Hate Me Like You Mean It

THE SAFE HOUSE

The safe house was a stark contrast to the marble towers of the Strand. It was a brutalist concrete apartment in Elephant and Castle, hidden behind a rusted steel door and smelling of damp pavement and adrenaline.

Meredith’s hand trembled as she knocked. She had spent the bus ride there fueling her anger, reminding herself of the expulsion and the humiliation. But as the door creaked open, the anger evaporated, replaced by a sharp, painful ache in her chest.

Henry looked like a ghost of the boy who had ruled King’s College.

He was wearing a plain black hoodie and jeans, his hair a chaotic mess, and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. When he saw her, he didn't move. He just stared at her as if he were a man dying of thirst and she was a mirage.

"Julian said you were here," Meredith said, her voice barely a whisper.

Henry stepped back, letting her in. The apartment was nearly empty—just a laptop on a folding table and a thin mattress on the floor. The air was cold, but the moment the door shut, the space between them felt like it was humming with a live wire.

"I thought you wouldn't come," Henry said. His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual aristocratic polish. "I thought after the Ball... after what he did... you’d never want to see a McFord again."

"I don't," Meredith said, her voice hardening as she tried to reclaim her shield. She walked toward him, stopping just out of arm's reach. "I’m here for the drive, Henry. I’m here because I want my life back. Not because I’ve forgiven you."

Henry flinched. It was a small movement, but in the quiet of the room, it felt like a landslide. "I didn't do it, Meredith. I swear to you. I didn't know he was filming us. I didn't know he’d go that far."

"But you’re the reason he was looking," she snapped, stepping closer, her finger poking his chest. "You’re the one who dragged me into your twisted little world. You’re the one who made me a target!"

Henry grabbed her wrist. He didn't do it roughly, but with a sudden, desperate strength. He pulled her hand flat against his heart. Through the thin fabric of his hoodie, she could feel it—a frantic, thundering rhythm that matched her own.

"You think I don't know that?" he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You think I haven't spent every second of the last forty-eight hours wanting to tear my own skin off because I let him hurt you? I hate that I’m a McFord. I hate that my blood is the same as his. But I don't hate you. I never did."

The tension was suffocating. Meredith looked at his lips, then back to those Atlantic-blue eyes that were begging for something she wasn't ready to give. She could feel his breath on her skin. Her body was screaming at her to lean in, to bridge those last two inches and let the world burn.

Instead, she wrenched her wrist away.

"Don't," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Don't try to play the hero now. You’re the reason I’m a villain in everyone else's story. Just... give me the drive. Let’s finish this."

Henry’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to scream, or pull her back, or break something. But he simply turned toward the laptop.

"Fine," he said, his voice cold again, the mask sliding back into place. "Let's be business partners. Let's take him down. But don't act like you don't feel it, Meredith. That spark? That's not hate. And we both know it."