:
I sat in the plush leather chair facing President Thornton’s desk, watching the drama unfold with detached amusement. The student affairs director stood rigidly beside Megan Hayes, clutching my medical kit like <b>it </b>contained weapons of mass destruction.
<b>62 </b>
“This ispletely uneptable,” the department chair dered, his voice tight with righteous indignation. “Miss Morgan has clearly been taking advantage of the university’s lenient policies. Just because she is<b>… </b>excellent…” doesn’t mean she’s above the rules.” His fingers tightened around my medical kit, knuckles whitening with pressure.
Megan Hayes stood beside him, her face flushed with vindictive pleasure. The bruise on her ankle from her “ident” during the obstacle course was still visible beneath her designer jeans. She tucked a strand of perfectly highlighted hair behind her ear, barely containing her smirk.
“We found these in her suitcase,” she added, gesturing dramatically at my medical kit. “Along with alcohol. She’s been drinking in the dorms and carrying unauthorized prescription medications.” Her voice rose with each usation, theatrical in its outrage. “Who knows what she’s been doing with those syringes and ubeled vials<b>?</b>”
I remained motionless, my expression neutral as I cataloged every micro–expression and nervous tic from my
users<b>. </b>
President Thornton cleared his throat. “We should consider that Princeton has a medical school. Whether these medications qualify as prohibited substances requires professional assessment-”
I caught his eye and gave a subtle shake of my head. Thornton immediately fell silent, though confusion flickered across his features.
The air in the office felt charged, like the stillness before a storm. I could almost taste the tension.
Megan, emboldened by the president’s sudden silence, pressed on. Her eyes gleamed with malicious triumph as she straightened her shoulders. “I believe this deserves serious disciplinary action. A formal reprimand to the entire student body, academic probation, and she should be required to personally apologize to the three of us.” She practically preened at the thought of my public humiliation.
The corners of my mouth twitched. An apology? In my former life, people who crossed me didn’t live long enough to receive apologies.
Before I could respond, the door to the president’s office swung open without a knock.
Ethan Haxton stepped in, his tailored Brioni suit andmanding presence immediately drawing every eye in the room. His entrance changed the atmosphere instantly, like oxygen being sucked from a room before a fire ignites.
“Apologize for what, exactly?” Ethan’s voice was soft but carried an unmistakable edge of steel. His green eyes scanned the room with cold precision before settling on me with a flicker of something that might have been
concern.
Megan’s jaw literally dropped. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her eyes widening as she took in Ethan’s chiseled features and imposing frame. The flush in her cheeks transformed from righteous anger to something far more
primal.
The door burst open again, and a red–faced middle–aged man in an expensive but ill–fitting suit stumbled in. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool temperature of the office.
“Megan!” he hissed, grabbing his daughter’s arm with fingers that dug into her flesh. “What have you done?” Without waiting for an answer, he delivered a sharp p across her cheek that echoed through the suddenly silent room like a gunshot.
“Daddy!” Megan gasped, her hand flying to her reddening cheek. Her perfectly applied mascara smudged as tears welled in her eyes. “What are you-<b>” </b>
“You stupid, stupid girl,” he seethed, his voice trembling like a violin string about to snap. “Of all the people to antagonize, you choose someone connected to the Haxton family? Are you trying to ruin us?” Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he hissed the words through clenched teeth.
Megan’s confusion was almostical, her self–assurance crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. “What Haxton family?”
Her father looked ready to faint, the blood draining from his face so rapidly I could almost track its retreat. “What Haxton family?” he repeated incredulously, his voice rising to a near–squeak. “Which Haxton family do you think exists in New York?<b>” </b>
I suppressed a smile, carefully keeping my expression neutral as I rose from my chair. While they continued their family drama, I moved unhurriedly to the sofa near the window, where President Thornton kept his private tea
service.
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