Chapter 15

Avery’s POV

The night was merciless. I tossed and turned in the expanse of my bed, every shadow of the ceiling dragging me back to the sharp words and disappointed eyes of Ms. Rose in that stifling theatre.

No matter how I tried to shut it down, her voice—sharp, precise, and cold—echoed in my skull: “I didn’t expect this from you, Avery.” 

Emily knocked on my door the previous night, her voice a gentle, worried presence. “Avery, dinner is ready.”

I walked downstairs, forcing a brittle smile onto my lips, the mask beginning to slip. Emily studied me, as she always did; she read me as an open, vulnerable book. She set the plate in front of me, her voice dropping to a concerned whisper. “Are you okay, darling?”

I gave a nod, the lie dressed as truth. “I’m fine, Emily. Just a little tired.”

Her eyes narrowed, as though she knew the contours of my deception, but she did not pry. She patted my shoulder with warmth and let me be. After a few bites, I escaped back to my room, my sanctuary, and sank onto my bed.

Thoughts swirled, memories of the confrontation replayed in a loop, and that persistent shame refused to loosen its grip on my consciousness. 

My body begged for rest, but my mind—merciless—refused to yield. Yet, eventually, sheer exhaustion won the war. Sleep pulled me into its dark, reluctant embrace.

I opened my eyes the next morning, and the bright, invasive sunlight spilled through the curtains. My eyes widened, a spike of panic setting in. “Oh my God…”

Today was not the day to oversleep. Not when I had to face Ms. Rose again, knowing she held the ammunition of my theatre rebellion.

I rushed through my routine with speed, pulling on my clothes, fixing my hair with frustrated tugs, and slipping on my watch and shoes with haste. Emily called from downstairs, her voice warm with morning routine. “Avery, breakfast!”

“I don’t have time!” I shouted back, my voice echoing down the marble staircase, already grabbing my bag and sprinting down the long hallway.

The drive was reckless, a blur of speed and aggressive lane changes. 

The moment I parked my car in my spot, I barely bothered to lock the door before dashing toward the academic building. My heels clicked against the pavement, the sound echoing the racing rhythm of my heartbeat.

And of course, fate was determined to be cruel. Ms. Rose was already in the classroom.

Her eyes, cold and unyielding as steel, lifted from her notes to meet mine as I burst through the door. “You are late, Ms. Carter.”

I slowed my pace, forcing myself to catch my breath, fixing the mask of composure I had dropped. “Yes,” I admitted, the admission short, curt, and unapologetic.

Her brows arched, that familiar, challenging smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Of course. It’s understandable, since you’re still not recovered from the last… incident.”

The room was silent, the weight of her choice of word heavy in the air. I knew exactly which ‘incident’ she referred to. 

Not the fight in the garden—no, that had become stale university gossip. She meant the theatre. The fresh wound of my betrayal, of finding me there when I was supposed to be resting, when she had expected me to be stronger, wiser, and obedient.

But I did not bite. Not today. I refused to give her the argument she was fishing for.

I gave a nod, a brief acknowledgment, and walked further into the classroom. My unusual silence caught her off guard. A flicker of surprise softened her eyes before she blinked it away, hardening them. “Take your seat, Ms. Carter. We have much to cover.”

I obeyed. Elize leaned toward me as I slid into my seat, her whisper too loud in the quiet. “How are you doing now? Is the headache gone?”

Victoria mirrored the concern, her green eyes flickering with warmth. I gave them both the same answer I’d given everyone else: a curt nod and a toneless, “I’m fine.”

And then the class began. Ms. Rose shifted into her element, commanding attention, her voice sharp and rhythmic as she dove into the complexities of Monetary Policy. I forced myself to listen, to scribble notes, to focus on the surgical way her words struck like arrows, never missing their mark.

The bell finally rang, a jarring sound that broke the academic spell. Students rushed out in a chattering flood, filling the halls with noise, but I remained seated until the crowd thinned and the noise receded. My decision had been made, forged in the sleepless hours of the previous night.

