake up early and can’t go back to sleep, so I made breakfast for all of us.” The smell
of the food fills the kitchen, and I place the plate in front of Poppy. “Here you go.”
Her eyes linger on the plate, a hungry gleam flashing briefly before she shakes her head. “Oh no, I didn’t pay for my share of the food this week. I didn’t put any money in the food jar.”
Shaking my head, I offer a warm smile. “And? We’re a team, Poppy, all three of us.”
There’s a genuine sense of camaraderie in the simple act of sharing a meal. It’s moments like these that make me grateful for the friends who have become like family in my new life at Silverbrook.
She sits beside me and leans in to look at my schedule, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of classes.” She takes a mouthful of eggs, and I can’t help but smile, feeling some of the remaining darkness vanishing at the view.
“I was thinking the same. I mean, I did it to try to graduate early.” Andtoavoiddrowninginself-pity. A grimace crosses my face at the realization. “It’s going to be tough, no doubt about that.”
She shrugs. “Nothing is stopping you from dropping a class or two if it becomes too hard. At least you tried.”
Her words lighten my mood further. Not every decision carries the weight of life and death, as I once faced on that bridge. “I guess I tend to go all in,” I concede with a sigh.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” she asks, finishing her coffee.
I tap the schedule. “Planning to scout out all my class locations. Don’t want any added stress on the first day.”
“That’s smart. Mind if I tag along?” she offers, and I can’t help but feel grateful for her company.
“Of course not. It’ll be nice to have company,” I say, and for the first time in a long while, I feel a flicker of excitement for the day ahead.
We are already dressed, ready to go, when Nessa comes out of her bedroom in nothing more than a T-shirt and underwear, her face full of sleep. I shiver, looking at her long, toned, bare legs, cold on her behalf.
She removes her headphones and frowns. “You girls know we don’t start classes before next week, right?”
Poppy chuckles and nods.
“So why are you ready to go at the crack of dawn?”
I scoff, looking at my watch. “It’s ten a.m.”
“Yes…” she says slowly, like we are missing something. “Crack of dawn.”
I shake my head. “We’re going to scout out the grounds. Do you want to come with us?”
“Scout the grounds?” She snorts. “Definitely not, but I’ll wait for you at the café on campus with a caramel latte and a croissant.”
“You have twenty minutes.” She nods, and she’s out and ready within the time, looking as fabulous as always in her black-andpurple dress. Her purple-streaked hair blends with the bold drama of her red lips and smoky eyes. Nessa is the embodiment of goth chic, and as much as I disappear in my middle-aged librarian outfits of long, flowy skirts and cardigans, she shines with her unique style and beauty. Our friendship, as unlikely as it seems, was sparked by
our shared status as the first recipients of the Phoenix Rising Scholarship. This program, dedicated to giving people a second chance at college, brought us together. It’s an odd pairing, but I have this feeling that these girls and I? We’re in it for the long haul.
We walk to the coffee shop, Nessa’s platform boots clicking authoritatively on the pavement.
“Try not to get lost, overanxious grandmas,” Nessa calls over her shoulder, the smirk clear in her voice.
Poppy retorts with a grin, “Just don’t scare all the baristas away, Wednesday Addams.”
Nessa’s laughter floats back to us as she saunters off, the bell above the coffee shop door jingling in her wake. Poppy and I exchange an amused glance before we set off toward campus.
The heart of campus is busier than I expect, and people rush around us, but it should not be a surprise since the upper classes have already started.
We decide to start with Albert Hall, where most of my classes will take place. We are halfway through the main hall when Poppy’s stride slows, her gaze fixed on something ahead. Following her line of sight, I see a group of jocks, their laughter echoing across the hall. One of them turns, his eyes catching Poppy’s, and the recognition there is unmistakable.
As the jock approaches, a familiar tension wraps around Poppy, the kind that speaks of shared heartbreak and past battles fought alone. When he greets her with “Pauper,” it’s tinged with a familiarity that doesn’t belong here, not in the halls of Silverbrook.
I’m watching Poppy, ready to jump to her defense, but she needs no champion. Her stance is firm, unyielding—she’s no damsel but a warrior in her own right. It’s amid this silent standoff that Poppy murmurs a single word under her breath, “Ethan.”
The name hangs between us, a new piece of her puzzle. The air suddenly chills; I feel it before I see it a presence that looms large and threatening, turning the ground beneath my feet to ice.
