Page 209 of Because I Killed Him
I scoff. He has no idea my hatred for this place runs older and deeper than Edmund. “No. But so what if Iwas? You don’t get to judgeme. Who even are you?”
The man’s grin flashes, wide and shameless, as he flicks open his suit jacket to reveal the Grandmaster University badge glinting beneath.
“Jerome, sweetheart. Your brand-spanking-new genetic engineering professor.”
I can’t feel anything with my fake hand, but that was my choice. I wanted a reminder of why I did what I did, what made me crawl out of that river to come home. And that’s why I won’t pity you. Because if you’d had something to live for, you’d still be eating carrots.
—HILLAIRE WALDSTEN, TO A DEAD RABBIT IN THE GARDEN
CHAPTER 50
I walk the whole way back to my suite, my shoes squelching through soggy grass and puddles that soak my ankles in mud. My clothes are drenched in rain, but inside, my heart feels dry and withered, locked so tightly I can’t feel it beat. I force one foot in front of the other, counting each step like penance, murmuring Dad’s words under my breath again and again:Waldstens don’t quit.
The fact that I assaulted my new professor barely crosses my mind. Jerome is just another splatter on a windshield already dark with bodies. He didn’t report me or cancel our meeting for tomorrow, but maybe he will. Maybe I’ll be expelled before I even open my door.
But when I reach my suite, the real loss is waiting, exactly where it hurts. I stand in the middle of the salon, dripping all over the floor, replaying every second in my head, desperate for a clue that explains it. Edmund didn’t love Charles; he hated him. So why was sadness the only thing I saw in his face? Why did he look at me as if he were grieving? It’s the one piece too jagged to swallow, because the rest of it—Edmund’s calm cruelty, even his revenge—I understand.
I know Charlotte said not to betray Edmund. I know she said he doesn’t know how to forgive, but she didn’t see what I saw. She didn’t feel what I felt when he kissed me in that elevator, lifting me into his arms as if hemeant to keep me forever. How does someone hold you like that, then hand you poison and say, “Prove you love me too?”
I don’t understand.
I activate my Bond to message Charlotte, then stop as a cluster of new alerts floods my home screen. The civil credits losses appear first, fines for informal speech and for speaking without a formal introduction to Professor Jerome. And beneath them:
REQUEST TO OFFICIALLY DISSOLVE FORMAL AGREEMENT BETWEEN MR. EDMUND PREW AND MISS LOREDANA WALDSTEN.
I stare in shock, my pulse pounding in my ears. Even after everything, after I hurled the wire daffodil at Edmund and tore open the secret he guards most, he still isn’t removing me from his entourage himself. If he did, he’d have to prove I broke our agreement—which I did, even if I never intended to. The case would go to court, and even with the best lawyer in the Civilized World, I’d lose. I’d be executed, and my family would be dragged through the mud, forever dishonored and shamed.
Instead, Edmund is giving me the chance to end our contract myself by mutual erasure. A mercy that cuts fresh anyway.
I stare at the badge, still glowing on my Bond’s home screen, the mark that says I belong to Edmund Prew’s entourage. My chest clenches as I press ‘Accept.’
FORMAL AGREEMENT VOID. STATUS: TERMINATED.
The badge flickers, then vanishes.
I lower myself shakily onto the bed. The sheets soak up the rainwater from my clothes, but I feel nothing beyond the dark void in my chest where Edmund used to be.
I can’t cry or scream. Even speaking feels like it could split me in two.
Still, I force myself to text Charlotte.“I need to be alone tonight.”
She replies instantly: “I know, Lore. I understand. But let me come over tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t be here. I have to meet a new professor at nine.”
“I’ll come with you. And please don’t say no.”
“Okay,”I reply, and that one word feels like it’s holding the wreckage together.
Then I let everything sit. I let the pain fester in the corners of my mindas I connect my Bond to the Florence Engine and roll onto my back. The projection blinks to life overhead, showing an endless forest of spindly, naked trees, their black-bone branches so frail they look ready to snap under a sigh.
I close my eyes and pretend I can slip into the images, sink through the branches, and disappear, just for tonight.
I can’t imagine tomorrow, next week, or next year. Maybe I won’t come back at all. Let Edmund Prew have Grandmaster University. Let others gossip about the Green who quit because she couldn’t survive her Blue. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I don’t care anymore. Or maybe I’m just talking shit that I’ll be embarrassed about tomorrow, but right now I want to rage. To stew. To sit here, feeling pitiful, wronged, and broken, and let it comfort me.
I’m knee-deep in that bitter daydream—torching everything, erasing myself from the story—when my Bond buzzes with an incoming call from Vivian.
That’s it. One name, and every emotion I’ve been holding back erupts so fiercely that the call almost goes to voicemail before I can answer. When I finally accept, the screen shows Vivian and Hillaire in the middle of a bickering match in Vivian’s bedroom, their voices so loud I’m surprised I can’t hear them from here, without a phone call.
