Craig’s steps were slow, each one dragging like he had chains wrapped around his ankles.
He wasn’t just walking back to her, he was dragging the weight of a truth so heavy, and every inch closer felt like stepping into a storm he wasn’t ready for, but couldn’t run from.
The very na he was trying to wield as a weapon was the one destroying her life.
His mind spiraled, splintering in too many directions. His father. The Dean. The realization that this wasn’t just institutional politics, it was personal.
Targeted.
And sohow, he was part of the reason she was being expelled.
When he saw her again, sitting just where he left her by the fountain. God, he didn’t know how to face her.
And when she looked up at him, and offered a soft, tentative, "Hey," the look on her face hit him like a punch.
Sothing twisted in his chest, sharp and rciless. She looked tired, but steady like she was trying to hold both of them together now.
"Hey," he said back, but even he couldn’t hear it, from how hollow it sounded.
He tried to fake it, tried to reach for that usual calm, tried to sound like himself. But it wasn’t working, because for the first ti, he felt like he didn’t deserve her.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe they shouldn’t have pursued this.
Maybe they had pushed too hard against sothing that was too impossible.
Too ssy. Too laced with every reason why they should’ve walked away long before they ever kissed.
Now, he didn’t know what to do with this, how to fix it, or even where to start.
Just then, rlina stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a warm hug. No warning. No words.
Just that.
Her cheek pressed lightly against his chest, the stone of the fountain a silent witness behind her. He felt the faint shiver in her hands, the way her breath stuttered, then evened out, and still, she held on.
Like she knew exactly what he needed before he did.
But it was in his silence, the weight in his shoulders, the way he hadn’t looked her in the eye since he walked back, and she saw it. Maybe she knew him well enough now to recognize the difference between quiet and defeated.
So they just stood there, holding on to each other. He let himself stay in her arms a little longer than he should have, because sohow, they both needed it.
Then, without pulling away, she whispered into his shoulder, voice soft and steady. "It’s fine, Craig. My mom will sort it out. It’ll be fine."
Just then, he pulled away, just far enough to look her in the eye. He tried to gather himself, tried to find his footing.
"It can be reversed, rlina," he said, voice low and controlled, "There’s still sothing I can do, it’s not yet final."
She nodded, a little too quickly. Not because she fully believed it, but because she wanted him to see that she did. Because maybe that was the only thing she could offer right now. The kind of quiet faith that said, Even if this doesn’t work, I believe in you anyway.
Her eyes searched his face, not for answers, but for him. Because she could tell sothing was wrong.
Maybe it was the expulsion, or maybe it was sothing more, but whatever it was, it was breaking her heart to see him like that.
Craig still wasn’t really looking at her. His gaze dropped as he fished out his phone, checked the ti, thumb hovering like his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Uh..." he started, voice low. "I just...I need to go sowhere."
rlina’s brows pinched slightly. Sowhere? But before she could say anything, he was already on his phone, fingers moving quickly.
Then he looked back up at her.
"Wanna go stay at my place?" he asked, his voice ca out soft and sudden. "I’ll just be away for a day. It’s important."
"No, um. It’s fine," she said, trying to sound casual. "I’ll just be at my dorm. Hoping I still have access to that." She gave a light laugh. It didn’t land. "Plus, I have to wait for my mom. She’ll be here in few minutes."
Craig gave a tight nod, his lips thinning as he swallowed back what he couldn’t say. He didn’t push, he couldn’t. Not when every nerve in his body felt like it was on the verge of snapping.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I’ll text you Drew’s number, if you need anything. Don’t hesitate."
She nodded again.
Even if she didn’t fully understand where he was going, or why he needed to go now, of all tis, she still nodded. Because a part of her wanted to trust that it mattered. That he wouldn’t leave unless he had to.
For a mont, they just stood there, two people suspended in sothing neither of them could na, pretending like things might still be normal if they didn’t look too closely.
Then rlina’s phone buzzed. She glanced down. "That’s her," she murmured. "She’s almost here."
Craig gave a faint nod. "Good."