Another jock appears, wrapping his arm around Ethan’s neck, and my own past slaps me right in the face in the form of Cole Westbrook. My personal nightmare, cloaked in blond hair, chiseled muscles, and that ever-teasing smile. No one knows the darkness lurking behind those bright-blue eyes. I didn’t, not until it cost me my dream. My stomach tightens, a cold knot of anxiety that refuses to unravel. On a campus with over fifteen thousand students, I had to run into him in the first week.
Surprise flickers across his features, his smugness slipping. “Juilliard,” he breathes out, and my scar sears with a remembered betrayal, echoing one of the many nicknames he once whispered like a caress.
I keep my face blank despite the nausea I feel seeing him again. Your spirit is unbreakable; letyour actions reflect that. Max’s voice fills my head, and I repeat this sentence over and over again.
I need out; I am not ready to face him. How much time willyou need?The mocking voice in my head whispers Forevermightnever beenough.
“Come on, let’s go back,” I urge Poppy, pulling at her arm.
Cole steps in my way, his gaze cutting through me. “Julliard,” he growls, frustration in his voice that he has no right to possess. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. “Is that supposed to mean something?” I ask, my voice a steady challenge though my grip on Poppy tightens—a silent plea for support. “Some kind of hazing code?” The clenching of my hand betrays my anxiety, a tell I despise, especially under his scrutiny.
I break eye contact; it feels like he can see right through my soul, allowing him to marvel at all the hurt and destruction he caused.
Just as I’m about to ask him to leave, my voice threatening to betray my composure, Poppy jumps in. “It’s probably some jock slang we can’t understand. Whatever the interest is, we’re passing.
Please go look for other… fresh meat.”
Gratefully, I nod, my appreciation unspoken but profound. As we walk away, I can feel his eyes on my back, but I focus on the door. Silverbrook will be my rebirth, not my downfall. Cole Westbrook may be part of this world, but he won’t define my experience here. Not again. Not today. Not ever.
Chapter 2
Cole
Parked outside of Eva’s apartment building, I wait. It feels like hours, and I don’t miss some of the curious looks I get there, sitting in my car, but I don’t care.
My phone rings, and I’m so lost in my anticipation of seeing her I answer before I look at who’s calling.
“Oh, finally, I knew the photos I sent you last night would get a reaction.”
Jenny’s high-pitched voice fills the car, making me wince.
The photos… Nudes that didn’t even make my cock stir and were deleted as fast as they came so I could concentrate on my plan.
“Haven’t looked at the photos,” I reply with a sigh, my impatience barely concealed. “Why are you calling, Jenny?”
“Thought maybe I could come down and we can have some fun.” Her suggestion comes through as hopeful.
“Having fun with you isn’t in the cards. Nothing’s changed. I’m still not interested.”
“But—” I cut the call as I see Eva’s Chevy come down the road to the parking lot of her building.
A smirk forms involuntarily as she struggles with her car door. It’s the same old red clunker she’s had since high school, as stubborn and defiant as she is. It kind of pisses me off—she drove that death trap over two hundred miles to get here. But I’ve got to admit, it’s so… her.
Having her here, at Silverbrook, feels like fate’s got my back for once. The obsession is back with a vengeance. She vanished on prom night, right after my vindictive, petty stunt—bailing on her in front of the hotel’s door. It was a revenge move, one I’ve come to bitterly regret. I thought we were even, but she was gone. I searched for her, following a trail to New York, only to find her absence at Julliard as mysterious and infuriating as the night she vanished. Even my summer visits to Coach Sinclair’s house were unfruitful; he carefully avoided mentioning his daughter, and my attempts to casually inquire about her were met with nothing but evasive responses.
Was it really all about prom? Is she actually pretending she’s not to blame at all in this? She betrayed me first! She destroyed us first! She brokemy heart first!
The memory is vivid: a couple of weeks before prom, Jenny, an unwelcome presence, approached me after practice. We had split months ago, and I was mentally preparing to make my relationship with Eva public. Jenny’s presence threatened to derail everything.
“Beat it,” I told her coldly.
“You could’ve told me about your learning difficulties, babe. I’m not with you for your brain,” she said, her grin sardonic.
I stood frozen, shocked. How did she know? Jenny’s hands traced over my muscles as she continued, “You’re hot, sexy … and you have a huge cock, that’s enough for me.”
Breaking free from her grip, I confronted her, “What are you talking about?”
“Your dyscalculia,” she nonchalantly replied. “The chubby girl told me. I don’t care, though.”
The realization struck like a lightning bolt. Eva, the only person I had confided in about my dyscalculia, had betrayed me to Jenny. The pain quickly turned into rage, demanding revenge. I decided on public humiliation at prom—an eye for an eye.
