Page 11 of Legacy
“What do I do?” she echoes, then tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She bites her lip—fuck, that mouth—and says softly, “I’m a student.”
My stomach drops.
Shit.
No.No.
I lean back, suddenly needing distance, clarity, air. “How old are you?” I ask, already bracing for the fallout.
She hesitates. “Eighteen.”
My jaw clenches. Eight years apart. She’s legal.Barely.And I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disgusted with myself.
“Please tell me you’re not still in high school,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I can see Santo’s smug face now.
Her cheeks flush again, and I can tell she feels the shift. “No,” she says quickly. “I graduated early. I’m actually in college now. Pre-law.”
That catches me off guard. “College?”
She nods, still a little hesitant. “Yeah. I finished high school early. I didn’t want to wait around, so I took extra credits and skipped ahead.”
I stare at her for a second too long, trying to decide if this is some elaborate cover or if she’s really telling the truth. But the look in her eyes—determined, slightly nervous, proud—tells me she means it.
“I guess that makes you a prodigy,” I say, smirking.
She blushes again, then shrugs. “I just work hard.”
I nod slowly, processing. “So you’re studying law?”
“Mmhm,” she hums. “That’s the plan. Well,myplan.”
I exhale slowly. She’s a genius. I should end this. I should.
But then I ask, “Why? Why do you say it like that?”
Her shoulders rise, then fall. That smile she wore a moment ago fades.
“It’s complicated,” she says, then amends, “It’s my family. They have other plans for me.”
I nod once, jaw tight. That, I understand. Better than she knows. Family plans. Family pressure. Family power.
It crushes you, even when you learn to smile through it.
Our conversation flows like the rosé in our glasses, easy, smooth, deceptively light. Each sip loosens our tongues, each pause filled with laughter or quiet understanding. Scarlet tells me about her family, not in detail, but enough to draw the shape of the cage she lives in. There’s weight behind her words, a kind of guilt she tries to hide but can’t quite bury. The way she talks about staying for them, sacrificing her own future—it’s too familiar.
I picture her in some high-profile political family, the kind that throws parties with too much money and not enough love. She fits the image—refined, poised, always careful. But the real her leaks through in moments. In the way she fidgets. In the way her voice softens when she talks about what she really wants.
She wants to be a lawyer to help people. Her eyes shine when she says it, her whole face lighting up. She gestures with her hands, painting courtroom scenes in the air between us. I tease her, telling her I only know about the law from binge-watching Law and Order.
She laughs, calls me a dork, and we spend half an hour arguing over which show has the best detectives.
Time slips past unnoticed.
Somehow, without meaning to, we’ve curled into each other—shoulders brushing, her feet tucked under her as she leans into me as she speaks.She runs her fingers along the rim of her glass, lost in thought, and I find myself watching every small movement like it matters.Like she matters.
The soft glow from the nearby lamp paints her skin in amber and rose, and her laughter…
That gorgeous laugh, it gets under my skin in a way I didn’t sign up for. Her brown eyes sparkle when she looks at me, her smile slow and real, and it hits me harder than it should.