He didn’t trust himself to say more. Not without letting sothing slip.
rlina hesitated like she wanted to stay, like part of her still wasn’t sure whether to go or hold on, until he could tell her what was going on. But then she gave a small wave, a soft "See you," and turned toward the main entrance.
Craig watched her go, chest tight.
Only when she was fully out of sight did he exhale and pull out his phone. His fingers moved quickly, efficiently.
He had already tried calling his father on his way out of the Dean’s office, no answer. But that wasn’t unusual.
With soone like Charles Lesnar, you had to catch him at the exact right mont, between etings, flights, or whatever else filled his schedule. Miss that window, and you might not hear from him for days. And Craig didn’t have days.
Now, he knew there was only one thing left to do.
Calling Elias.
His father’s Private Secretary. The only man who ever seed to know where Charles Lesnar would be five minutes from now.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then, "Mr. Craig."
"Where is he?" Craig asked, skipping any greeting. His voice was low but steady.
Elias didn’t need to ask who. "He’s in Manhattan. Midtown. Overnight at the Parkwood Residence. But he’ll be flying to Geneva in the morning."
Craig didn’t pause. "I’m on my way. Let him know I’ll be in Manhattan tonight."
There was the faintest hesitation. "Understood."
Craig ended the call and shoved the phone back in his coat pocket, already turning from the fountain.
The private jet touched down just past eight.
By nine, Craig was standing in the gilded lobby of the Parkwood Residence, one of Manhattan’s most exclusive high-rise towers, where the windows stretched floor-to-ceiling like they were trying to fra the entire skyline.
The silence was pristine, cushioned in wealth. Every surface glead, marble, brushed brass, smoked glass. Even the air felt expensive, filtered through scent diffusers that probably cost more than most people’s rent.
Elias was already there, waiting in a black wool overcoat and navy gloves, hands clasped behind his back.
"He’s expecting you," Elias said simply, then turned toward the private elevator.
Craig followed, his reflection stretching beside him in the elevator’s mirrored walls. As they ascended, he adjusted the collar of his coat. Not for appearances, but because it gave his hands sothing to do.
When the elevator doors opened, directly to the penthouse. It was vast, quiet, and dimly lit. Everything was designed in deep, masculine tones. Charcoal, espresso and slate.
Art pieces hung like threats, sharp lines, moody palettes, impossible price tags. A long fireplace glowed along the far wall, flas licking behind glass like they were being held hostage.
And there, seated behind a steel and ebony desk near the window, was Charles Lesnar.
He didn’t look up right away. Just turned a page in a leather-bound folder, gold watch glinting under the low light.
He wore a sharp navy suit with no tie, and his shirt cuffs had his initials stitched in. His posture was flawless. Everything about him looked calm and refined, like intimidation had been woven into his DNA and then dressed in Tom Ford.
"Sit," Charles Lesnar said without looking up.
Craig stood there for a mont, waiting, half-hoping his father might at least glance at him. Acknowledge him. But nothing. Not even a flicker.
So he sat. Not because he wanted to. Because there was nothing else to do.
Leather creaked beneath him as he settled into the armchair across the desk, every second of silence stretching the distance between them.
Then finally, Charles looked up. Pale blue eyes, cold and clear as glass. "This better be urgent."
"It is," Craig said, his voice steady, even if everything else wasn’t.
Because the truth was, he didn’t know exactly how to begin.
You don’t co to Charles Lesnar with guesses or assumptions. You co with facts. Evidence. Otherwise, you’ve already lost.
Still this had his father’s fingerprints all over it.
The silence. The pressure that’s just enough to force a reaction. That was Charles Lesnar’s way.
He didn’t lash out. He didn’t punish directly. He punished with silence, timing, distance- where you don’t even see it coming.
Let things fall apart just enough. Let you feel the squeeze. Then waited until you were broken enough to co crawling to him.
Just like this.
Craig sat there, pulse steady but jaw tight, watching the man who’d taught him how power was best delivered quietly.
Then, when he couldn’t hold it in any longer, his hands clenched around the armrests. He looked his father in the eye, and his voice sliced through the silence.
"Did you ask to have her expelled?"
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