It was meant to be a moment to even the score, something we could discuss and resolve later. I had prepared what to say for when she returned to school the following Monday. This backfired when she fled, leaving me with nothing but questions. My acceptance letters to various prestigious colleges were irrelevant pieces of paper just for show. With my name, I could go to any university I wanted. I had colleges waiting on my decision as I tried to track down Eva, wanting to be near her to settle our unfinished business. But under pressure from my father, I chose Silverbrook.
Leaning back in my seat, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I’ve replayed our last encounter a hundred times, but here she is, acting as if she’s erased everything, turning me into a ghost of her past. I call bullshit. I know I’m still there, lurking in her thoughts, just as she’s never left mine.
The door to her car finally gives way, and she stumbles out, books in hand. She’s dressed like an austere librarian, but I know better. There’s a wild streak under that composed surface, and it’s waiting to be reignited. I’ve always admired the way she carries herself, a defiance in her walk, an unapologetic assertion of space. My woman wears her generous curves like armor, like a challenge to anyone who dares to question her worth. And damn, the view is something else.
I trace a finger across my lips as I watch her now, appreciating the way her dress hugs her form. The sight stirs my desire for her with a passion that no other woman wakes. She’s oblivious to my scrutiny, and it annoys me.
Sliding out of the car, my body instinctively braces for the impact of her gaze. As she looks up, her bag halting midair, I lean casually against my Lexus, smirking. She might pretend indifference, but the slight rise of her chin, the way her eyes darken—it’s all the confirmation I need. My girl’s still in this, whether she admits it or not.
Watching her intently, I close the gap between us. There are far too many people around us for her to start a scene or for me to be assertive. We both know that.
“Are you lost? May I help you?” she asks with such polite coldness it reminds me of the Eva from the start of senior year. The one that was wary of me.
I give her my flirty grin. “Oh, look at you being a good girl and offering me your help,” my voice is low, seductive. “Maybe you can show me your bedroom or, better yet, come for a drive with me. I’ll
show you my room and a certain candy you were so fond of,” I add, tilting my hips forward a little.
Her cold, detached look, obviously feigned, only serves to aggravate me. “And why would I do that? That would be foolish, but I’m sure you can find someone else to comply with your delirious demand.”
Taking another step forward, I’m close enough to smell her perfume now, and I lose focus for one second. It’s enough for her to take a step back, and then, suddenly, she turns around, walking to her building as if I am not there.
Laughter escapes me at the sight of her stiff, retreating form. Oh, the chase will be delicious.
She might see me as a ghost from her past, but I’m more like a hound. Flesh and blood, my presence in her life will be as tangible as the bold curves she displays. This second chance isn’t hers alone; I plan to use mine to reclaim what’s mine, utilizing everything at my disposal—my tongue, my hands, my cock—to help her get over her stupid grudge. It’s game on, and I’m more than ready to play.
The game we’re about to play excites me, yet her dismissal still pisses me off. I’m confident, and I don’t need to be vain to know the effect I have on women. I see it in the way they throw themselves at me. As a Westbrook, the sole heir of a multibillion-dollar conglomerate, I possess not just the name and legacy but also the looks and physique to match. Life’s unfairness is evident—some have it all. Well, nearly all. The missing piece? Little Evangeline Sinclair. I storm into the house with a frustrated growl, my keys clattering in the ceramic bowl by the door, announcing my mood before I enter
the room. Ethan and Liam are huddled over the counter, deeply engrossed in Coach’s playbook.
Liam, ever the strategist, looks up and meets my scowl with an unreadable expression. “The coach wants our input on the opening plays,” he says, tapping the book with the authority of a seasoned captain.
Dismissing the conversation with a wave, I retort, “You’re the captain, Liam. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Ethan’s muffled laughter does little to improve my temper, but Liam’s surprise is clear as his brows lift in mock astonishment.
“Where’s the all-knowing critic I’m used to?”
Rolling my eyes, I ignore the jab and cut straight to the chase with Ethan. “Still got that tech prodigy in your contacts?”
Ethan’s smirk tells me I’ll be paying for every moment I’ve ever teased him about Curly. Curly… Eva’s friend and probably one of my best ways to get to her, but I suspect Ethan will be quite a gatekeeper there.
“Do you mean my hacker?”
I throw him an exasperated look. “You know I do.”
“Ummm…” He nods. “Look who’s not so high and mighty now, huh?”
Liam, sensing the shift in our conversation, exhales a heavy sigh. The concern on his face is paternal, the look of a man who’s witnessed too many of my reckless decisions. “Is this about those girls you inquired about? You know what? Never mind.” He stands up, the captain’s resolve hardening in his voice. “I’d tell you not to
do anything stupid, but you’d see it as a dare. Just…” He pauses, his gaze seeking some divine patience. “Avoid getting arrested, alright?”
