Three days after the charity auction, I was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened to my carefully planned low-profile strategy. Between the gossip blogs, Emily's well-meaning social networking, and my apparent inability to keep my mouth shut around Ryan Hale, I was beginning to feel like I was losing control of my own mission.
Which was exactly why I needed to get back to basics. Research. Investigation. The kind of methodical information gathering that had gotten me this far.
The Westbridge library's business archives were housed in the basement level, accessible only with special permission and a faculty escort. But I'd discovered that the graduate student research assistants were much more flexible about access requirements, especially if you approached them during their late-night study sessions when they were tired and stressed and not particularly interested in checking credentials too carefully.
"Just sign here," the exhausted-looking PhD candidate mumbled, barely glancing at my student ID. "Third stack from the left. No food or drinks. Lock up when you leave."
Perfect.
I'd been down there for three hours, methodically working through boxes of corporate records from the early 2000s, looking for any mention of Carter Technology or the companies that had been involved in its destruction. The work was tedious, but I was finally starting to piece together a clearer picture of what had happened to my family's empire.
What I was finding was disturbing.
Carter Technology hadn't just been destroyed by a hostile takeover. The attacks had been coordinated, systematic, and incredibly sophisticated. Someone had orchestrated a multi-pronged assault involving stock manipulation, patent challenges, supplier boycotts, and media campaigns—all timed perfectly to create maximum damage with minimal legal exposure.
And buried in the financial records, I kept seeing the same names. Hale Corporation. Miller & Associates Legal Services. Blackstone Investment Group.
All families whose children now attended Westbridge University. All families whose children I'd met in the past week.
My phone buzzed with a text from Emily: Study group at 8. Coffee? You've been in that basement all day.
I glanced at my watch. 7:15 PM. I'd lost track of time completely, and my neck was killing me from hunching over archival documents for hours.
On my way up, I texted back. Need caffeine and actual human interaction.
I gathered my notes—carefully coded, of course, in case anyone decided to take a closer look—and headed for the elevator. The basement level was eerily quiet after hours, with most of the overhead lights turned off and only the emergency lighting casting long shadows between the stacks.
The elevator was slow, ancient, and made concerning creaking noises that suggested it was probably older than I was. But it eventually deposited me on the main floor, where the familiar sounds of student life provided a comforting contrast to the tomb-like silence of the archives.
The campus was beautiful at this time of evening. October in Massachusetts meant the leaves were starting to turn, painting the quad in shades of gold and crimson that made even the most stressed-out student stop and appreciate the view. The air was crisp but not cold, perfect for the kind of contemplative walk that helped clear your head after hours of research.
I was walking along the main path toward the student center, mentally organizing my findings and trying to figure out my next move, when I heard the engine.
It was loud—too loud for the 15 mph campus speed limit. And it was getting closer.
I looked up to see a black SUV barreling down the campus road at what had to be at least 40 mph, headed straight for the crosswalk I was about to enter.
For a split second, I froze. The vehicle was maybe fifty feet away and not slowing down. The driver should have seen me—the crosswalk was well-lit, and I was wearing a bright blue jacket that should have been visible from a mile away.
But the SUV wasn't stopping.
I dove backward, trying to get out of the way, but my backpack caught on something and I stumbled. The vehicle was maybe twenty feet away now, close enough that I could see the tinted windshield and the way the headlights were aimed directly at me.
This wasn't an accident.
"Lena!"
Strong hands grabbed me around the waist, yanking me backward with enough force to lift me completely off my feet. We went tumbling across the grass in a tangle of limbs and backpack straps, rolling several feet before coming to a stop.
The SUV roared past, missing us by maybe three feet, and disappeared around the corner toward the campus exit.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might actually burst out of my chest, and my hands were shaking with adrenaline and terror.
"Are you hurt?" The voice was familiar, concerned, and very close to my ear.
I opened my eyes to find myself lying on the grass with Ryan Hale's arms wrapped around me, his body positioned protectively between me and the road. His face was inches from mine, his blue eyes wide with worry and something that looked like fury.
