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Hobson’s hand is shaking so badly he can barely grip the pen, but he scratches his signature across the bottom of the deed of gift.

I pick up the signed copy, slide it back into my leather folder, and button my coat. I am wielding generational wealth like a blunt instrument, and it is disgusting, and I am absolutely savoring it.

Vindication and revenge, it turns out, are a helluva drug.

"One last thing, Dr. Hobson," I say, stepping back toward the door.

Hobson looks up, wiping his dripping forehead with a tissue. "Yes, Miss Estrella?"

"I am officially withdrawing my doctoral candidacy. You don't need to convene an appeals board." I offer him a cool, razor-thin smile. "I don't need your degree anymore. I bought the department."

I turn toward the door.

Lachlan steps aside, pulling the mahogany door open for me. As I cross the threshold, I pause, glancing back over my shoulder at Cole, who is staring at the floor, completely ruined, his career dead before it really even started.

A career he built on my fucking back.

"Good luck with the keynote, Cole," I say softly. "I hear the Latin is tricky."

We walk out into the hallway.

The heavy door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the stunned silence of the office.

Carmilla’s still frozen behind her desk, staring at us with wide, reverent eyes as we pass. I give her a polite nod, push through the department doors, and head down the stairs.

We reach the ground floor and step out into the cold autumn sunshine.

The wind whips across the quad, catching loose strands of my hair. My chest feels light—impossibly, wonderfully light. For the first time in six years, the heavy, crushing knot between my shoulder blades is gone. The dull pressure behind my eyes has completely vanished. I did it. I actually fucking did it.

Beside me, Lachlan falls into step, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored trousers.

I look up at him.

He’s looking down at me, and the bodyguard expression is completely gone. In its place is a wicked grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You're a vicious little creature, Vivienne," he rumbles, his Scottish accent thick with amusement.

"I told you," I say, pulling my collar up against the wind, a breathless laugh bubbling up in my throat. "I have a black belt in spite."

"Aye." He reaches out, catching my hand where it swings at my side, his calloused fingers lacing firmly through mine. His palm is scorching hot. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Vivi."

"You could never be on my bad side. I photograph great from all directions."

Lachlan barks a laugh—loud, deep, and completely unbothered by the students staring at us as we cut across the brick walk toward the waiting town car.

"Come on then, lass," he says, giving my hand a firm, possessive tug. "Let's go home."

Twenty-One

Vivienne

The adrenaline from ruining Cole’s life lasts until we hit the Schuylkill Expressway, and then my body completely cashes out.

By the time the town car rolls through the iron gates of Midnight House, the cold autumn dusk has settled over the trees, and my brain feels like a sponge that’s been wrung dry. Walking into Hobson’s office in a three-thousand-dollar coat was thrilling, but the sheer emotional output of confronting my past while pretending to be an untouchable heiress has left every muscle between my shoulder blades locked into solid knots.

I kick off the butter-soft loafers the second the heavy front doors latch behind us. I leave them right by the umbrella stand and peel off the structured camel coat, slinging it over the banister.

"Don't leave your boots where the cat can chew them," Lachlan rumbles behind me.