Page 141 of Ruthless Chaos
Even though she’s agreeing with me, I feel a tinge of apprehension that she thinks my advice is worthy of taking. I only hope it yields the results she wants.
“Just promise me you’ll always put yourself first,” I say. “It’s not healthy to lose yourself to your emotions like this.”
I know what it’s like, which is why I don’t want her to suffer the same fate.
Tara laughs. “Healthy?” she mocks. “Things became unhealthy the moment I started fucking my professor, Al.” A sigh shakes her shoulders. “Call me crazy, but even if I knew things would end like this, I would do it all over again. Just to be his for a time.”
Realization hits me like a bullet. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Yes, and I shouldn’t. He never promised me love, only that he would care for me for as long as I would allow him to.” Her eyes start to water. “He’s broken that promise.”
I offer her my napkin to dry her eyes, and she takes it.
I’ve run out of words, so I do the only thing I can think of. I move my chair next to hers and give her a shoulder to cry on.
I stroke her face until the waterworks dry up.
“We’ll get through this,” I mumble. “I promise.”
THIRTY-THREE
ALEXANDER
I stareat the fountain pen in my hand.
It’s older than I am, I’m sure. The scuffed metal tells the story of all the Head Kingmakers who came before me. It will tell my story when I leave here, too.
The moment I was told of this Kingmaker tradition, I knew I would never participate in it. What use would a Courtesan be to me when I could have my pick of the girls on campus? Choosing a single one for at least an entire year seemed like it would be a disaster—especially since she would have to move in with me.
That’s a recipe for attachment.
Yet, here I am, about to record that I have indeed taken one.
I’m standing in a room the size of a closet, hidden deep within the bowels of Kingmaker House. Its location is a secret, passed down by word of mouth at the Head Kingmaker’s coronation.
Apart from a few elaborate tapestries embossed with the Kingmaker Crest hanging from the ceiling, the only other thing in this room is a small desk with an aging book and fountain pen.
I open the book, sending dust flying everywhere. I swat the particles away, holding my breath until they dissipate in the stale air.
The room is musty, with an oddly lingering smell of old tobacco smoke.
Flipping the pages as gently as I can, I skim over the past entries. They date back as far as the late 1890s, though I can barely make out names of the ones that old.
When I reach the present day, my fingers linger over the second-to-last entry, the one made by the Kingmaker who preceded the one I succeeded.
The name of the Courtesan he took in his final year was Ivy Hunter.
It takes me a few moments to connect the dots on why the name sounds so familiar to me. Graham’s girlfriend—well, wife, as I would imagine they are married by now—is named Ivy Hunter.
He never mentioned that she attended Saint Frederic University. In fact, he specifically told me she was an innocent.
But shecan’tbe an innocent if her name is here.
Unless she lied to get in here like Alize did. However, that still leaves the question ofwhyshe would do that.
My head swirls with all the possibilities.
Is this something I should tell Graham, or does he already know?
