Chapter 58

Avery’s POV

The third day without Tiffany felt like a lifetime. Silence became a weight, pressing against everything.

I replayed her blunt words. We cannot be together. At first, I scoffed. I convinced myself she tested me, playing one of her cold games to gauge my commitment or assert control.

The days bled into each other. The truth pressed closer: she meant it. Three days.

Every call went to voicemail. Every text remained in a limbo of unread messages. No reply. Not a single character.

It gnawed at me. An ache consumed day and night. She did not just avoid me; she erased me from her sphere.

The most infuriating part? I did not know her home address. Tiffany Rose Kingston acted as a fortress in heels, wrapped in a shroud of mystery.

Her existence outside the university remained guarded. A dark thought slithered into my mind: ask Reynolds to dig up her address, to follow her, to use the resources of the Von Carter name to break through her armor.

Then the consequence hit me. If she found out I resorted to such a violation, she would burn with rage. A fury profound enough to cost me her forgiveness.

It remained a risk I could not take. So, I waited. I contained the burning frustration and made a decision: I would confront her in the one place she could not avoid me. The university.

That morning, I sat in her lecture hall ahead of time. Nerves strung tight, ready to snap. The air felt thick, as though the walls pressed down on my chest.

My pen tapped against the desk—click, click, click—a frantic rhythm that betrayed my impatience. Then I heard it. The sound. The rhythmic, commanding click of heels echoed down the corridor.

Tiffany arrived. My chest tightened into a knot. My fingers froze mid-tap.

That sound remained unmistakable. Tiffany stood there. The door opened with a thud, and she appeared, her silhouette cutting through the doorway like a honed blade.

She stood composed. Hair tied back, crisp blouse tucked into her skirt, every line of her posture screamed professional authority.

For a moment, my chest ached with relief. Seeing her proved she existed, not a phantom of my worry. She walked past me.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition. Her eyes remained fixed forward, her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression as cold as polished stone.

She set her files on the lecture desk, adjusted her glasses with a clinical touch, and began her lecture. Her voice—firm, commanding—rolled across the room, articulating theories with detached precision.

But not once, in forty-five minutes, did her eyes meet mine. Not once did she falter or acknowledge my existence. I sat transparent, invisible to her.

By the end, my blood boiled. My chest heaved with the pressure of unspoken questions. What happened in these three days? Something shifted, like someone stole the fire from her veins and replaced it with ice.

A thought struck me—sharp, refusing dismissal. Kingston. Robin.

Those names slithered in the shadows of her life. They possessed influence, power, reach.

Tiffany, with all her secrets, made a target. Could they have forced her hand? Threatened her? Broken her spirit?

The fury flared, a cleansing inferno. If they stood behind this, if they dared touch a thread of her life, her happiness, or her peace—they would regret their birth. No more waiting.

The time for confrontation arrived. After class, I lingered by the exit. She collected her things with practiced efficiency.

She moved with calculation, as if every motion followed a script. Students trickled out, their chatter dissolving, but I heard none of it.

My world centered on her. I locked my gaze on her rigid form.

She walked swiftly, heels clicking their sharp rhythm, her head held high. I followed, quiet, determined.

She turned down a secluded corridor, entered her office, and shut the door with a final snick. My hand trembled with raw nerves and blinding anger as I reached for the knob. I shoved it open with force, stepping inside before she could respond.

She sat at her desk, flipping through a stack of papers, the picture of professional disinterest.

“Tiffany.”

My voice cracked with the effort of suppressing the rage and despair. Her hand paused, but she did not look up. Her voice remained flat.

“You should not be here, Ms. Carter.”

“Do not start with that nonsense.”

I closed the door. The insignificant click echoed in the small room like a gunshot.

“Three days, Tiffany. Three days, and you vanish. No calls. No texts. Not a single word of explanation. What happened? What is this?”

Her jaw tightened, a knot of tension at her temple. Her eyes remained glued to the papers.

“I told you already. We cannot be together. Is that not clear enough for you?”

My hands balled into fists.

“No. It is not clear. Because the Tiffany I know does not run. She does not hide behind silence. She fights. She claws through storms and tears down anyone who stands in her way. Do not insult my intelligence by telling me this is your choice.”

Finally, her eyes lifted—sharp, cold, and filled with a defensive emptiness.

“You presume to know me, Ms. Carter?”

“Yes, I do.”

I took a deliberate step closer, my voice dropping to a low intensity.

“I know you better than you want. I have seen the cracks in that armor. I have seen the woman beneath the facade—the one who feels, the one who burns, the one who, against her better judgment, let me in.”

