The silence in my apartment at the Quad felt like an accusation.
I was slumped on the Italian leather sofa, a glass of neat bourbon sweating in my hand. The campus lights blurred through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a distorted sea of amber and white. Usually, this view made me feel like I owned the world—a king looking down at his domain.
Tonight, it just made me feel like I was sitting in a very expensive, very lonely glass cage.
"You're just like the man you hate."
Maya's voice was a splinter in my brain, vibrating in the corners of the ceiling, mocking the high-end sound system that was currently humming a low, electronic static. I took a long pull of the bourbon, letting the burn coat my throat, but it couldn't drown out the clinical precision of her "autopsy" from the café. She hadn't just seen through the move; she'd seen through the man making it.
She has done it before, and she did it again. What is it with this girl?
I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, but that only made the memory sharper. I could still smell that faint scent of old paper and jasmine that clung to her. I could still see the way the amber light of Café Rosé had caught the sharp, intelligent line of her jaw when she told me I was my father's twin.
"He left all at once; you leave in small increments every single night."
She'd reached across that table and slapped the "King" right off my face without even raising her voice. I'd spent my entire life building a fortress of indifference, making sure I was the one who walked away first, and in one rainy hour, a girl with a law textbook had dismantled the whole structure.
My phone vibrated on the marble coffee table. The sharp buzz-buzz echoed against the minimalist decor.
I ignored it.
It vibrated again.
And again.
The persistence was annoying, but I knew that rhythm. It wasn't Jax looking for a party, or some girl looking for a "late-night talk."
I glanced at the screen. Mother.
I felt a familiar tightness in my chest—a cold, jagged knot that had been there since I was old enough to realize my mother's love was a performance based on my GPA and my social standing. I picked up on the fourth ring.
"Mother."
"Cole? You actually answered," her voice was sharp, polished, and perpetually disappointed. I could almost hear the click of her heels on the marble floors of the estate. "I was starting to think you'd changed your number and forgotten to tell me."
"I've been busy," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. "Third year isn't a walk in the park. The workload for Business Economics is heavy this semester, and the case studies are stacking up."
"It's been months, Cole. And I have a major milestone to celebrate—the acquisition of the Sterling group is finally finalized. It's the largest merger I've overseen in five years."
She didn't ask how I was. She didn't ask if I was eating or sleeping. She just moved straight to the bottom line. Such a loving mother she's always been.
"I'm hosting a dinner at the estate this Saturday," she continued, her tone shifting into the command-style she used with her board of directors. "There will be people there you need to know. Board members, investors, names that will matter when you graduate next year. I expect you there at seven. No excuses."
"I can't," I snapped, leaning forward and rubbing my temples. "I have exams. Major ones. I'm practically living in the library trying to keep my head above water."
There was a dry, hollow laugh on the other end.
"Exams. Last month it was the Lacrosse mid-season qualifiers. The month before that, it was some 'essential' networking event you couldn't miss. You've been using the same script for a long time, darling. It's getting predictable. You have exactly one year left to start building the alliances that will sustain your future. I didn't work this hard to keep the St. James name relevant for you to spend your final year hiding in a dorm room."
"It's an apartment," I corrected, though it felt petty even as I said it.
"An apartment I got for you with my hard earned money so that you, Cole St.James, don't forget that you're not a commoner and shouldn't act like one. Saturday," she pressed. "Seven o'clock. I'm also inviting the Sterling's daughter. She's finishing her MBA, and her family is someone we need to stay close to. Don't make me call the Dean to verify your 'exam' schedule, Cole. You know I will."
"Fine," I muttered, the word tasting like ash. "Saturday. I'll be there."
"Good. Wear the navy suit I bought you. It hides how tired you look. And for heaven's sake, try to look like you're enjoying the life I've provided for you."
She hung up without a goodbye.
I stared at the dark screen, the "King of the Quad" feeling remarkably small. I stood up, the bourbon suddenly tasting like chemical waste, and grabbed my keys. I needed to move. I needed to get out of this apartment that suddenly felt like a museum dedicated to a life I didn't even want.
I headed down to the parking garage and climbed into my truck. The heavy engine roared to life, a low-frequency vibration that usually calmed me down, but tonight it felt like static. As I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, I saw it.
Tucked into the shadows of the floorboard, half-hidden by the leather seat, was a thick, leather-bound Law textbook. Property Law: Cases and Commentary. On the inside cover, in neat, minimalist handwriting, was a single name: Maya.
I picked it up. It was heavy, the edges slightly worn from use. It didn't smell like the expensive, floral perfumes the girls at the clubs wore; it smelled like old paper, ink, and caffeine.
I knew I should just throw it in the storage compartment and go to the gym. But as I looked at her name—so simple and unpretentious—I realized I wanted to see the world of a girl who could dismantle me. I wanted to see the "reality" she talked about, the one that supposedly made my life look like a performance.
I backed out of the space and turned the wheel away from the university district.
The drive to the outskirts of the city was a slow descent from the artificial perfection I was used to. The further I got from The Quad, the more the world started to look... lived-in. The houses here were high-middle-class—sturdy, double-story homes with limestone accents and perfectly trimmed hedges that spoke of owners who valued privacy and long-term stability.
The Heights was a neighborhood of old trees, wide driveways, and quiet, expensive architectural choices. These weren't the "new money" mansions of my mother's circle. There were no security guards at a gate, but the street was lined with high-end SUVs and the kind of silence that only comes from a zip code where everyone has a professional degree.
I pulled up to the address I had dropped her off at last night. It was a colonial-style house with a deep-set porch and a solid red door that looked like it had been freshly painted. There was a sense of order here that felt different from my mother's estate; it wasn't intimidating, but it was unmistakably "solid."
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror and straightened the collar of my jacket. I stepped out, the textbook heavy in my hand, and walked up the paved stone path. My heart was thumping in a way it never did during a Lacrosse match.
I knocked.
I expected Maya to answer with a look of bored irritation.
Instead, the door swung open to reveal a woman who looked exactly like a softer, warmer version of the girl I was trying to break. She had the same sharp eyes, but they were filled with a kind of genuine light that made me feel like I was trespassing. She was wearing an apron and had a smudge of flour on her cheek.
"Oh! Hello," she said, her voice bright and welcoming. "Can I help you?"