Page 38 of Carved in Ruin

“Meet you?” I sound like a parrot.

“Yes,” he says, “just for a quick coffee. How about the café downtown? The one with those oversized mugs of coffee everyone seems to love. Do you know the one?”

I nod, even though he can’t see. “Yes, I know it.” It’s been all over Instagram.

“Perfect. Can you be there in about an hour?”

I hesitate, glancing back into my room, where the air feels stifling despite the open window. Leaving right now feels risky, but staying here feels worse. “Yeah,” I say finally. “I can make it.”

“Good,” he mutters, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you soon.”

The line clicks off, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. What could he possibly want?

I pull on a pair of jeans and a wool top, grateful for how much easier it is to manage my hair now that it’s been chopped short. I clip it back, apply a thin layer of concealer under my eyes, and swipe on some lipstick so I don’t look like a walking corpse. Tossing on my coat, I head out through the back door.

Facing my father isn’t an option right now. The guards at the gate don’t even glance in my direction as I pass. No surprise, they’re in Rafael’s pocket. Whatever his reasons, I know they won’t snitch.

Sliding into a cab, I give the address for the café and sink into the seat, trying not to let my nerves get the best of me. When I arrive, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hits me. I scan the room, phone in hand, about to call him when I spot him sitting to the far right, nursing a black coffee.

Taking a breath, I move toward him. He stands when he sees me, extending his hand with a warm smile.

“Thanks for coming,” he says as we shake hands.

“Of course,” I reply.

We sit, and the waitress appears almost instantly. “Black coffee,” I say, mirroring his order.

I wrap my hands around the mug when it arrives, the heat seeping into my cold fingers. He takes a sip, and I follow suit, though my hands tremble slightly.

“So,” I start, breaking the silence. “You said you had a proposition?”

“Do you have a bachelor’s degree?” he asks casually.

I nod. “Yes.”

“In what field?”

“English literature.”

He raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “That doesn’t suit you.”

I laugh, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. “I know,” I admit. “It really doesn’t.”

He chuckles, but then his expression shifts to something more serious. “The university has a new program,” he begins, leaning forward. “It’s a master’s in physics, designed for students with diverse academic backgrounds. It’s for people like you—those who might not have followed a traditional path but have the potential to excel.”

My breath catches. For a moment, I’m certain I can hear angels singing. This is it. This is what I’ve always wanted. But before I can let myself get carried away, reality slams into me like a brick wall.

“How does that work?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You’d start with a preparatory year to cover the foundational courses,” he explains. “Once you complete that, you’d transition into the master’s program.”

I hesitate, remembering the grim state of reality. “Professor…” I begin, but he holds up a hand.

“Elliot,” he insists.

“Elliot,” I repeat, my voice faltering. “I’m not in a good financial position right now. I can’t afford tuition fees.”

He pauses, his brows furrowing in thought. Then, to my surprise, he reaches across the table and places his hand lightly over mine.

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