I stood, gathered my things with slowness, and walked straight out of the classroom, heading for Ms. Rose’s office. Her door was half-closed, the repetitive sound of papers shuffling inside. I knocked once, firm and decisive.

“Come in,” her voice called, clipped and professional.

I entered. She looked up from her desk, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of confusion crossing her face when she realized it was me, and not a student with a question.

“Avery,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “what are you doing here? You should be home.”

I set my bag down on the spare chair across her desk and stood, my arms crossing over my chest. “I’m your Teaching Assistant, aren’t I? So I’m reporting for duty.”

Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into that familiar, mocking edge. “No. Actually, I don’t want the Dean to have me known as a merciless professor who ignores the health of her students, particularly those who have recently had a concussion. Go home, Ms. Carter. You’re free for today. I will manage alone.”

Her tone was final, dismissive, the kind of order no one challenged. But I did not move an inch.

Silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken challenge, before she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing with annoyance. “What… did you not hear what I said, Avery?”

I gave a faint, humorless laugh, one of defiance. “Oh, I heard you, Professor. Loud and clear. But allow me to return the favor—you don’t get to decide when I give up on my responsibilities.”

Her brow furrowed, a flash of irritation slipping through her impenetrable demeanor. “This isn’t about giving up, Avery. This is about professional responsibility. About your recovery. You think your family name makes you indestructible? You think bleeding in the garden, fainting in front of the Dean, and then being caught at a public theatre while you were ordered to rest proves your strength? It doesn’t. It proves your recklessness.”

The words hit sharper than I wanted them to, laced with a brutal truth. But I refused to flinch, refused to concede ground. I raised my chin, forcing my eyes to meet hers, unflinching. “You’re right. I am reckless. I am stubborn. But you are wrong if you think walking away from a challenge makes me strong. I don’t do walking away, Ms. Rose.”

Her jaw tightened. She rose swiftly from her chair, stepping around her desk until she stood only a few feet from me. 

The air between us grew heavy, charged, electric with the tension of two storms on a collision course.

“Do you ever listen to anyone, Avery?” she asked, her voice low, controlled. “Or is the famous Von Carter pride so blinding that even common sense and medical advice can’t reach you?”

I gave a faint smirk, though my chest tightened with the pressure. “It’s not pride, Professor. It’s persistence. You keep calling it arrogance because it doesn’t fit into the neat, predictable boxes you’ve built for your students. I don’t break that easily. And maybe… maybe that resilience bothers you.”

Her eyes flashed, an unmistakable spark of anger, but she did not back down. “What bothers me is watching potential rot under the weight of an oversized ego. You could be remarkable, Avery. But instead, you choose to burn yourself out proving to the world that you don’t need rest, don’t need guidance, don’t need anyone.”

For a moment, her voice softened—not weak, but edged with something close to personal disappointment. I breathed out, my smirk fading, my own words quieter, raw with vulnerability.

“And what if I told you I’ve spent my life being told what to do, where to stand, how to smile, how to breathe…? What if I told you that being stubborn is the only thing that reminds me I’m my own person, and not just my father’s shadow?”

Her lips parted as though she were about to launch a devastating argument, but no words came out. Her composed expression faltered, just for an instant, before her mask snapped back into its unyielding place.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head in frustration.

“Maybe,” I admitted, taking a small step closer, my eyes locked on hers. “But I’m here. Whether you like it or not. You can order me to leave all you want, but I’m not going anywhere, Professor.”

The room fell into silence again, heavy, suffocating, but charged with a dense layer of unspoken truths. Finally, she gave a long, slow breath, her voice low, resigned, recognizing the stalemate.

“One day, Avery… one day that defiance of yours will cost you far more than you realize.”

“And maybe,” I replied, almost a whisper, leaning into the space between us, “one day you’ll see that it’s also the only thing keeping me alive and sane.”

