Page 8 of Vengeful Queen

“You want to go to the Airbnb?” he asks. “Anything you want to do, love. We’ll do it.”

He called me love, but I bite my lips, hiding the smile. Frowning, I shake my head. “No, I’ve missed too many classes. I’ll wear dark shades, and we’ll hang out together in class.” I look at him with big eyes. I know it’s needy, but I do it anyway. Is it shameful to admit I need the man who wants to use me? Or that I love him?

“We have an hour before we have to get up.” Hudson pulls me flat onto the bed and into his soothing grasp. “Try to get some rest. I’m here, Charlotte. This shit won’t happen again.”

***

“Class. The board is up in the front of the room.”

The moment I enter the lecture hall, the whispering starts until it rises into full-blown conversations. Men leer and lewdly make remarks loud enough to be heard while women glare hate and hiss the word slut, sounding like pipes losing steam. It doesn’t stop when the lecture starts, resulting in the professor’s terse announcement.

People scroll through their phones and then ogle me before laughing. My face hardens as my chin sets into a hard line. Old Charlotte slips back into my consciousness while the person I want to be takes off running and hides. I keep my sunglasses on during class and scowl from behind the dark lenses. Hudson sits on one side and Asher on the other. I have to hold onto their arms to keep them from jumping out of their seats and going after the gawkers. Laugh now, and later, I’ll make them beg for my forgiveness.

When class is over, we wait for the room to clear out before leaving. I’m not scurrying away like a vagrant running from decent folk. Hypocrites. While I wait, I scroll through my feed, and a message stands out. A message from the dean’s office marked “urgent,” requesting me to contact them urgently.

“It must be important if they use the word urgent twice,” replies Hudson, looking over my shoulder.

“I’m not making an appointment,” I state defiantly. “I’m going right over as soon as I get my checkbook.” I ignore the look Asher and Hudson exchange and flip my hair as if nobody’s opinion of me matters except mine.

The dean of students has office hours on campus, but I make it clear that I’ll speak to him today at the president’s house, where he has an office. I’m not ruminating for the next twenty-four hours over what he’ll say to me. After I check his hours, I return to Buckley Manor in Scenic Hill. The interior details of the mansion are even more impressive in the daylight, from the polished woodwork to the antiquarian books lining the walls. I walk down a long hallway concealed from the reception area toward his study. I look at the tall grandfather clock at the end of the hall with a celestial image etched into the face. It’s almost four, and I wonder how long before I can leave.

Dean Henry Jefferies sits behind an antique oak desk with his attention on his screen like a high school kid. He places the tablet down, and though I don’t want to look at the image on the screen, I do. A large screaming emoji discreetly covers my mouth and Jaxon’s cock. The clickbait reads Heiress is a Sex Worker. I look away and pretend I didn’t notice it.

Jefferies is silent, and I am too. I refuse to be rattled and stare off into space. The clock ticks in the hallway as we wait. He cracks first.

“Have you seen the news?” he pauses a second. “It’s a rhetorical question.”

“And what’s the answer?” I speak calmly in a monotone without anger. Being agreeable will only help me to walk out the door faster. But part of me wants this meeting on my own terms. I eye him coolly.

“We live in a digital age where alternative behaviors are more commonplace,” he says, “But Ivymore University wishes to maintain and protect a traditional and honorable way of life that’s slipping away at a rapid rate. The university wants to create a workable balance between the two. And to do so, we must adhere to a code of decency that may seem old-fashioned to your generation. Your chosen vocation is impacting negatively upon Ivymore’s reputation, Ms. Howland. I’m afraid that we are asking you to leave the school.”

So this is what Astrid had to deal with all the time at Stonehaven. I watch him with my full attention until he’s done lecturing me with doublespeak. “May I say something in my defense?” He nods, and I continue, “My father didn’t approve of my choice of Ivymore despite its Ivy League reputation. So I had to pay my own way with little assistance.”

“We have financial assistance,” he interrupts.

“It doesn’t cover the cost of books, fees, meals, and transportation. It barely covers housing or clubs that look good on a CV. Too bad Ivymore’s quaint image of education doesn’t cover the actual cost of an education. My vocation was chosen out of need. Little girls don’t grow up dreaming of becoming sex workers. I’m not proud of what I had to do, but I’m proud that I made it. It would be useful to figure out a way to help other students do more than just survive.”

“I was unaware of your circumstances,” he replies.

“They aren’t unique, which is a worse shame.” I open my purse. “I’d like to start a scholarship—an emergency fund to cover the unexpected cost of living expenses that trip people up.” His eyes watch my hand as I fill in a check, adding zeros that silence him. I tug the check off the book and place it on top of his tablet, covering my image on the screen. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to help other students to make wiser choices. I’m grateful that Ivymore has stood by me while I was down. I won’t forget it at graduation.”

The threat of expulsion disappears as Dean Jefferies walks me to the front door. He makes pleasant small talk about my studies at Ivymore and plans for after graduation. He extends his hand, and I accept it.

“Ms. Howland, I feel secure that your vocation is in the past, but please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need counsel in the future.”

His smile contains more warmth than sarcasm. And I shake his hand with firm pressure. “I will,” I reply with sincerity as I walk out the door.

The irony tilts my head back as I laugh at the clear sky peeking out among the bare trees. A realization shocks me into grasping my two-faced behavior. I was such a bitch at Gamma, dictating how they looked and acted when I was the one screwing up their reputation and bringing them down with my account.

My phone chimes, and it’s a text from Isabel, asking me to come to the house. I pay the Uber extra to turn around and take me to Gamma instead of the campus, and during the ride, I practice the words I intend to say. I owe my sisters an apology for being old Charlotte. Petty and bitchy wrapped up in shiny status and tied with an expensive bow. It’s not how I should be with them. Not anymore.

The house is eerily silent when I step into the living room. Books and tablets rest on the coffee table between the two facing couches, and several cozy slippers are pushed underneath. It’s as if everyone disappears as soon as I enter the house, carelessly leaving clues behind.

The dry heat in the room warms the tip of my nose. I stop and listen for voices, confused by the emptiness of the place. By the staircase are two large cardboard boxes, and I wonder who’s moving in.

“Charlotte, I didn’t expect you so quickly.” Elina comes down the steps, carrying another box. She places it on top of the others as Isabel enters the room. They exchange a quick glance, then Elina points to the couch.

I can read a room even if no one is in it.

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