The Devil Who Owes Me A Kiss

The hallway was unnaturally silent for a Friday afternoon at Westlake Academy. Lavinia Hartwell tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear and paused outside the empty classroom, hesitating when she heard voices from within. She'd only come to retrieve her forgotten chemistry notebook, not to eavesdrop, but something in the tone of the deeper voice made her still her movements.

"Look, I get it. My parents were the same way—everything had to be perfect, or it wasn't good enough." The voice belonged to Henry Wynthorne, though Lavinia didn't need to peek through the half-open door to confirm this. She'd recognize that confident baritone anywhere, even if she'd never been its direct recipient.

Henry Cleveland. The name alone carried weight in their school. Son of business mogul Edward Wynthorne, heir to Wynthorne Industries, and one of the most brilliant students in their graduating class. He wasn't just wealthy and smart; he carried himself with a certainty that Lavinia had always found both intimidating and fascinating.

"But they don't understand," a younger boy's voice cracked. "If I don't get into Princeton, my dad says I'm letting the whole family down."

Lavinia shifted uncomfortably. She shouldn't be listening to this. She should either announce her presence or leave, but curiosity kept her frozen in place.

"Princeton isn't the end-all," Henry replied, his voice softer than Lavinia had ever heard it. "And neither is your father's approval."

Lavinia had always pictured Henry as detached and arrogant, wearing his privilege like custom-tailored armor. She'd watched him from afar, usually when he was with her best friend Verity. Whenever Henry was around Verity, he transformed from the stern, academically-driven heir into someone softer, almost boyish in his eagerness to impress. It was jarring to hear him now, speaking with such empathy.

"I tried to... you know," the younger boy's voice dropped to a whisper. "Last week. My mom found me."

Lavinia's heart clenched. She definitely shouldn't be hearing this.

A long silence followed before Henry spoke. "I'm glad she did. And I'm glad you're talking to me now." There was a rustling of paper. "This is Dr. Mercer's number. She helped me through some rough patches after my mom died. Call her. Tonight."

"But my dad would—"

"Would he rather have a son who's alive?" Henry's voice was firm but not unkind. "Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is ask for help. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you smart."

Something inside Lavinia shifted. The Henry Cleveland she thought she knew would never sit in an empty classroom counseling a depressed underclassman. He was supposed to be calculating and cold, focused only on his future empire and impressing Verity Langford.

So absorbed was she in this revelation that Lavinia didn't notice the conversation had ended until the door swung fully open. She stumbled back, nearly dropping her bag, and found herself looking directly into Henry Cleveland's startled gray eyes.

For a brief, horrifying moment, Lavinia was certain he would berate her for eavesdropping. Instead, his expression shifted from surprise to a guarded neutrality.

"Ms. Reed," he acknowledged with a slight nod.

Lavinia felt heat creep up her neck. He knew her name. She hadn't expected that.

"I—I just needed my notebook," she stammered, gesturing vaguely toward the classroom.

Henry stepped aside, his expression unreadable. As Lavinia hurried past him, she caught a glimpse of the younger boy slipping out the opposite door, eyes red-rimmed but shoulders straight.

The chemistry notebook sat exactly where she'd left it, on the third desk from the window. As she grabbed it, Lavinia felt Henry's presence still at the doorway. When she turned, he was studying her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

"How much did you hear?" he asked finally, his voice carefully controlled.

"Enough," Lavinia admitted, clutching the notebook to her chest like a shield. "I wasn't trying to listen, but... what you said to him was kind."

Something flickered across Henry's face—surprise, perhaps, or discomfort at being caught in an act of compassion.

"It wasn't kindness," he said after a moment. "Just the truth."

Lavinia nearly smiled at his reluctance to accept the compliment. This was so at odds with the Henry she'd constructed in her mind—the arrogant heir, the calculating businessman-to-be, the boy hopelessly infatuated with her beautiful best friend.

"Still," she insisted quietly, "it was good of you."

He seemed about to respond when his phone buzzed. The spell broke as he checked the screen, and his face transformed, softening in a way Lavinia immediately recognized. Verity had messaged him.

"I should go," she murmured, though Henry was already lost to her, thumbs typing a rapid response.

He nodded absently, then glanced up as she passed. "Lavinia?"

Her name in his mouth was startling. She paused, heart inexplicably racing.

"This stays between us," he said, not quite a request, not quite a command.

She understood immediately. The careful image he maintained—brilliant, aloof, untouchable Henry Cleveland—didn't include counseling depressed students in empty classrooms.

"Of course," she agreed.

As she walked away, Lavinia felt something unfamiliar stir within her. For years, she had existed in Verity's shadow, the quiet friend, the unremarkable one. She had accepted this as her natural place in the world. But for a brief moment in that classroom doorway, Henry Cleveland had seen her—really seen her—and spoken directly to her, not as Verity's friend, but as herself.