Her lips trembled—a microscopic betrayal—but then she regained her fortress posture. She shook her head with cold finality.

“You are wrong. Whatever you think you saw—it was nothing. You were nothing.”

The words sliced through me. They annihilated. But I did not back down. My breath came in ragged pulls.

“You are lying,” I whispered.

“Am I?” she asked, tilting her head, her composure flawless. “Or is it that you, Avery Von Carter, refuse to accept a simple, ugly truth?”

I slammed my palms flat against the cool surface of her desk, leaning forward until our faces stood inches apart.

“Tell me then! Tell me what catastrophe happened in these three days! What changed? Did Kingston get to you? Did Robin threaten you? Is that it? Is that why you do this?”

For the first time, her eyes flickered. A flash of raw, indistinguishable fear. It lasted a heartbeat before she smothered it, but it existed. I saw it. I felt it.

“You see?” I hissed, triumph laced with agony. “You hide something, Tiffany.”

She stood, the chair scraping back. Her hands pressed flat on the desk, her posture rigid with desperation.

“Enough. You do not understand the nature of the world you step into, Carter. Walk away before it destroys you.”

My laugh sounded harsh, bitter.

“Destroy me? Tiffany, I would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe. Do you not get it?”

Her eyes closed for a silent second. When they opened, they glistened—not with tears, but with a storm she refused to let loose.

“You should not say things like that, Avery.”

“Why not?” I snapped, the question a challenge. “Because you do not feel the same intensity? Or because you do—and you fear the consequences too much to admit it?”

Silence descended, heavy, a vacuum of sound and honesty. I leaned closer, my voice softening, breaking against the weight in my chest.

“You can push me away. You can slap me, scream at me, pretend I mean nothing. But I know the truth, Tiffany. And one day, you will face that truth too, no matter how far you run.”

Her hand trembled as she reached for a fountain pen, gripping it like an anchor.

“Leave. Please, Avery.”

The word—please—was barely audible, a fragile whisper. It shattered me more than any fury could. It was not anger. It was not disdain. It was desperate pleading.

I stepped back, my fists clenching at my sides. My heart warred with my rage and the sickening ache that refused to let her go.

“Fine,” I said, my voice raw. “I will leave. But hear me, Tiffany Rose Kingston. If Kingston or Robin had anything to do with this… if they forced you into this corner… I will find out. And when I do, there will be no place left where they can hide.”

Her eyes widened, but she remained silent, trapped behind her defenses. I turned toward the door, my throat burning, my chest on fire. My hand gripped the metal knob, pausing for an agonizing second.

“And Tiffany…” my voice dropped to a final, heartbreaking whisper. “You can try to erase me. But you will never succeed. Because you are already carved into me. Permanently.”

I did not wait for her response. I opened the door and walked out, leaving behind the silent aftermath.

Inside, I knew one thing with certainty—this was not over. Whatever walls she built, whatever chains Kingston or Robin wrapped around her soul—I would break them. Even if the chaos destroyed me.

❖ 

Next morning came in a blink. The corridor outside her office smelled of lemon polish and old wealth. I walked fast, the Von Carter name a heavy, invisible shield. People glanced up, but their smiles wilted when they met my eyes.

I reached the door to her executive office. It felt petty to put my palm to the wood and ask permission when I had a world of questions that would not stay bottled.

I shoved the door open. The door hit the wall with a loud thunk, scattering the hush like a fist.

She stood there, back to me, an elegant shape against the windows. The light slit across her shoulders, making her dark hair a severe halo.

She sat with stationary posture—shoulders square, spine straight—a statue someone breathed cold defiance into. Her voice came even before she turned.

“You are not allowed here, Ms. Carter. Do you not understand the word?”

“I am not asking, Tiffany. I am telling.”

Her back stiffened. Though she did not pivot, the tension in the room curdled, turning sharp and metallic. The lock clicked when I closed the door.

Three strides and I reached her desk. She left everything in order: leather-bound files, a pen set, a framed photograph of a yacht. My hand moved.

I reached out and caught her wrist. She flinched like contact was a live wire. The heat of my grip forced her to pivot.

Eyes met eyes.

“Let go. Leave me, Ms. Carter,” she said. Her words edged with brittle calm.

“No,” I said. The syllable tasted like a challenge.

Her gaze snapped to stone.

“I am warning you. No one grabs me. Release my hand.”

Her warning should have been enough. It should have been the reason I backed down. But the agony of the past two days, the silence, the disdain in her voice—it all condensed into something sharp inside my throat.

