Page 4 of Checks & Bonds

I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother’s number. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

"Hi Mom, it's Freya," I started, my voice shaky. "I know you're busy but if you could call me back when you get a chance... I just—" My throat tightened, and I blinked back tears. "I need to talk to someone about this."

A couple of students nearly collided with me as they hurried past, jolting me out of my emotional spiral.

"Watch it," one of them muttered.

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. "Sorry," I mumbled into the phone. "Just... please call me when you can."

Hanging up, I slipped my phone back into my pocket and continued walking. The card in my hand felt heavier with each step.

I slipped it into my pocket and trudged toward my next class, thoughts churning like a storm inside me. The idea of belongingto someone, even if it meant escaping Henry, gnawed at me. I didn't want to be bound by anyone's rules, not Henry's and certainly not some secret society's.

I paused for a moment, watching a group of students laughing together under the cherry blossoms. Their carefree attitudes made my situation feel even more suffocating. All I wanted was my own freedom, to make my own choices without being tethered to anyone else's expectations or demands. But was that even possible for me? I couldn’t choose my parents… though sometimes it felt like they wished they could choose me.

I hurried along the path, joining the flow of students heading to their classes. My next class was Ethics in Modern Society, an irony that wasn’t lost on me given the ethical dilemmas I was currently wrestling with.

As I entered the classroom, I slid into a seat near the back, hoping to avoid any attention. Professor Kline was already writing on the board, her neat handwriting forming bullet points onMoral Relativism. My mind drifted as she started her lecture. Rebecca’s words kept replaying in my head: "Protection isn't free."

What did that even mean? Would Jensen really claim me just to spite Henry? And if he did, what kind of price would I have to pay? The idea of swapping one set of chains for another filled me with dread.

“Miss Reynolds?” Professor Kline’s voice cut through my thoughts.

I looked up, realizing she’d called on me.

“Can you give us an example of moral relativism in contemporary society?” she asked, her eyes sharp and expectant.

I cleared my throat, trying to pull my scattered thoughts together. “Uh, sure,” I began hesitantly. “Moral relativism can be seen in different cultural practices and how they’re judged byoutsiders... Like arranged marriages might be seen as oppressive by some but are considered normal in other cultures.”

Professor Kline nodded approvingly and moved on with her lecture, but my mind wandered again. Arranged marriages—how fitting. Here I was, in one myself.

I needed an escape route that didn't involve trading one prison for another. But with every option looking like another form of captivity, the possibility of true freedom seemed like a distant dream. As much as I wished otherwise, being someone like me meant that dream might always be out of reach.

Class dragged on as I sat there, wrestling with the weight of decisions that felt impossible to make.

2

Henry

The dimly lit room smelled of aged leather and cedar, an odd combination that somehow always made my nose itch. Shelves crammed with ancient tomes lined the walls, their spines cracked and faded from years of handling. A long, oak table stretched across the center, its surface cluttered with parchment, ink bottles, and quills that looked more decorative than functional. My fingers drummed against the polished wood as I glanced at the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

The raven's eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved, its black feathers rendered in such detail they almost looked real. It perched on a branch against a backdrop of swirling shadows, symbolizing both mystery and intelligence—the core tenets of Ravenwood.

I hated being here. My mind wandered to the ice rink where my teammates were probably gearing up for practice. I had been looking forward to it all week.

"Henry, focus," came a sharp voice from the end of the table.

I turned my head and met Mr. Collins' stern gaze. His gray hair was neatly combed back, and his piercing blue eyes never seemed to miss anything.

"I'm here," I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

"Your mind is clearly elsewhere," he countered, raising an eyebrow.

I clenched my fists under the table. "I have hockey practice soon. We're in the playoffs."

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the room.

"This is more important," Mr. Collins said flatly. "Ravenwood’s work takes precedence over personal activities."

---