"I'm okay," I managed, though my voice came out shakier than I'd intended. "I think."
Ryan didn't let go immediately. Instead, he carefully helped me sit up, his hands gentle but thorough as he checked for injuries. "You're bleeding," he said, touching my elbow where I'd scraped it during our dramatic tumble.
"It's just a scrape." I looked down at the torn fabric of my jacket and the raw skin underneath. "Nothing serious."
"Nothing serious?" Ryan's voice was tight with an emotion I couldn't identify. "Lena, that car was aimed right at you. If I hadn't been walking behind you—"
He didn't finish the sentence, but I could fill in the blanks. If he hadn't been there, if he hadn't reacted as quickly as he had, I would probably be in the hospital right now. Or worse.
"Thank you," I said softly. "I don't know how to—"
"Don't," he said firmly. "You don't need to thank me for that."
We were still sitting on the grass, and I was suddenly very aware of how close we were. Close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, close enough to notice that his usually perfect hair was messed up from our dramatic rescue scene, close enough that when he spoke, I could feel his breath against my skin.
"Ryan," I started, not sure what I was going to say.
"We need to call campus security," he said, but he didn't move away. "That wasn't an accident."
"What do you mean?"
"The speed, the way the driver was aimed directly at the crosswalk, the fact that they didn't even try to brake." Ryan's expression was grim. "Someone was trying to hurt you."
The words sent a chill down my spine, partly because they confirmed what I'd already suspected, and partly because they meant someone had escalated from anonymous threats to actual physical danger.
"That's crazy," I said, trying to sound more convinced than I felt. "Why would anyone want to hurt me? I'm nobody."
Ryan's laugh was bitter. "Lena, you are definitely not nobody."
Something in his tone made me look at him sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something important. His expression was intense, like he was weighing whether to share a secret that could change everything. But then his phone rang, breaking the moment.
"Marcus," he answered, his voice immediately shifting into business mode. "No, I'm fine. But we have a situation... Yes, on campus... I'll explain later."
He hung up and turned back to me. "My head of security. He monitors campus police frequencies as a precaution."
"Your head of security?" I stared at him. "Ryan, you're a college student. Why do you have a head of security?"
"Because my family has enemies," he said simply. "And apparently, so do you."
Before I could ask what he meant by that, campus security arrived—two officers in a golf cart who looked like they'd been called away from something much more interesting than a traffic incident.
"Everyone okay here?" the older officer asked, climbing out of the cart with the kind of resigned expression that suggested he dealt with this kind of thing regularly.
"We're fine," Ryan said, standing and offering me his hand. "But someone just tried to run down a student in the crosswalk."
The younger officer looked skeptical. "Tried to run down? Are you sure it wasn't just someone driving too fast?"
"I'm sure," Ryan said, and there was something in his voice that made both officers pay closer attention. "The vehicle was a black SUV, license plate obscured, tinted windows. Speed approximately 40 mph in a 15 mph zone. No attempt to brake or swerve when the pedestrian was clearly visible."
The older officer was writing this down in a notebook that looked like it had seen better days. "Did either of you get a look at the driver?"
"The windows were tinted," I said. "But the SUV looked expensive. Not the kind of car a student would drive."
"We'll file a report," the officer said, but his tone suggested that was probably as far as the investigation would go. "In the future, please be careful crossing campus roads. Some people don't pay as much attention as they should."
After the officers left, Ryan and I stood there in awkward silence for a moment. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving me feeling shaky and confused.
"You saved my life," I said finally.
"Maybe." Ryan was studying the crosswalk with the kind of analytical focus I was starting to recognize. "Lena, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
My stomach dropped. "Okay."
"Is there anything about your background, your family, your life before Westbridge, that might make someone want to hurt you?"
The question hit too close to home. Of course there were things about my background that might make someone want to hurt me. The question was how much Ryan already knew, and whether I could trust him with the truth.
"No," I lied. "Nothing I can think of."
Ryan studied my face for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through me. "Are you sure? Because from where I'm standing, someone seems very interested in making sure you don't get too comfortable at Westbridge."
