Page 31 of Marrying My Professor

This is a means to an end. That's all. I need information, and he's drunk enough to be careless. That's the only reason I'm here, letting him paw at me like I'm a prize he's won at a carnival.

His hands slide up my sides, trying for sensual and landing somewhere closer to a pat-down, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Or crying. I'm not sure which impulse is stronger.

Alexander would never⁠—

No. Stop it. Alexander isn't here. Alexander has spent three weeks avoiding me like I'm contagious. Alexander made his choice, and it wasn't me.

So here I am, in Wesley Carter's bedroom, letting him kiss me like a golden retriever trying to eat my face, because at least Wesley is useful.

"I gotta piss," Wesley mumbles suddenly, pulling back so fast I nearly stumble.

I blink at him, my lips still tingling from the assault. "What?"

"Bathroom," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the ensuite. His eyes are unfocused, glassy in the low light. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

Oh, I'm definitely moving.

He stumbles toward the bathroom, catching himself on the doorframe, and I watch as he disappears inside. The door doesn't close all the way—amateur move, Wesley—and I hear the unmistakable sound of him fumbling with his belt buckle.

The second I'm sure he's occupied, I'm moving.

I scan the room with the kind of focus I usually reserve for auditions or avoiding my landlord. The bed is pristine, white sheets pulled tight like they've never been slept in. The walls are decorated with framed photos—Wesley shaking hands with someone important, Wesley on a yacht, Wesley holding a trophy that probably cost more than my car.

Narcissist much?

My eyes land on the desk pushed against the far wall. It's a sleek, modern thing—glass top, chrome legs, the kind of furniture that screams I have money and want you to know it. Papers are scattered across the surface in a way that's trying to look casual but reads as performative. Assignments he probably paid someone to write. Invoices for things I can't afford to imagine. A bottle of cologne—Tom Ford, because of course—that probably costs more than my rent.

And then I see it.

A folder. Black leather, embossed with a gold crow's skull that gleams even in the dim light.

My heart kicks into overdrive.

I cross the room in three steps, my heels sinking slightly into the plush carpet. My hands are shaking as I reach for it, and I have to force myself to slow down, to be careful. If he comes out and catches me⁠—

He won't. He's too drunk to notice if the room caught fire.

I flip the folder open.

Inside are photos. Seven of them, clipped to individual sheets with the kind of precision that makes my stomach turn. Each one shows a guy—young, hopeful, smiling in their headshot like they think this is the beginning of something great. Next to each photo is a typed list: Name. Age. Hometown. Major. Emergency contact.

Sovereign Bastards Initiation Roster.

The header is printed at the top in bold, official-looking font, like this is a business document and not a catalog of lives being systematically destroyed.

My hands shake harder as I flip through them.

There's Jackson—Taylor Jackson. Nineteen. Political Science major. From Burlington, Vermont. Emergency contact: Margaret Jackson, mother. His photo shows a kid with dark hair and a nervous smile, the kind of smile that says he's trying so hard to belong.

The kid I saw downstairs. The one with the hollow eyes and the shame radiating off him like heat.

I pull out my phone, my fingers clumsy as I unlock it. The camera app opens, and I snap a photo of Taylor's page, the flash briefly illuminating the room. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it over the muffled bass from downstairs, a frantic rhythm that matches the panic clawing at my ribs.

I'm going to call her. I'm going to tell Margaret Jackson what they're doing to her son. I'm going to make sure he gets out.

I flip to the next page. Then the next. Each one a variation on the same theme: young, desperate, willing to endure anything for the promise of belonging.

And then I see it.