Braxton's administration wing was made of marble, glass, and quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful—it was expectant. It waited for footsteps to break it, for confessions to echo. Emory's heels clicked in sharp rhythm as she made her way to the Dean's office, summoned by an email with no subject line and no reason. Just: "Ms. Vale. 10 a.m. Sharp."
She wasn't nervous. She was irritated. And that was far more dangerous.
When the receptionist gestured her in, she walked past the heavy doors and froze.
Her mother was sitting across from the Dean.
Genevieve Vale.
Not a hair out of place. Diamond pin on her lapel. A folder open in her lap like she was about to buy the university itself.
"Emory," she said, without even looking up. "How nice of you to join us."
The Dean stood, smiled too tightly, and began to speak. "Miss Vale, we're just—"
"Mother," Emory cut in, ignoring him. "What are you doing here?"
Genevieve stood, brushing invisible lint from her jacket. "Preventing a disaster."
"I'm not failing any classes."
"Your academic standing is not the concern."
Emory's throat tightened. "Then what is?"
Genevieve gestured to the folder. "I've received word of some... behavioral choices. Wandering the grounds after curfew. Skipping reserved hours at the library. A certain masquerade appearance that raised eyebrows."
"You had someone watching me?"
"I have everyone watching you."
The Dean cleared his throat, clearly regretting every life decision that led him here.
Genevieve continued. "As your mother, and as the university's top benefactor, I have a duty to ensure your... path remains clear."
Emory narrowed her eyes. "You don't care about my path. Just the headline when I ruin it."
Genevieve's mouth twitched, but her tone stayed cold. "I'm pulling you from the debate society. You'll be attending etiquette functions twice monthly, and I've arranged a mentor meeting with—"
"I don't need any of that," Emory snapped.
"You need guidance."
"I need air."
"You'll get that on weekends."
Emory turned to the Dean. "Are you just going to let her run this place like one of her galas?"
He lifted his hands helplessly. "Technically, Miss Vale, your mother's endowment—"
"Owns all of you," Emory finished bitterly.
Genevieve stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You're drifting, Emory. And people are starting to notice."
"People like Skye Thorne?"
The name hit like a slap. Just a flicker. Just in her mother's eyes.
"I see," Genevieve murmured. "So that's what this is."
"I don't belong to you," Emory hissed.
"No. But you don't belong to him either."
Genevieve's expression hardened, and her next words fell like snow laced with arsenic. "You forget what happened the last time you got close to someone. He's still wearing the scars."
Emory's spine stiffened. "You had no right to—"
"I had every right. I saved you. From your own recklessness. From what you almost cost this family."
There was silence.
Then Genevieve smoothed her gloves, gathered her folder, and turned to the Dean. "Thank you. I'll see to the new schedule personally."
Emory didn't speak again. Not until she was alone. Not until the sound of her mother's heels vanished down the corridor. Not until the door closed, and her composure cracked like glass beneath frost.
She left the office in silence.
But the fury burned hot beneath her skin.
Two hours later, she sat with Jessie and Mariah outside the library. Jessie was mid-rant about a guy who didn't text her back after stealing her hoodie. Mariah scrolled through gossip forums on her phone, sunglasses perched high like armor.
Emory just sipped her tea. Eyes distant. Body tense.
"Earth to Emory," Jessie called. "Tell me this guy deserves to be blocked, burned, and publicly humiliated."
"Definitely," Emory muttered without listening.
Jessie frowned. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like a rejected vampire."
"Thanks."
Mariah set her phone down. "She had that look before. Sophomore year. Right after the chapel incident."
Jessie blinked. "Wait… are we talking about Skye again?"
Mariah and Jessie both leaned in. Emory exhaled.
"I saw my mother today."
Mariah grimaced. "Oof. In daylight?"
Jessie winced. "That explains the existential crisis face."
"She's… tightening the leash."
Jessie tilted her head. "Because of Skye?"
Emory didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Mariah reached across the table. "You know we'll back you. Right? Even if it's stupid. Even if it's messy. Even if it's kissing-the-devil-under-the-moon insane."
Emory smiled faintly. "Thanks. I think."
Mariah grinned. "You're welcome."
Jessie nodded. "Now, tell me everything. Did he actually say your secret name in the middle of the ballroom? That's what Nick said."
Emory blinked. "Nick?"
Jessie rolled her eyes. "He was being overprotective. Apparently, you 'vanished' for ten minutes, and Skye left through the opposite hallway."
Mariah lifted a brow. "And you came back looking like you'd wrestled your conscience and lost."
"I didn't—"
Jessie gasped. "You did!"
"I didn't do anything," Emory said quickly. "It was just—he was there. He's always there."
Mariah's voice dropped. "Then maybe it's time we find out why."
That evening, a storm rolled in. Thunder low, clouds heavy, skies dark as velvet soaked in ink. Emory returned to her suite and found a single envelope slid under her door. No name. No seal. Just Braxton's crest stamped faintly in gold.
Inside—one printed photo.
A chapel. The chapel.
Two years ago.
And in the center of the frame—her and Skye. Close. Too close.
Not kissing. But close enough that anyone who saw it would wonder.
And behind them, in the shadows, another figure. Blurred. Watching.
On the back of the photo, a message written in red ink.
We all remember the first sin. Especially those who never got to finish it.
No signature.
No hint.
Just the beginning of something darker.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
🖤 End of Chapter Six