I did not let go. I pulled her toward me. Her body collided with mine and the edge of the heavy desk. Papers slid. A pen rolled onto the floor—tiny punctuation in the difficult sentence we started.

She barked, a sound of shock.

“You will leave. Now.”

She attempted to wrench her hand back. I tightened my grip.

Then the slap came—precise, an explosion of authority translated into stinging heat across my cheek. The sound reverberated through the office and into my bones. I stood stunned by the sting, by the way the skin felt like paper catching fire.

She stood back, chest heaving, maintaining a show of composure.

“Leave. My. Office.”

I looked at her, at the falsity of that porcelain bravado. I let the corner of my lip curl into something almost a smile.

“I am going, Tiffany, oh, sorry, Ms. Rose,” I said, my voice steady. “But listen to me.”

I took a step closer. The theatrics could not shield her from the intensity in my eyes.

“If I learn that anything you did—anything orchestrated or whispered about by the Kingstons, by Robin, by anyone who thinks they can play with people’s lives—put their names down. They are dead.”

Her lips thinned into a pale line. She did not answer. Her gaze flicked away.

“And you,” I said, leaning in as if to whisper a secret that burned, “Tiffany Rose Kingston: I can love with the same scope I use to devastate. That is your warning, not theirs.”

For a beat the air hung crystalline. She pushed up her chin.

“You make threats you cannot keep, Ms. Carter.”

“The only thing I am making, Ms. Rose, are promises.”

I spoke and the words came scraped from my soul.

“I never touched you without permission. This moment—” I touched my cheek where her hand struck, the skin warm with betrayal— “I own. I am sorry. For the shame of it, for the confusion. Because I am no coward.”

She had a thousand defenses ready: a glass of composure, the professional dismissal. I watched her flinch at something behind the eyes that was not calculation.

Pain. Guilt. Or both.

“You never loved me back,” I said, the sentence an indictment. “Although you said it, I guess it was nothing to you. You never met me halfway. I think maybe I was a toy. Someone you turned to when you wanted to practice tenderness without consequences.”

She did not soften. But she ceased to be the impervious, armored statue.

“I guess I was just a toy. Someone who had guts enough to play with a Von Carter’s feelings.”

Her expression did not change, but her eyes betrayed a storm of regret.

“Well,” I exhaled, blinking away the sting, “someone finally dared. Congratulations.”

I turned toward the door, my hand closing on the handle. I paused—not to linger, but because one last thing required saying before I walked out.

“Mark my words, Tiffany. I will not spare anyone responsible for what happened to us. Not one person.”

The lock clicked behind me as I left. The corridor air felt like a bandage across my burning skin. Staff watched me, the hush following me.

I did not care. My world had been reduced to the storm just set in motion. The slap stung. More than the sting, I felt the urge to dig.

Whoever pulled the threads—the Kingstons, Robin—had stitched a net around someone I loved. I wanted to burn the loom to ash.

If Tiffany was tangled in the net as both a reluctant puppeteer and a victim, I would unravel the strings. If she were solely a victim, I would find out who twisted those hands. The game was no longer about tenderness. It was about consequences.

The morning air of the next day tasted different, heavy with the weight of that confrontation. The reckless certainty I carried was now a cold, controlled fire that kept my heart thudding as I stepped onto campus. The world looked frustratingly normal—students chattering, laughter weaving through them—but to me it all felt muted, the calm before a disaster.

Today, I promised myself, I was going to get my ultimate answers. I was going to find her and make her look me in the eye and tell me the truth.

No more evasions. My heels clicked against the floors, each sound a testament to the coiled tension in my chest. I was ready to rip down whatever barrier she tried to build.

But then—my steps slowed. Something was not right.

The sound of heels echoed from the other side, approaching, but it was profoundly different. Not hers.

I froze, my breath caught, because I knew Tiffany’s rhythm. I knew the cadence of her walk better than my own pulse. This was a clumsy imitation.

Turning my head, I saw Ms. Collway. Her face looked more solemn than usual. In that second, a knot of dread formed.

I parted my lips to greet her, but she spoke first, her voice agonizingly cautious.

“Avery…”

She hesitated, her eyes searching mine with a pity I rejected.

“I think you should know—Ms. Rose… she has resigned.”

The words fell like shattering glass. My breath left in one rush.

“What?” I whispered, disbelief clawing at my throat. “What did you just say to me?”

Ms. Collway’s expression softened, but the kindness only poured gasoline on the fire. She opened her mouth to explain, but I could not wait.