"What do you mean?"
"The anonymous texts, the mysterious payment of your housing fees, the fact that someone just tried to turn you into roadkill." Ryan ticked off the items on his fingers. "Either you have the worst luck in the world, or someone's trying to send you a message."
I wanted to argue with him, to insist that he was being paranoid, but the evidence was pretty compelling. Someone was definitely sending me messages, and those messages were getting increasingly violent.
"Ryan," I said carefully, "how do you know about the texts and the housing payment?"
His expression shuttered. "I have my sources."
"What kind of sources?"
"The kind that keep track of potential threats to people I care about."
The words hung between us like a confession. People he cared about. When had I become someone Ryan Hale cared about?
"You barely know me," I said.
"I know enough." His voice was quiet but certain. "I know you're intelligent, careful, and hiding something important. I know you have enemies you haven't told me about. And I know that if someone's trying to hurt you, I'm not going to let them succeed."
The intensity in his voice made something flutter in my chest—a combination of gratitude, attraction, and terror that was becoming all too familiar when it came to Ryan Hale.
"Why?" I asked. "Why do you care what happens to me?"
For a moment, he looked like he was going to give me another evasive answer. Then his expression softened, and he stepped closer.
"Because," he said, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair away from my face, "I think you might be the most interesting person I've ever met. And I'm not ready to let someone take that away from me."
His touch was gentle, careful, but it sent electricity shooting through my entire nervous system. We were standing too close again, the way we had in the library, the way we had at the auction. But this time, instead of pulling away, I found myself leaning into his touch.
"Lena," he said softly, and there was something in his voice that made my breath catch.
"Yeah?"
"I think someone's watching us."
The words were like a bucket of cold water. I stepped back, suddenly aware of how exposed we were standing in the middle of the campus quad under the bright security lights.
"Where?" I asked.
"Don't look," Ryan said, casually adjusting his position so he could see over my shoulder. "Black sedan parked across the street. Tinted windows, engine running."
"Campus security?"
"Wrong kind of car." Ryan's voice was grim. "And they've been there since before the incident."
"You think they're connected to the SUV?"
"I think we should get you somewhere safe while I make some phone calls."
Something about the way he said it—the casual assumption that he would be making phone calls about attempted vehicular assault—reminded me that Ryan Hale wasn't just a college student. He was the heir to a billion-dollar empire, with the kind of resources and connections that came with that territory.
"Ryan," I said, "what exactly do you think is happening here?"
"I think," he said, taking my hand and leading me toward the student center, "that someone doesn't want you poking around in things that aren't your business. The question is whether they know exactly who you are, or whether they're just trying to scare off a curious transfer student."
"And which do you think it is?"
Ryan glanced back at the black sedan, which was still sitting there with its engine running. "I think," he said quietly, "that we're about to find out."
As we walked toward the brightly lit safety of the student center, I caught sight of a figure in one of the upper-floor windows of the business school. Too far away to make out details, but something about the silhouette seemed familiar.
By the time I looked again, the figure was gone.
But the feeling that someone was watching, evaluating, planning, remained.
Ryan was right about one thing—someone definitely didn't want me getting too comfortable at Westbridge. The question was whether they were trying to protect me or eliminate me.
And increasingly, I was beginning to suspect it might be both.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mysterious protector: Stay close to the Hale boy tonight. Some protection is better than none. Tomorrow we talk. - A friend
I showed the message to Ryan, who read it with a frown.
"Interesting," he said.
"What's interesting about it?"
"The timing. And the fact that whoever sent this knows I'm here with you right now."
I looked around the student center, suddenly aware that any of the people studying, eating, or just hanging out could be watching us. "Ryan, I'm scared."
"Good," he said, squeezing my hand. "Scared people are careful people. And right now, careful is what's going to keep you alive."
As we found a table in the most crowded, well-lit section of the building, I couldn't shake the feeling that tonight had changed something fundamental. The game, whatever it was, had just gotten a lot more dangerous.
And for the first time since arriving at Westbridge, I wasn't sure if I was the player or the prize.