Craig’s POV
It had been a few days since I tried calling him, and still nothing from Conor. No call back. No text. Not even a ’hey, I’m alive.’ At first, I figured he just needed space, maybe so ti to cool off or whatever. But now? Now I was starting to spiral.
I finally gave in and called Lincoln, one of his closest friends. If anyone had eyes on Conor, it would be him.
He picked up on the third ring, voice way too hyped. "Yo, Craig! What’s up?"
The noise behind him was wild. Music, shouting, people laughing. The whole chaotic vibe of a party in full swing.
"You know where Conor is?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even. "I’ve been trying to reach him. His phone’s been off."
"Oh yeah, he’s here with . We’re in New York at this insane party. You coming or what?"
Like New York was five minutes away. Like none of this was a big deal.
"I’m good," I said, jaw tightening. "Thanks for letting know."
"Cool. Talk later." He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Of course I didn’t want to talk to Conor. Not now, not when he’s probably high as a kite at so crazy party.
I’d been losing sleep, pacing my room, thinking the worst. His phone was dead for days. No posts, no ssages, no streaks on his Snapchat. I thought sothing had happened. I pictured him in a ditch. In a hospital. Even worse. But no. Turns out he was just off the grid, living it up like nothing mattered.
I don’t even know why I was surprised. This is exactly who he’s always been.
It’s been over three weeks since he vanished. And the whole ti, he was out partying like the rules didn’t apply to him. Like responsibilities were optional.
Conor’s two years older than I am, but sohow, I’ve always felt like the older one. Like I’m the one cleaning up after his sses while he gets to float through life doing whatever the hell he wants.
I thought about telling our dad. For a second, I really did. But I already knew how that would play out. Conor would hate for it, and I’m not trying to give him more reasons to pretend I don’t exist.
Not to ntion, Dad doesn’t exactly need to play watchdog. He’s already got his little spy network planted all over Belford. Five guys. Two pretending to be students, others working in the café, the library, even the club scene. Blending in, but always watching. Always reporting back to him.
No one knows. Not even Keith. Only Conor and I are in on it.
Still, that’s not enough for our dad. He wants full access. He wants the private, intimate details. The things no surveillance can catch. Emotions. Thoughts. Mistakes.
And he wants them from .
Like I was born to be his inside man. Not his son. Just a set of eyes in the right place.
I hate that. I hate that he forced this life on . Forced to co to Belford, just to babysit my older brother, Conor Lesnar - my dad’s favorite son, the one who ca into the world in his image.
? I was just the good looking son, the softer one, the one probably too obsessed with his looks, the one who felt he was too special, at least that’s exactly how my dad saw .
I wanted Harvard. I worked for Harvard. But that didn’t matter to him. He said I was going to Belford. Said I had two choices—follow Conor there, or don’t go to college at all. That was it.
He said it like I didn’t have a future outside of Conor. Like my purpose began and ended with keeping my brother on track.
I rember the day Conor told him he wanted to be an actor. That one conversation blew up our whole family.
Dad snapped. Froze his credit cards. Took his phone, laptop, everything. Clothes, gone. Car, gone. He even told the chefs to feed him just breakfast and dinner, no lunch. Like that was going to fix anything.
He had Conor locked in that house for weeks, like a prisoner. All because he had dreams that didn’t fit into our father’s blueprint.
Eventually, Conor gave in. Said he’d study Business Administration like Dad wanted. But you could see it in his eyes. That wasn’t a win. That was defeat.
When Harvard rejected him, it felt like Dad took it personally. Sent him to Belford instead. Then dragged down with him.
And still, after all that, I’m the one expected to report back. Like none of it cost anything.
The only ti I ever called Dad for help was last year, when everything fell apart.
The night they found Conor unconscious near the abandoned Science Wing.
That was the night Mrs. Marjorie Sanchez died.
They said she fell from the top of the building. No security footage. No witnesses. Just her body on the ground and my brother found not far from the scene, completely unresponsive.
The cops checked her phone. Conor’s number was the last one she called.
And just like that, it beca his ss to own. Everyone jumped to conclusions. He was involved. He had to be.
But Conor swore he never called her. He didn’t even rember the night.
Turns out he’d been drugged. The toxicology report confird it. Whatever was in his system knocked him out from around 7PM to 11PM. Marjorie died around 9.
It didn’t line up. He was out cold. There was no way he could’ve pushed her.
Then things got worse.
There was an anonymous tip. Soone called the cops and said a guy had killed her. But the call ca before she even died. Autopsy backed it up.
So whoever made that call? They were lying. Trying to fra him. Whoever it was had this planned out and was ready to use Conor as the perfect scapegoat.
That’s when Dad stepped in. Flew in from New York the sa night. Took over the whole situation. Lawyers. Private investigators. The works.
He said Conor would never go to prison. That no matter what people said, he’d protect him.
And he did. But that didn’t stop the rumors.
People said Dad paid off the coroner. Said he bribed the police. That he forged docunts and covered up evidence. One professor even claid he saw Dad writing a check to the detective in charge.
Others said Marjorie was assaulted. That Conor was obsessed with her. That he finally snapped.
It didn’t matter that none of it was true. Truth never stands a chance against a good story.
They even said Conor staged the whole thing. That he made the anonymous call himself and then drugged his own drink to make it believable.
This school talks like it knows everything. But no one ever talks to the actual people involved. They just make stuff up and run with it.
And now, Louis is out here passing all those sa lies to rlina. Like it’s fact. And she believes him.
She didn’t even ask what happened. She just... believed the gossip.
But maybe that’s on . Maybe if I hadn’t been such an asshole to her from day one, she would’ve trusted enough to ask. I haven’t been able to face her in days, until I had sothing that could help her with her mom’s case.
But my thoughts of her wouldn’t leave . So I opened Instagram.
I’d found her handle few days ago through one of Phoebe’s posts. I never followed her. Just watched quietly from the shadows like a man who knew he had no right.
Her latest picture filled the screen—soft sunlight on her skin, hair tucked behind one ear, her smile the kind that made you believe so people were born with peace stitched into them. She wasn’t even looking at the cara. She was just... existing. And sohow that was enough to undo .
I scrolled further down. Her and her mom—laughing, arms around each other. The kind of joy you can’t fake. The caption read: ’If I ever beco half the woman you are, I’ll be proud of who I am.’
Then it hit —what losing her mom must’ve done to her. And I’d made it worse. Made her feel like every she was doing was a little sche. Like her grief didn’t matter. Like I didn’t care.
Another one: Christmas morning. Matching pajamas. Her siblings. Her mom in the center, head thrown back in laughter. rlina was younger in that photo, but her eyes hadn’t changed. Still curious. Still full of heart.
God.
She wasn’t just beautiful.
She had the kind of soul that made you want to be soone better.
And I—I didn’t deserve to want her this much.
But I did. I wanted her heart. Her honesty. The way she saw the world. I wanted to sit across from her and hear her say my na like it ant sothing.
"Craig?"
The voice behind was sharp. Cold.
I froze.
Adriana stood there, arms folded, her gaze locked on my laptop screen.
"What are you doing?"
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