*Present*
The fall fundraiser transforms Wentworth's grand ballroom into something almost magical. Fairy lights draped from the vaulted ceiling, elegant centerpieces on every table, and the soft hum of classical music beneath polite conversation.
The wealthy parents write checks with too many zeros while their children pose for photos that will end up in society newsletters.
I hate every second of it.
"Table seven needs more napkins," I say without looking up from my clipboard. "And the ice sculpture is melting faster than projected. Someone needs to adjust the AC in the west corner."
"Someone?" Tate's voice drips with irritation. "You mean me. Just say me."
I finally meet his eyes, keeping my expression perfectly neutral. "Fine. You. Table seven. Napkins. Ice sculpture. AC. Was that clear enough for your micro brain, or do you need me to write it in crayon?"
His jaw tightens, but he grabs the stack of napkins from the supply table. "You know, most people would kill for free labor. You act like I'm personally ruining your life by just being here."
"You are personally ruining my life by just being here." I check off another item on my color-coded schedule. "That's literally what you've done for two years. The only difference now is that you have to do it while carrying napkins."
"God, you're exhausting…" He stalks toward table seven, muttering something else under his breath that I choose not to hear.
As the evening crawls forward, I manage logistics with rigid efficiency—directing catering staff, coordinating with the photography team, ensuring every wealthy donor feels appropriately pampered.
Tate, per his corrective hours assignment, hauls equipment and follows my curt orders with maximum attitude. Every interaction crackles with hostility.
"Your clipboard is color-coded."
He observes around eight o'clock, peering over my shoulder while I review the cleanup schedule.
"Of course it is. You probably color-code your boring underwear drawer too. Wait… Do you even own enough underwear to require organization, or is it just the one boring pair?"
"At least I have organizational skills," I snapped back. "What do you have? Daddy's credit card and a criminal records?"
"Corrective hours aren't a criminal record, Valdez. But I'm sure you'll learn the difference eventually, given your family's extensive experience with actual crimes."
I assign him to bathroom cleanup duty for that one.
Around nine, the crowd begins thinning. Parents collect their champagne-flushed children, donors shake hands with administrators, and the ballroom slowly empties of everyone except staff and student council members.
I'm reviewing the breakdown checklist when Tate cuts across my path. His shoulder slams into mine—not hard enough to knock me down, but hard enough to send my papers scattering across the marble floor.
"Oh, sorry." His voice oozes false concern. "Didn't see you there. You're just so small and insignificant, you know? Easy to miss."
I crouch to gather my papers, fantasizing about stabbing him with my pen. Right in the neck. Or in his eye. It would be so satisfying.
"You know what I find interesting?" I keep my voice pleasant as I stand, shuffling pages back into order. "The way you go out of your way to torment me. It's almost obsessive. If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually care about my existence."
Something flickers across his face—a fracture in that perfect, untouchable mask. His jaw tightens, and for half a second, his gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up.
"Don't flatter yourself." His voice comes out lower than before, rougher. "Tormenting you is just entertaining. Like poking a feral cat with a stick."
"Careful." I step close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne, close enough that the air between us feels like it's been struck with a match. I smile sweetly, holding his stare with everything I have. "Feral cats bite."
His eyes darken, but not with anger—it’s something worse. Something that makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle and my stomach dip like I've missed a step on a staircase.
He doesn't step back, doesn't blink. Just holds my gaze like he's daring me to be the one who breaks first—and I refuse, even as the silence stretches so taut between us I can practically hear it humming.
One heartbeat. Two. His throat moves on a swallow.
Then he turns away without another word, and the absence of his attention hits me like a cold draft. I watch him go, my pulse thudding in places it has no business thudding, and I hate that my body doesn't seem to understand we're supposed to despise him.
By ten-thirty, cleanup is nearly finished and the other council members have already left, trusting me to handle the final details. Because of course they do.
Harley will take care of it.
Harley always takes care of everything.
I'm doing a final walkthrough when I remember—my phone charger. I left it plugged in during my free period, in Mrs. Anderson's classroom on the third floor. My phone is at twelve percent, and the bus ride home takes forty minutes.
Nice. Very fucking nice.
The building is supposedly empty at this hour, most lights already off and my footsteps echo in the stairwell as I climb. The hallway stretches ahead of me, dark except for the emergency exit signs casting red shadows.
Mrs. Anderson's room is at the far end, past the language classrooms, past—
“Oh… Right there…”
I freeze mid-step. A soft, strained voice coming from somewhere ahead, The French classroom, I think. Monsieur Laurent's room. The door is slightly ajar and warm light spills through the gap, cutting a golden line across the dark hallway floor.
I should keep walking, mind my own business, get my charger and leave. But my feet carry me forward—slow, careful and silent. Through the crack in the door, I see… What the actual hell?
For a frozen moment, I can't move. Can't breathe or process what I'm witnessing.
A male student kneels on the floor, his face buried in the lap of Monsieur Laurent. The teacher leans against his desk, head thrown back, one hand tangled in the boy's hair. A soft French endearment falls from his lips, something tender and horrible all at once.
My stomach lurches. This is so wrong.
This is so deeply, fundamentally wrong.
I step backward without thinking, and my shoe squeaks against the polished floor. The boy's head snaps up at the sound immediately.
Our eyes meet through the crack in the door, widened with pure, animal panic—the terror of prey caught in a trap. I recognize his young features and soft light brown hair. A face I've seen before, always trailing a few steps behind his older brother in the hallways.
I've seen this face in society photos too. At charity events’ photos, or at church services, or at governor's campaign rallies with their family’s perfect smiles and matching outfits.
Ezra Mercer.
Tate's younger brother.
I bolt from my place and run. My feet carry me down the hallway, past classrooms and lockers, until I find an empty room and slip inside. I press my back against the wall, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath.
My mind races in circles. I should report this, a teacher and a student—that's abuse, that's illegal. Every instinct screams that I should find someone, anyone, and tell them what I saw.
But something stops me.
I think about what reporting would mean—the exposure, the scandal. I've watched Wentworth chew up and spit out students for far less than this.
Ezra's face—young, terrified, clearly in over his head—flashes through my mind. A seventeen-year-old kid caught in something he probably doesn't even understand is wrong, manipulated by an adult who should know better.
The weight of the secret presses against my chest.
I have ammunition now, real ammunition.
One word to the right person, and Tate Mercer's perfect family crumbles. His father's "traditional values" campaign implodes. The golden boy finally knows what it feels like to be destroyed by something outside his control.
The thought is seductive. After everything he's done to me, the paint, the cruelty, two years of relentless torment, I could end him with a single whisper.
But even as the fantasy forms, something in me recoils.
Ezra's face. That panic in his eyes. A kid who didn't choose his brother, didn't choose his family's politics, didn't choose to be caught in something this dark.
Using this would mean using him, weaponizing a vulnerable teenager to destroy his brother.
I close my eyes. My father's voice echoes in my head, steady and sure: We don't hurt kids, mija. No matter what. That's a line you don't cross.
I could ruin Tate Mercer with this. But I won't—not like this, not using a kid as a weapon. Because Valdez’s family is above it.