7.

SUMMER'S POV

I barely slept.

The photograph of Clyde sat behind my eyes every time I closed them. Him laughing, completely unaware. The casual cruelty of it — that someone had been close enough to my brother to frame that shot, and he never even felt the shadow.

I was out of bed before my alarm.

I made Clyde's breakfast, watched him eat it, and smiled at everything he said about his first day. He talked about his new classmates, about a project brief he'd already gotten, about how the department head had this massive oil painting behind his desk that Clyde was convinced he could do better.

"You probably could," I told him honestly.

He beamed.

I waited until George's car honked outside and Clyde grabbed his bag and thundered down the stairs before I let myself stop smiling.

The message from the landlord came at half past nine, right in the middle of my second lecture.

My phone buzzed against the desk and I glanced down out of habit, expecting George complaining about how boring the class it. But I met another disaster.

"This is your final notice, Summer. Outstanding rent of two months is due by end of this week. Failure to settle will result in immediate eviction proceedings!"

I read it twice. Two months. I had been so focused on keeping Clyde fed and the lights on: that the rent had totally just slipped my mind.

I slid my phone face-down on the desk and stared at the board for the remaining twenty minutes of the lecture without absorbing a single word. I was in despair.

"Is everything okay?" Kingsley mouthed. I simply nodded head.

Immediately, the class ended I bolted out.

Kingsley was outside the department building when I came through. He was sitting on the steps with his phone, and he looked up the moment I pushed through the door. Something about the way I was walking must have said everything, because he stood immediately.

"Hey, where are you going?" Kingsley ran after me.

"Out." I didn't slow down.

"Summer—" He caught up in two strides and matched my pace. "Something's wrong, right?"

"Kingsley, I don't have time—"

"Then talk fast while you walk." He stayed right beside me, completely unbothered by my tone. "Is it the message from last night?"

I stopped.

Turned to look at him. "What?"

He held my gaze steadily. "You got something on your phone yesterday at the gate. I saw your face change. I didn't say anything because I figured you'd tell me when you were ready, but whatever just happened in there is connected to it, isn't it?"

I stared at him. For a moment I wanted to — I don't know, tell him everything. Lay all of it out right there on the pavement and let him hold it for five minutes.

But I thought about the photograph. About unknown numbers. And about my secrets again.. About how little I actually knew about Kingsley Roberts beyond the fact that he had kind eyes and had once pulled me out of a very dark room.

But being kind does not means safe.

"Stay out of it," I said quietly.

Something moved across his face — like he'd been expecting the wall and had walked into it anyway.

"Okay," he said and slowly walked away.

I went home straight after.

The landlord — Mr. James, a stocky man who wore the same brown cardigan every single time I saw him — was standing in the ground floor hallway when I arrived, talking to a tenant from the second floor. He saw me and his expression shifted into something professionally apologetic, which was somehow worse than if he'd looked annoyed.

"Summer." He stepped toward me. "I sent the message this morning."

"I got it." I kept my voice level. "I need a few more days."

"I've given you—"

"I know what you've given me." I met his eyes. "I'm not arguing with you about it. I'm asking for four days. That's all."

He studied me for a moment. Mr. James wasn't a cruel man. He'd let two months stack up without showing up at my door, which was already more grace than most would give. But grace had a limit.

"Four days," he said finally. "Not five."

"Thank you."

I climbed the stairs before my legs could show him how unsteady they felt.

Inside the apartment. I sat at the kitchen table and did the math three different times, hoping the numbers would change. They didn't. I was short.

My phone rang. George.

I picked up. "Hey."

"You left after the lecture without saying anything. Kingsley said it looked like an emergency."

"Kingsley needs to mind his business."

"Spill, what happened?

I told him everything .About the landlord, about the number, about the rent, about the four-day left.

George was quiet for exactly three seconds. "How much short are you?"

"George, don't—"

"How much, Summer."

I told him. "$50"

"Okay," he said, "I've got it."

"I'm not taking your money."

"It's not a gift, it's a loan, and the interest rate is that you stop being stubborn about it." His voice was firm but gentle in that particular George way that made it very hard to argue. "You'd do it for me."

I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead. "I hate this."

"I know. Send me your account details. And Summer, try and eat something and rest. You sound hollow, like someone who has the whole world on her shoulder."

"I will." I chuckled.

He hung up before I could say thank you, which was also very George.

I had just gotten off the phone when another message came in.

It was Amanda.

"Dark Bird!! Are you seeing this group chat right now?? Girl, people are dragging you BADLY. Saying you seduced the big shot and that's why Mr Noel gave him to you. Some of them are saying you've been doing that for months — stealing clients and getting special treatment. It is getting messy. You need to see this."