We wait in a silent pact for Liam’s departure before Ethan speaks, his tone more serious than before.
“He’s pricey—really pricey,” Ethan says, grabbing his phone and looking at it.
“Oh yeah, because money is clearly an issue for me,” I scoff, sinking into the plush leather chair by the TV.
He looks up from his phone, seemingly hesitant. “You’re not going to do something bad, right?” he asks, his loyalty to me wrestling with his conscience.
I tilt my head, considering his question. “Define bad.”
“Something illegal.”
There’s a shadow of a smirk on my lips. “Ah, that I can’t promise, but don’t play the saint with me. You want to know if whatever I’ll do with Miss Evangeline Sinclair will get you in deeper shit with Curly.”
“Her name is Poppy.”
I know how much he dislikes it when I call her Curly, and this is exactlywhy I do it. I’m not a shit-stirrer for nothing.
“Listen, you and I? We’re not that different. We’re both trying to crawl out of the pits they’ve tossed us into. My methods are more…”
“Unhinged?”
You have noidea,I think, but I scowl instead. “I was about to say direct.”
Ethan studies me for a moment, his resolve folding. “Fine, text that number and tell him that Ethan Hawthorne gave you the number.
He’ll call you.”
My phone buzzes—a text from Ethan. “Done,” it reads. Without hesitation, my fingers fly over the screen, texting the number he provided.
“You owe me one.”
I nodded. “I do—you’ll get a yes from Arsenal when the time comes,” I speak with far more confidence than I actually feel, but truth be told, Ethan’s training program is absolutely amazing, and I know it will not take too much work for him, but I’m not about to admit that.
Ethan’s gaze follows as I rise, stretching out the tension residing in my muscles. A rush of adrenaline surges through me, fueled by the anticipation of what’s next.
Just as I’m about to assure him there’s no need for stress, my phone vibrates again. A private number flashes on the screen, and a sly grin curves my lips. This is it, the moment of truth—the point where the game truly begins. My thumb hovers over the answer button, each second stretching out like a taunt.
TimetostepmoreintomyAngel’sreality, I think to myself, a silent acknowledgment of the path I’m about to tread. I take the stairs up to my room two at a time as I press the button, bringing the phone to my ear. The line crackles and a voice on the other end awaits. The game is on, and this move is mine.
Chapter 3
As Professor Marlowe speaks, I lean forward, my eyes sparkling with recognition at each familiar line of Beowulf. Under my breath, I whisper my favorite phrases, feeling a personal connection with each ancient word. I am here, present and captivated, in the medieval poetry class that I adore, where the words of the old become a lifeline to my fervent love for literature. His voice rises and falls with the rhythm of the alliterative verse, making me feel the pulse of the old English poets beating in time with my own heart. “Notice how the poet uses the tale of heroism to reflect on the inevitability of decay,” he intones, and I’m lost in the echo of his words, seeing not just a classroom but the mead halls of yore.
Without hesitation, my hand lifts into the air, a signal flare of my eagerness. “Isn’t this also a reflection of the time? The struggle to hold on to traditions in the face of a new world encroaching?” I ask, my voice carrying my curiosity and confidence.
“Excellent point, Miss Sinclair,” Professor Marlowe replies, his approving gaze adding a flush of pride to my cheeks. There’s a moment where I feel like I’m part of something larger than myself, a lineage of scholars and thinkers who’ve pondered these very texts. I try to concentrate on the lecture, but a sudden chill runs down my spine, a sense of being watched. I grip my pen tighter, my focus faltering for a moment as I scan the room, seeking but not finding the source of this unsettling feeling. Since I found Cole parked in front of my building, I can feel his intense gaze boring into me wherever I go. Even though I know he’s not here—a quick glance over my shoulder reveals nothing but the normalcy of focused students—the sensation lingers. An unseen shadow tracing my every move.
Shaking my head, I despise how he invades my thoughts even in his absence. I force myself to focus as Professor Marlowe delves into Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the richness of the discussion anchoring me back to reality. My pen dances across the page, eager to capture every insight. Here, in this world of text and thought, I am powerful, untethered from my fears, from my past.
Class ends all too soon, and the students scatter. “Miss Sinclair, a moment, please,” Professor Marlowe calls out. “You possess a passion for this subject that’s quite rare,” he says with a kind earnestness as I reach his desk. “Would you be interested in assisting with my research on the transition from oral to written traditions?”
“Assist with your research?” I pause, a surge of excitement making my heart race. “Yes, absolutely! I’d be honored.” My voice barely