It was nothing, she told herself firmly. A momentary connection that would be forgotten by Monday. Henry Cleveland belonged to a different world, one where girls like Verity Williams shone like stars, and girls like Lavinia Reed faded into the background.

Yet as she pushed through the heavy doors into the autumn afternoon, she couldn't quite shake the image of Henry's gray eyes, surprisingly gentle as he counseled the troubled boy, surprisingly direct as they met hers.

Nothing would come of it, she knew. But for the first time, Lavinia wondered what it might be like to be truly seen by someone like Henry Cleveland.

* * *

Three days later, Lavinia sat alone in the school library, systematically working through calculus problems while she waited for Verity's student council meeting to end. The familiar rhythm of derivatives and integrals was soothing, a world where every problem had a definite answer if you applied the right formula.

Unlike real life, where Lavinia frequently found herself without a formula to follow.

"Is this seat taken?"

The voice jolted her from her concentration. She looked up to find Henry Cleveland standing at her table, a stack of physics textbooks under one arm. The library was nearly empty—rows of unoccupied tables stretched in all directions—yet here he stood, waiting for her response.

"No," she managed, quickly gathering her scattered notes to make room. "It's free."

Henry set his books down with careful precision and slid into the chair across from her. Lavinia returned to her calculus, hyperaware of his presence but determined not to show it. From the corner of her eye, she watched him open a leather-bound notebook filled with elegant, cramped handwriting.

For several minutes, they worked in silence. It was strange, sitting across from Henry Cleveland as if they regularly shared study space, as if Friday's encounter had somehow bridged the vast social gap between them.

"Verity's meeting runs until four-thirty," he said suddenly, not looking up from his notes.

Lavinia blinked. "I know."

"She mentioned you'd be here."

The implication was clear—he wasn't sitting with her by coincidence. He'd sought her out.

"I see," Lavinia said neutrally, unsure how else to respond.

Henry looked up then, his gray eyes direct. "About Friday—"

"I haven't said anything," she assured him quickly. "And I won't."

He studied her, as if assessing her trustworthiness. "Thank you," he said finally. "Ryan—the sophomore—he's having a rough time."

"I understand," Lavinia said softly. "Everyone has moments they'd rather keep private."

Something in her tone made Henry tilt his head slightly, a question in his expression. "You sound like you speak from experience."

Lavinia shrugged, uncomfortable with his sudden interest. "Nothing dramatic. Just... I know what it's like to feel invisible sometimes."

The words slipped out before she could stop them, more honest than she'd intended. She'd meant it as a general observation, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how personal they sounded.

Henry's brow furrowed slightly. "Invisible? You?"

A startled laugh escaped her. "Me, especially."

"I don't understand."

Of course he didn't. How could Henry Cleveland, the golden heir who commanded attention simply by existing, understand what it meant to be overlooked? To be the perpetual shadow to Verity's brilliant light?

Before she could formulate a response, the library doors swung open, and Verity herself breezed in, a vision in her blue dress and golden hair. Several heads turned to track her progress, as they always did. She spotted them and waved, her smile brightening further as she noticed Henry.

The transformation was immediate. Henry straightened, his entire demeanor shifting, eyes lighting up with that particular intensity he reserved only for Verity. It was like watching someone switch on a spotlight.

"Meeting ended early," Verity announced as she reached their table, dropping gracefully into the chair beside Henry. "What are you two doing together?" Her tone was curious, not accusatory, but Lavinia felt a twist of guilt nonetheless.

"Physics," Henry replied smoothly, gesturing to his books.

"Calculus," Lavinia said simultaneously, holding up her worksheet.

Verity laughed, the sound like silver bells. "So... not together at all?"

"Just sharing a table," Henry clarified, his eyes still drinking in Verity's presence as if she were water after a drought.

And just like that, Lavinia felt herself fade back into the periphery. Henry's brief interest, whatever had prompted it, vanished in Verity's radiance. It was the natural order reasserting itself.

As Verity launched into an animated account of her student council meeting, Lavinia quietly gathered her things. Neither of them noticed as she slipped away, leaving them in their private bubble of mutual fascination.

Outside the library, Lavinia paused, wondering why she felt so oddly disappointed. Nothing had changed. She was still Lavinia Reed, the unremarkable best friend. Henry Cleveland was still captivated by Verity Williams. The brief connection she'd felt—that moment when Henry had looked at her as if she were a puzzle he wanted to solve—had been nothing more than a momentary aberration.

A small, unwelcome ache settled in her chest as she walked away. She told herself it was nothing, a passing melancholy she'd soon forget.

She was wrong.