Chapter Twenty-Six

Ava’s POV

“Yes,” I said.

The word left my mouth before I could fully consider it. He set his tray down across from me and sat with easy confidence, as if the invitation had never been in doubt. Close up, the resemblance to the young man from the courtyard settled more firmly into place. The same clean features, the same polished ease. Whether he was exactly Sebastian Langford or only someone who moved in the same circles, he carried the same atmosphere of money that never had to introduce itself.

“I’m Ava,” I said, because silence felt more dangerous than politeness.

“I know.” He smiled slightly. “You introduced yourself in class. I’m the one who didn’t.” He offered his name a moment later—clear, unhurried—and then asked what had brought me to the program mid-term. I gave the simplest version I could manage: a change in living situation, a decision to return to classes. He listened without interrupting, eyes steady on my face in a way that made my pulse jump once before I controlled it.

The conversation continued in small, ordinary steps. He asked what I thought of the campus. I asked how long he had been in the program. He answered with the same relaxed confidence, then added, almost casually, that his father owned one of the biggest companies in the state. The name of the company landed between us with quiet weight. Even I, who had spent most of my life outside these circles, recognized it. The surprise must have shown on my face, because his mouth curved again, not unkindly.

“Most people have that reaction,” he said. “It’s useful sometimes. Mostly it’s noisy.”

I glanced past him for a moment and noticed what I had been too tense to see before. Several students at nearby tables were looking at us—not openly staring, but casting repeated, measuring glances in our direction. Two girls near the window spoke behind their hands. A boy at the far end of the room watched with open curiosity. The attention was not aggressive, but it was pointed. In a school where last names and family holdings functioned as quiet currency, sitting across from the son of one of the largest companies in the state apparently registered.

My heartbeat picked up again, a quick, uncomfortable rhythm against my ribs. I returned my attention to my tray and forced myself to take a small bite of salad I no longer wanted. The young man across from me continued talking, unbothered by the eyes on us, describing a project his father’s company was expanding into and the pressure of expectations that came with it. His voice was pleasant. His interest seemed genuine enough. Under different circumstances I might have found the conversation easy.

Instead my mind betrayed me.

It pulled me backward—out of the bright cafeteria, away from the polished students and the smell of expensive coffee, and into the quieter, heavier atmosphere of the estate. I remembered Corren standing in the foyer that morning, hand briefly on my arm, voice low and absolute as he told me that my body belonged only to him. I remembered the way he had watched the car leave. I remembered the study, the rules, and the title he required me to use. Daddy. The word rose in my thoughts with the same pull it always carried now, unwanted and powerful at the same time.

I looked at the young man across the table—the easy smile, the open interest, the uncomplicated confidence of someone who had never needed to negotiate permission to live his own life—and then the comparison arrived whether I wanted it or not. One of them offered lightness and ordinary attention. The other offered control so complete it had begun to reshape the edges of who I was. The question that followed made my stomach tighten.

Was I falling for both of them?

The thought was reckless and dangerous. I pushed it down hard, but it left a residual unease that stayed with me through the rest of the conversation. I answered when I was spoken to. I smiled once when it was expected. Inside, the conflict only grew louder. By the time the break period ended and the young man stood, collecting his tray, I felt almost relieved to return to the structure of class. He told me he would see me in the next session. I nodded and said nothing more.

The remaining hours of the day passed in a blur of introductory material, new faces, and the constant low-level awareness that I was being observed—as the new student, as the girl who had sat with the son of a major company, as someone who did not yet fully belong. When the final class ended I gathered my things and walked out to the main entrance with my bag held close. The black car was already waiting in the designated area, engine running, driver standing beside the rear door.

I crossed the short distance and slid into the back seat. The door closed. The soft, expensive quiet of the car sealed itself around me. For a moment I simply sat there, the weight of the day settling across my shoulders—the school, the attention, the conversation, the unwanted comparison that still lingered in my chest.

The partition was down. In the front, the driver remained silent. Then the familiar presence I had been bracing for made itself known as the car prepared to leave the campus grounds.

As they closed the car park as she entered inside, so how was school today, he asked me.