Her eyes lingered on me, unreadable, before she turned away, walking back to the safety of her desk. “Fine,” she said, her voice clipped and professional again. “If you insist on staying, then stay. But don’t think this constitutes approval of your actions. It’s merely tolerance of your stubbornness.”

I gave a faint smirk, easing myself into the chair across from her desk, my body aching slightly but my resolve firm. “Tolerance is more than enough, Professor. I’ll take it.”

Her sigh filled the room, laced with frustration and something else—something complex and yielding that I couldn’t name. She sat down, picked up her stack of papers again, though I noticed her hands trembled beneath the sharp angles of the desk.

And for the first time, I wondered if maybe, my defiance wasn’t the only thing shaking her constructed world. The moment stretched on, quiet and heavy, before Ms. Rose finally broke the silence—calm, precise, but firm.

“Since you’re staying,” she said, folding her hands atop her desk, “you can do anything you want… because I’m not going to give you any actual work today. Consider it mandatory passive observation.”

Her eyes flickered toward me, gauging my reaction, waiting, as if she already knew I would argue against the lack of tasks. I raised an eyebrow, suppressing the smirk that tugged at the corner of my lips.

“No work today? Not even filing?”

Her lips curved just faintly—not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, acknowledging my tenacity. “Not from me. Your presence is the only concession I will grant today.”

A soft huff left my chest, not quite amusement, not quite relief. “Fine,” I muttered, lowering myself more into the chair. My fingers slid across the surface of the desk until they found my notebook. I flipped it open, letting the scrawl of my handwriting calm me as I began to scan the pages.

The notes felt like anchors, grounding me in this quiet, charged space where silence pressed hard at the edges of my patience. For a while, the only sound was the steady scratch of my pen against the paper. I checked through summaries, outlines, meticulously making sure I hadn’t left anything incomplete.

Outwardly, I looked composed, engaged even. Inside, though, there was that restless itch, the need to move, to actively do something, to feel like I wasn’t just wasting time imprisoned within four walls.

Half an hour crawled past with slowness, each second dragging. Then, my phone buzzed against the desk. The sound shattered the stillness of the room like glass breaking.

My eyes flicked to the screen. Fiona. The name alone made my pulse quicken with a new kind of alarm. Fiona never called without a serious, reason.

I snatched it up, lowering my voice as I answered. “Hello?”

Her tone was rushed, urgent, layered with panic that clenched my chest tight. “Avery—you have to come to the orphanage. Right now. Drop everything.”

I sat bolt upright, tension coiling through my body. “What happened? Is someone hurt?”

“It’s Lilly,” she said quickly, her voice wavering. Behind her voice I could hear faint, broken sobs, small and heartbreaking. “She’s crying, and she keeps saying she wants to meet you. She won’t calm down for anyone. She won’t stop until she sees you.”

My grip on the phone tightened, a flash of panic crossing my face. But just as quickly, a warmth bloomed in my chest, breaking through the fear. I could almost see her—tiny shoulders shaking, cheeks stained with tears, clutching at the hope that I would come.

And before I realized it, a different, soft smile spread across my lips. An unguarded, true smile.

“I’ll be there,” I said, my voice clear and resolute. “I’ll leave the university in one hour. Tell her I’m coming. She’ll hold on till then, I know it.”

There was a pause—Fiona’s shaky sigh of relief crackling through the line. “Okay. I’ll tell her. Thank you, Avery. Don’t make her wait too long. You know how much you mean to her.”

“I know,” I whispered, my throat tight with emotion. “I won’t.”

I ended the call and slipped the phone into my pocket, the soft smile still tugging at my mouth. But before I could sink back into the quiet, Ms. Rose’s voice cut in—smooth, careful, and perceptive.

“You have somewhere important to go?”

I looked up, meeting her gaze across the desk. She hadn’t moved much, but the sharpness of her eyes told me she had heard far more of the conversation than I wanted her to.

