The envelope sits between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
I stare at it for a long moment, my mind racing through possibilities. Tate stands on the other side of the table, his jaw set, his body radiating tension. Whatever's in that envelope, it's important enough to make the golden boy look almost... nervous.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
I reach for the envelope slowly, half-expecting some kind of trap. But when I lift the flap and look inside, my breath catches in my throat.
Cash. Thick stacks of it, bundled neatly with rubber bands. More money than I've ever seen in one place—more money than my mother makes in six months of double shifts.
My fingers move almost without permission, flipping through the bills, counting silently.
Five thousand dollars. Maybe more.
"For your silence," Tate says. His voice is stiff, rehearsed, like he practiced this speech in front of a mirror. "About Ezra. About what you saw. You take that, you forget everything, and we never speak of it again."
I stare at the money and I think about my mother's hands, cracked and raw from bleach. About the bills piling up on our kitchen counter—electric, water, the payment plan for my father's legal fees that we'll be paying off for the next decade.
It would be so easy to take it.
I look up at Tate carefully. He's watching me with barely concealed anxiety, jaw tight and hands flexing at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.
The golden boy, the governor's son, standing in front of me with desperation leaking through every crack in his composure. And something in me, something petty and angry and deeply, viciously satisfied, starts to laugh.
And I laugh right in his face.
Tate's expression flickers with confusion, then something like panic. "Is it… is it not enough?" His voice cracks slightly. "I can get you more if you need it. Ten thousand. Fifteen. Shit, fifty if you want it. Whatever it takes."
That only makes me laugh harder, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest, wild and uncontrolled.
His face darkens, embarrassment and anger warring in his features. "What's so fucking funny?"
"You," I manage, still laughing, pushing the envelope back toward him across the table. "God, you really thought this would work, didn't you? You thought you could just throw money at the poor girl and she'd roll over like a good dog?"
I stand, leaning across the table until my eyes are level with his, bright with mocking.
"What's the matter, Mercer? Daddy's credit card usually solves all your problems?"
His face darkens. "I'm trying to protect my brother."
"By buying me off? That's your big plan?" I shake my head, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. "You rich boys are all the same. You think everything has a price tag and people like me are just waiting around for someone to wave enough cash in our faces."
I pick up the envelope and shove it hard against his chest.
"I don't want your dirty money."
"Then what do you want?" The question comes out rough, frustrated. He catches the envelope before it falls, his knuckles white around it. "Name it. Whatever it takes to keep you quiet—"
"I already told you I wouldn't talk. I told Ezra. I told you."
I cross my arms, enjoying the way he seems to shrink slightly under my contempt.
"My word isn't for sale because it doesn't need to be—I already gave it for free. But please, keep waving your cash around. It's genuinely entertaining watching you squirm."
His jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to hit something. "You're enjoying this."
"A little," I admit. "Watching the untouchable Tate Mercer beg? Yeah, it's satisfying. Consider it payback for two years of making my life hell."
I watch the desperation drain from his face, replaced by something harder—the cold mask he wears like armor snapping back into place.
"You think you're so much better than me, don't you? So righteous. The scholarship saint who wouldn't stoop to blackmail."
"I didn't say I was a saint." I tilt my head, studying him. "I said I don't want your money."
The words hang in the air between us and Tate goes still, his eyes narrowing as he catches the implication. "That implies you want something else."
I open my mouth to deny it… And then just stop.
Because suddenly, looking at Tate Mercer standing in front of me, desperate to protect his brother, willing to pay any price I name... an idea begins to form.
A terrible, brilliant, completely insane idea.
My poll numbers flash through my mind. Sloane's rumors. The cafeteria incident. Every blocked path, every closed door, every wall I can't climb alone.
"Actually," I say slowly, a new smile spreading across my face—not mocking this time, but calculating, "maybe there is something you can do for me."
Tate's eyes narrow further. "What?"
I take my time, let the tension build, let him sweat. Then I simply say: "I want you to be my boyfriend."
The silence stretches like a held breath as Tate stares at me like I've sprouted a second head. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
I keep my voice casual, like we're discussing the weather.
"Fake, obviously. You play the devoted boyfriend—walk me to class, eat lunch with me, make it very clear to everyone at this school that I'm under your protection. The bullying stops, my reputation changes—and I win the student council election."
"You're insane."
"Probably." I shrug. "But I'm also the only person standing between your brother's secret and the entire world. So let's call it... mutually beneficial insanity. You get my continued silence about Ezra and as long as you hold up your end, I hold up mine."
His jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "That sounds a lot like blackmail, Valdez."
"Call it whatever you want. I call it mutual benefit." I pause, then add more quietly: "I'm not asking you to like me or for you to change. I'm asking you to pretend for a few months. Help me win, help your brother stay safe, and then we never have to speak again."
Tate is breathing harder now, his chest rising and falling beneath his practice jersey.
I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—pride versus pragmatism, hatred versus necessity. His hands clench and unclench around the useless envelope of cash.
"The governor's son," he says quietly, almost to himself, "dating the girl from Southside. My father would have a stroke."
"Sounds like a bonus to me."
Something flickers across his face—not quite a smile, but close. Then it's gone, replaced by cold calculation. He steps closer, deliberately invading my space. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
He's trying to intimidate me.
It's not working.
He steps closer still, close enough that I can see the individual dark flecks in his blue eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body from practice. His voice drops to something low and dangerous.
"You've got the nerve, I'll give you that." He studies my face like he's searching for weakness. "The scholarship girl from Southside, trying to put a leash on the governor's son."
"Is that a yes or a no, Mercer?"
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I watch the war play out across his features—pride battling necessity, hatred wrestling with pragmatism. His jaw works like he's physically chewing on the decision.
Then his shoulders drop, almost imperceptibly. The fight bleeds out of his posture, leaving behind something that looks almost like dark amusement.
"Fine," he says. "I'll be your fake boyfriend, Valdez. I'll play your little game."
Relief floods through me, but before I can respond, he leans in. His mouth hovers near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
"But hear me clearly," he murmurs. "When this is over, you're going to regret the day you thought you could control me."
He pulls back, his eyes glittering with something between promise and threat.
Then he walks away, leaving me standing alone in the empty council room, my heart pounding for reasons I absolutely refuse to examine.