CHAPTER 64

Chapter Sixty Four

Kent’s Pov

Walking through the brick archways of campus feels like walking through a minefield where half the mines already blew up.

Daniella’s phone notification cleared her name, restoring her scholarship and good standing like a clean slate. My name at the bottom of the dean's footer? Still locked in limbo. Formal department review. Corporate compliance shadow trailing my syllabus like a ghost.

I pull open the heavy double doors of the economics department hall. Daniella walks beside me, carrying a fresh leather notebook, looking sharp and clear-eyed.

Dean Holloway intercepts us by the faculty mailboxes. Her expression is granite-tight—not hostile, just heavy with institutional gravity.

"Dr. Vance," Holloway says, looking between us. "Miss Vance is cleared of the extortion conspiracy trace. Her roster stands." She turns her sharp gaze to me. "The board review regarding your faculty standing remains active. We cannot have a direct instructor-student dynamic in upper-level electives without compromising department neutrality."

I don't argue. I don't drop names or threaten to pull a endowment check I already walked away from.

"I am filing a permanent administrative recusal request today, Dean," I say flatly, my voice cutting through the hallway hum. "I will hand my sections of Macro 402 to Dr. Sterling permanently. Miss Vance will complete her degree under alternate departmental advisory oversight."

Dean Holloway blinks, surprised by the zero-friction compliance. A slow, respectful nod follows. "That simplifies the committee's final findings, Doctor. Thank you."

Daniella steps close as Holloway walks away. Her dark eyes shine with sudden, fierce protest. "Kent, no. You're giving up your main lecture hall because of me. You're being punished for choosing a clean desk over family rules."

I reach out, my hand steadying her shoulder, my thumb brushing her collarbone through her wool coat. "Listen to me, Daniella. I'm not being punished. I'm choosing. You earn your degree through pure intelligence and hard proof. If I teach your room, every grade you pull gets whispered about by sniveling cowards who think power buys diplomas. I protect your future, and I keep my professional backbone clean. Win-win."

Her chest heaves with a shaky breath, then her shoulders drop. A soft, fierce pride warms her dark eyes. "Okay. Fair."

Word spreads across the faculty lounge by noon. Older professors who usually glance past my fallen-heir status nod with actual weight as I walk past. Clean break. Smart move.

Down in the main courtyard, student whispers buzz like hornets. Did you see? He gave up the senior seminar. Is she getting special treatment?

I ignore every single low-frequency murmur. When Daniella walks past my podium corner during open library hours to drop off an independent research brief with the department secretary, I treat her with cool, crisp, clinical academic neutrality. I look at her project file, verify the timestamp, and give a standard nod. "Received, Miss Vance. Leave it on the registry pile."

No lingering eye contact. No private smile. Strict paper law.

I see the tiny flash of amusement in her dark eyes before she turns away, playing the part just as sharp as I do. We aren't hiding a scandal. We're running a clinic on how to be untouchable.

By six o'clock, the campus glass and concrete vanish behind us.

We drive downtown to a quiet, warm corner brasserie with dim brass lighting and red leather booths. No family bodyguards. No corporate spies.

Waiting at our corner booth are Marcus Sterling—the independent equity lead from the clean tech syndication—and Sarah, his lead risk architect. Real people who talk about sovereign debt loops and crypto-audits instead of family crests and trust fund cutoffs.

I slide into the booth, wrapping my arm around the back of the leather seat right behind Daniella’s shoulders.

"Marcus, Sarah," I say, nodding. "Meet Daniella Vance. Economics honors scholar, future thesis terror, and the woman I chose."

Marcus raises his amber glass with a dry, approving grin. Sarah smiles, sliding an extra menu across the table. "He talks about your wire-fraud detection log like it's proprietary military intelligence, Daniella. Glad to finally put a face to the audit ghost."

Dinner moves fast, loud with wine, rare steak, and real laughter. No one asks about grandfather's cane. No one cares about Robert Vance's vendor pull notices, which already choked out and died against our cross-border fintech bridge anyway.

Daniella holds her own across the table, debating liquidity risk models with Sarah like she's been sitting in equity syndication rooms for a decade. I watch her—the sharp tilt of her chin, the way she laughs low in her throat when Marcus makes a dry joke about federal reserve panic—and feel my chest swell so hard it hurts.

Halfway through dessert, dark chocolate torte shared off two spoons, Marcus leans back against the leather booth, swirling his last finger of scotch. He looks from my face down to the silver chain resting against Daniella's collarbone, then to her left hand resting flat on the mahogany table.

"Alright, Vance," Marcus says with a slow, teasing smirk. "You torched a billionaire dynasty, built a clean six-figure advisory startup in thirty days, and brought the sharpest mind in the student directory to dinner. Crystal clear on the business side."

Marcus pauses, raising his glass slightly toward Daniella. "Curious minds in the private equity sector need official data: When is the actual wedding bells drop?"

The table goes quiet for half a heartbeat.

Daniella freezes mid-bite with her spoon, her dark eyes flashing wide as she looks sideways at me, her cheeks dusting a soft, warm pink under the brass lights.

I don't look away from her face. I don't give a corporate dodge or a polite society pivot.

I turn my head toward Marcus, keep my arm heavy and warm locked across the back of Daniella’s chair, and look right into her eyes as I speak.

"As soon as she’ll let me put a ring on her finger," I say, every single word low, heavy, and completely true.

Daniella’s breath catches. A hot, bright, helpless laugh breaks out of her throat, her fingers sliding across the wood to grip my wrist tight under the edge of the table.

Marcus barks a loud, genuine laugh, raising his glass in a clean toast. "Smartest equity move you've made yet, Vance."

We sit shoulder to shoulder in the warm dim light, sharing a toast to a future we built with our own hands, zero legacy strings attached.