Chapter 3

Layla’s POV

I sat in the clinic chair as the nurse finished bandaging the laceration on my arm.

The door banged open. Dylan stormed in, instantly grabbing me by my freshly bandaged wound.

Pain spiked through my nerves. Tears leaped into my eyes.

"Give up your fast-track master’s nomination," Dylan demanded, his voice devoid of warmth. "Transfer the spot to Chloe."

I gritted my teeth, leaned forward, and sank my teeth savagely into the back of his hand.

Dylan hissed in pain, releasing his grip. I scrambled back toward the wall.

He took two aggressive strides, pinning me against the plaster, trapping both of my wrists above my head in a vise grip.

"You bit me?" He leaned in, his breath hitting my cheek. "You're getting brave, Layla."

"I'll say it once more: forfeit your nomination to Chloe."

"Never," I locked eyes with him, spitting out each syllable.

"Your mother's hospital bills," Dylan smiled cruelly. "How much longer do you think Harrison Vance will keep paying them? One word from me, and the hospital pulls the plug on her meds tomorrow."

My entire body went rigid.

I stared at the face in front of me. The face I had adored for years.

Then, breaking one wrist free, I swung my arm and struck him across the cheek.

"Smack."

"Dylan Sterling," my voice shook, but every word fell with deadly precision. "Starting right now, I don't love you anymore."

Dylan’s head was thrown to the side. He slowly turned back, staring at me as if I had spoken in tongues.

"You don't love me?" He laughed, as if hearing the punchline of a bad joke. "Layla, you've chased me like a stray dog for years. You think you can just turn it off?"

He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hallway, intending to force me into the dean's office to sign the withdrawal waiver.

"Let go of me!"

"You sign the paper, then I let go."

We were struggling near the faculty lounge when my academic advisor rounded the corner.

"Sterling! What do you think you're doing?" The professor stepped firmly between us. "A fellowship withdrawal must be signed willingly by the candidate. Who do you think you are to touch her?"

Dylan’s expression darkened. He let go.

I hit the floor, my wrists bruised with dark red welts.

I dragged myself up, walked back to my dorm room, and stared at the ceiling.

Since childhood, I had taken the blame for Dylan twelve times.

When he skipped finals to play video games, I lied to the dean, saying he was fixing my laptop. When he got into a brawl and shattered someone’s jaw, I bowed to the victim’s parents, claiming it was my fault. The year his father was indicted, he smashed a university computer lab in a fit of rage—I took the disciplinary write-up, saying I knocked the towers over by accident.

One thousand and ninety-five days. One thousand and ninety-five morning meals.

I stupidly believed that if I stayed long enough, stone would turn into a beating heart.

Now I knew: some people are simply born hollow.

I thought of my mother.

Behind my father’s back, when I turned eighteen, my mother had transferred all of her pre-marital assets, private funds, and personal family trusts into my name. Over the years, managed discreetly, that portfolio had multiplied several times over.

Financially, I didn't need a single cent from Harrison Vance.

I pulled out my phone and booked an international flight.

The next morning, I visited the cardiac specialty hospital to meet my mother’s attending physician, finalizing every detail of an overseas medical evacuation.

Standing outside her room, I gazed through the observation window.

My mother lay beneath the thin sheets, frail and gaunt.

I lifted a hand to push the door open, then hesitated.

The cuts on my arms hadn't healed. The bruises on my face were still dark.

I couldn't let her see me like this.

I stood by the glass for a long time, swallowed my tears, and turned away.

That evening, the villa was deserted. My father had taken Melinda and Chloe out for an upscale dinner. The house was cold and dead.

The following day, I took an official leave of absence from campus, packing my clothes, research notes, and personal items into shipping crates bound for the airport.

On the third day, I returned to campus in a long-sleeved turtleneck, hiding every mark on my skin.

Walking through the quad, I noticed people staring.

Whispers followed every step I took. Pointed fingers, quiet sneers.

I had no idea what was coming.