LONDON'S RECKLESS FAULT

chapter 5

Chapter 5

“No problem,” Chloe said quickly, her voice too high, too bright. Like she was trying to laugh off the embarrassment burning her cheeks.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “No, no.” His gaze shifted toward me, slow and deliberate, then back to Chloe. The silence that followed scratched at my skin, uncomfortable and heavy, like a held breath that nobody dared to release. Finally, Alexander spoke.

“Good.”

Something about that single word sounded like a warning. A line drawn in the sand.

Chloe swallowed, hard. I could see her throat bob. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Without another word, Alexander turned and walked away. His steps were unhurried, but the crowd parted for him anyway. Just like that, the group slowly began to disappear, whispers trailing in his wake.

Conversation resumed. Students returned to whatever they’d been doing before, as if the moment had never happened. Laughter bubbled up again. Books were opened. Phones were lifted. Yet I couldn’t stop staring after him. The set of his shoulders. The way his hands stayed in his pockets like he didn’t care about any of it. That was strange. Very strange.

Amelia nudged me with her elbow, breaking my trance. “What?” I asked, blinking.

She smiled gently, like she knew a secret. “Nothing.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Say it.”

“I think Alexander just saved you.”

I scoffed immediately, crossing my arms. “He did not.”

“Really?” She dragged the word out, teasing.

“Really.” But Amelia’s grin only widened. “If you say so.” But that wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t wrong. I had expected him to ignore the situation, or worse, make it worse with some cutting remark. Alexander Blackwood didn’t do kindness. He didn’t do rescue missions. So why had he stepped in? Why me?

The question followed me for the rest of the day like a shadow. It sat with me through last period math, where numbers blurred on the board. It rode with me in the backseat during the drive home, past gates and manicured lawns that all started to look the same. It waited for me at the dinner table, heavy on my plate.

Meanwhile, the Blackwood dining room swallowed sound. The ceiling rose two stories high, and the table alone could seat twenty, polished dark wood reflecting the chandelier above like a still, black lake. Tonight only four chairs were filled, making the space feel even larger, emptier. Crystal glasses caught the light and threw it back in sharp shards. My fork scraping against porcelain felt too loud in the quiet, each sound echoing.

Richard sat at one end, posture perfect, every inch the man in control. Mom sat beside him, her smile polite but her eyes tired. Alexander sat across from me, and me—trying very hard not to stare at Alexander, at the sharp line of his jaw, at the way he cut his steak with precise, bored motions. Dinner remained peaceful for exactly twelve minutes. The only sounds were silverware and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Then Richard set his glass down. The clink was soft, but it might as well have been a gunshot.

“Your results came in today.”

Alexander didn’t look up. He dragged his knife through the steak. “Okay.”

“They’re slipping.”

“I’m aware.”

Richard’s jaw tightened. I saw the muscle jump. He leaned forward, both hands flat on the table, shoulders blocking the light. “Then start taking school seriously.”

The room went quiet. Not the normal quiet. A heavier kind. The kind that pressed down on your chest. Even the air felt colder, thinner. Mom exchanged a worried glance with me, her fingers twisting the stem of her wine glass until I thought it might snap.

Alexander placed his fork down. Slow. Careful. Too careful. His knuckles went white around the metal, and for a second I thought he might bend it. “I am taking it seriously.”

“No, you’re not.” Richard’s voice dropped lower, the tone he used in boardrooms when he was done negotiating. “You need to think about your future.”

“I am thinking about it.”

“Clearly not enough.”

Alexander laughed. No humor. Just cold air escaping his throat, sharp enough to cut. He pushed his chair back, the legs screeching against marble loud enough to make Mom flinch and set her teeth on edge. “I’m done.”

Richard stood immediately, his chair scraping back too, eyes flashing. “We’re not done.”

Alexander’s expression hardened. For the first time since I’d met him, I saw real anger in his eyes. Not the bored, distant kind he wore like armor. Raw. Unfiltered. Dangerous. It changed his whole face.

“You can’t control my life forever.”

“Alexander Blackwood—” Richard warned, using his full name like a leash.

“No.” He shook his head once, slow and final. “I’m tired of that conversation.”

He walked out. Didn’t look at any of us. A second later, a door slammed somewhere upstairs. The sound cracked through the high ceilings and down the long hallway, settling in my chest like a weight I hadn’t asked to carry.

Nobody spoke. Not Richard. Not Mom. Not me. The only sound was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock and the soft hiss of the chandelier. Mom finally picked up her fork, but her hand shook slightly. Richard stared at the empty chair across from him like he could will Alexander back into it.

Eventually, dinner continued, but the food tasted like ash and obligation. I pushed it around my plate and understood something new, something that settled cold in my stomach: Alexander Blackwood didn’t have a perfect life. Behind the name, the money, the perfect face—he was carrying something heavy. Something painful. And I had to know what it was. I had to.

Several hours later, I still couldn’t sleep. The house was too big, too silent. I tried calling Ava and Jake, but both calls went to voicemail. The sound of my own voice on their outgoing message made the loneliness worse. I tossed onto my side, then my stomach, then my back. I counted cracks in the ceiling. I counted sheep. But nothing worked. The mansion was too quiet. Too quiet.

I picked up my phone again and checked the time. 12:49 a.m. Great. The witching hour. The time when bad decisions felt like good ideas. I groaned and gently climbed out of bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet. Maybe water would help. Or maybe I’d just wander around until exhaustion won.

Either option sounded better than staring at the ceiling and listening to the house settle and groan. I walked toward the window, my steps muffled by the thick carpet. The gardens stretched across the darkness outside, silver and unreal under the moonlight. The fountain glowed, water catching the light like shattered glass. Everything looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until a movement caught my attention.

I froze, heart stuttering. Someone was outside. A figure dressed in dark clothing crossed the driveway, moving with purpose, not the slow patrol of security. At first, I told myself it was nothing. A guard. A staff member. Then the person stepped beneath the amber glow of a lamppost.

My breath caught and held. It was Alexander.

What was he doing? I moved closer to the glass, pressing my palm against the cold pane until it fogged. Alexander glanced toward the mansion, scanning the windows with sharp, careful eyes like he was making sure nobody was watching. Satisfied, he headed toward the garage, moving fluidly and practiced.

A few moments later, the garage door rumbled open, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness. The sound of a car engine broke the silence—low, powerful, dangerous, like a caged animal. The headlights flashed on, cutting through the dark like knives, illuminating the empty driveway in harsh white. For a second, I expected someone to stop him. Richard. Security. Anyone. But nobody came. The house held its breath.

The car idled for a heartbeat, engine vibrating the ground, then drove down the driveway and disappeared through the gates without a sound. He was gone. I stood staring long after the sound faded, my reflection ghosting back at me in the window, pale and wide-eyed.

A hundred questions raced through my mind, tripping over each other. Where was he going at nearly one in the morning? Why was he sneaking out like a thief in his own home? And why did he look like he’d done it before—like this was routine?

I should have ignored it. I should have gone back to bed, pulled the covers over my head, pretended I hadn’t seen anything. I should have minded my own business. Instead, curiosity settled deep inside me, sharp and restless and impossible to ignore. Once it was there, I couldn’t get rid of it. It itched under my skin.

I crossed my arms and looked toward the gate, now dark and silent again, swallowing the night. My pulse was too fast. My hands were cold.

The next time Alexander Blackwood disappeared into the middle of the night, I would follow him. Whatever he was running from, whatever he was running to—I needed to know.