“Yes,” I admitted after a beat, choosing my words. “But I said I’d go after college hours.”

For a moment she said nothing, only studied me as though trying to read the cracks beneath my forced calm. Then, leaning back slightly in her chair, she said softly, “You’re free to go, Avery. She must be waiting anxiously for you.”

The pronoun—she.

My lips twitched. If only she knew who this urgent she really was, and the depth of the connection. “Indeed she is,” I murmured, lowering my gaze to the notebook again.

But I still didn’t leave. Because Avery Von Carter didn’t simply walk out just because she was told she could. And more than that—walking out right then, after the tense standoff, would have felt too much like running away from her unspoken challenge.

So, I stayed. The air inside the office thickened, a tension lacing through every moment that followed. I tried to distract myself with the notebook, turning pages I had already exhaustively checked, writing fragmented notes that weren’t necessary.

Each line of ink was less about the words and more about anchoring myself, keeping busy so I wouldn’t betray how urgently I wanted to leave the confines of the desk and get to the child waiting for me. Yet, I could feel her eyes on me. Not constantly, but enough. Enough to remind me she was watching, analyzing, silently dissecting every move I made.

Her silence spoke louder than any accusation. It wasn’t the silence of indifference—it was the profound silence of someone holding back questions, judgments, and thoughts she wasn’t ready to voice, a silence pregnant with meaning.

The clock’s hands dragged on, heavy and slow. The tick-tick-tick gnawed at my patience. My chest felt tighter with every passing minute, because even though I had promised Lilly I’d be there in an hour, each second spent here stretched into a frustrating eternity.

At one point, I caught Ms. Rose shifting in her chair, her pen tapping once, softly, against her desk. A faint sigh slipped past her lips, so gentle I almost thought I imagined it.

The room wasn’t hostile anymore, but it wasn’t calm either. It was something suspended in between—a battlefield disguised as an ordinary office. And yet, I stayed.

Because leaving early would have felt like the surrender. And surrender wasn’t in my vocabulary, not when Ms. Rose was watching.

Finally, when the promised hour was nearly complete, I snapped my notebook closed with a soft but definitive sound, a full stop at the end of this long, suffocating sentence. I slid the pen along its spine, rose from my chair, and tucked the book beneath my arm.

“I’ll take my leave now, Professor,” I said, my voice respectful but measured.

Ms. Rose didn’t answer. She sat there, studying me with that unreadable, intense look. Then, just as I turned toward the door, her voice came—low, steady, and laced with something unspoken, yet felt.

“Avery.”

I paused, my hand on the doorknob, and looked back over my shoulder. Her eyes held mine, unwavering, intense. “You don’t fool me,” she said, her words deliberate, each one cutting through the air. “Not with that arrogant mask of yours. Not with those half-smiles and careless shrugs you hide behind.”

I froze, caught off guard by the depth of her observation. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her gaze piercing. “You’re hurting, whether you admit it or not. And the way you keep throwing yourself recklessly into everything… it isn’t strength, Avery. It’s a stubborn, self-destructive reaction. And one day,”—her voice softened, but lost none of its razor edge—”that difference will matter more than you know.”

Something in my chest pulled tight, a knot I hadn’t expected to feel. For a moment, I almost snapped back—almost hid behind the Von Carter arrogance that usually carried me through these moments of vulnerability.

But the words wouldn’t come. They were caught in my throat.

Instead, I met her gaze, let my lips twitch into that familiar half-smile she claimed to see through, and said nothing. Because what could I say in the face of such relentless observation?

Without another word, I opened the door and stepped out, carrying both the weight of her observation and the urgent promise waiting for me at the orphanage. 

The tension of that office still clung to me, a physical memory, but beneath it was something else—something warmer and grounding. 

A reminder that no matter how sharp and cold the world felt, there was a small, person waiting who needed me.

And for now, that knowledge was enough.