My body moved before my mind processed the shock. The chair I was about to sit in screeched as I stood. The entire lecture hall turned their heads. None of that mattered.

“What do you mean, she resigned?”

My voice was sharp, a razor’s edge. Before Ms. Collway could form another word, I stormed out.

The heels that carried me now were nothing like Tiffany’s rhythm—they were a weapon, each click a declaration that I would not stop until I had the truth. I reached the Dean’s office, my pulse thrumming hot in my ears.

Without knocking, without permission, I threw the door open and stepped inside. The Dean looked up from the papers scattered across his desk.

“Ms. Carter—what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

His voice tried for sternness, but I heard the tremor. I did not care about manners. My voice cut through the air like cold steel.

“Why is Ms. Rose not here today?”

He blinked, taken aback by the force of my entry.

“Ms. Carter, what kind of misbehavior is this? You cannot just barge in—”

I stepped closer, my eyes blazing with the unholy fire of the Von Carter bloodline.

“I am not here for lectures on manners, Dean. I am asking where Tiffany Rose Kingston is right now.”

He shifted, his fingers tapping a nervous tattoo against the desk. That betraying gesture pushed me further.

“Do not test me.” My tone dropped, controlled but burning with potential. “Trust me, Dean—it is just Avery asking you right now. But if you force me to escalate this… you will be facing Avery Von Carter. Believe me—you do not want to know what that looks like.”

For a long moment, the office held nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing. His face paled to a sickly grey, and I saw the second he realized I was not bluffing. He swallowed, defeated.

He sighed, bracing for impact.

“Ms. Carter… Tiffany sent me her resignation letter last night. Effective immediately.”

The world tilted. I gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white, because suddenly I was not sure if my legs would hold. My voice trembled.

“Resignation letter? What are you talking about? Why would she—”

“She informed me,” the Dean continued, his voice hoarse, “that she is moving to another country. She did not specify where. Only that she was leaving this morning. She… she will not be coming back to the university, Ms. Carter.”

The words slammed into me with the force of a brutal collapse. My chest tightened, the ground slipping away until I fell into a black void. I heard myself laugh—a broken, incredulous sound.

“No. You are lying. She would not do that. Not without telling me.”

The Dean flinched at the agony in my voice, but he did not speak. The silence between us screamed the truth louder than any confession. I stumbled back, my hand pressed against my chest as though I could hold the pieces of myself together.

Images of her flooded my mind: her eyes softening only for me, the way she teased me about my flaws, the warmth of her lips when she kissed me.

And now—gone. Just like that. My throat burned, but I forced myself to look at him, eyes blazing through the blur of tears.

“Do you have any idea what you just told me? Do you understand the magnitude of what this means?”

He opened his mouth to offer bureaucratic comfort, but I cut him off with a raised hand, my voice breaking but still sharp.

“Do not dare tell me it is for the best. Do not dare try to soothe this wound with your administrative nonsense. You do not know her. You do not know us.”

I spun, unable to stand in that office another second. My heels clicked against the marble as I stormed out, the sound a war cry of heartbreak. Students passed, whispering, but I did not hear them.

The world was nothing but the echo of Tiffany’s absence.

Outside, the air felt thin, cold. My chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as I pressed my back against the stone wall. My hands trembled, my body shaking as though the earth betrayed me.

She had left. She had left without a word, without a fight, without me.

I sank onto the stone steps, covering my face with my hands, the rough texture a grounding pain. A sob tore through me, a sound I barely recognized as my own.

This was not Tiffany’s way—she was strong, she was stubborn, she was defiant. She would not run.

Unless… unless she thought she was protecting me.

That thought rooted itself deep, stabbing me harder than physical pain. She had sacrificed us. She had left me behind—not because she did not love me, but because she did.

Because she feared the consequences of that love more than she feared losing me. The realization shattered and steadied me. My chest hurt with the weight of her choice, but beneath the grief, a cold fire ignited.

If she thought I would let her go, she underestimated me. Tiffany could try to bury our connection under oceans, but she belonged to me as surely as I belonged to her.

I wiped my tears with resolute fingers, inhaling, forcing the cold air into my burning lungs. She thought she could protect me by leaving me in the dark.

But what she did not understand—what she would soon learn—was that I would burn every border, cross every ocean, and tear down every wall until I found her again.

No matter where she ran, Tiffany Rose Kingston was mine. And I was not about to let her or anyone else forget it.

This was no longer about love; it was about retrieval. It was about destiny.