Ashes & Roses

Chapter 9

Wynter Rose Monroe

I ran.

The moment I stepped through the doors of the financial aid building, I lowered my head and hurried across the pavement, my chest painfully tight. Every breath caught in my throat as though my body had forgotten how to function. I could still feel the phantom weight of his hand against my knee, and no matter how many times I told myself I was away from him, my skin crawled with the memory. I was embarrassed, humiliated, and frightened. More than anything, I felt stupid. Maybe I should have understood what he meant sooner, instead of sitting there trying to decode his words while he looked at me like property. I blinked rapidly, refusing to let myself cry on the open walkway. I couldn't go back inside, and I couldn't tell Genevieve. Whitmore had made that painfully clear, and the terror of jeopardizing my enrollment kept me silent.

Three hundred thousand dollars. The number followed me all the way back toward the dorm, ringing in my ears until I collided blindly with another student. Their coffee splashed across the side of my bag.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" The student exclaimed, looking at me with instant regret.

"It's okay," I murmured, staring numbly at the dark stain blooming across the pink fabric before brushing past them. I didn't have the energy to care about coffee when my entire future had just been priced out of reach.

When I reached the room, Genevieve was still fast asleep, curled beneath her blankets, completely unaware that my world had fractured. For a brief, desperate second, I wanted to wake her up, to let someone else carry a fraction of this weight. But Whitmore's warning slipped back into my mind, cold and absolute.

Your academic future here is very fragile, Wynter.

I swallowed hard, turning away from her bed. I couldn't risk it. I pulled open my drawer and grabbed a simple red university tote bag I had gotten from the merchandise shop to replace my coffee-stained dance bag. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my pointe shoes, forcing myself to pause, breathe, and slow down. Once everything was transferred, I slipped the strap over my shoulder and slipped quietly out of the room, leaving her sleeping behind me.

By the time I reached the dance building, I had forced the panic deep down beneath my ribs. Ballet had taught me how to function through pain, how to stand straight when everything inside was breaking. Changing into my black leotard and tights, I hurried into the studio where several dancers were already stretching near the mirrors. I sat down on the floor, pulling my shoes from my bag and wrapping the ribbons around my ankles with slow, practiced muscle memory.

Three hundred thousand dollars. I pulled a ribbon too tightly, winced at the bite against my skin, and loosened it.

"Ms. Monroe." I snapped my head up. Professor Bennett stood near the center of the studio, watching me. "Are you with us this morning?"

Heat rushed to my cheeks as a few dancers glanced my way. "Yes, Professor." She gave a short, critical nod. "Then take your place at the barre."

The music began, but the familiar routine offered no sanctuary. My mind kept splintering back to Whitmore's office. During the first combination, Professor Bennett's voice cut through the air, lashing me deeper every time.

"Your turnout, Ms.Monroe." Minutes later, I lost my balance during a relevé and gripped the barre too hard.

"Control," she warned. "Don't apologize. Fix it."

I tried, but my focus was entirely shattered. When I came down a beat early on a subsequent combination, the music stopped abruptly. The students around me shared looks and whispers before shaking their head in disapproval, I kept my head down in shame not being able to look them in the eye.

"Ms.Monroe," Professor Bennett said, her expression firm. "Again. You know this combination. Stop dancing like you're waiting for something to happen."

I nodded, the words stinging, and forced every ounce of remaining concentration onto the counts. For the rest of class, I survived purely on instinct, keeping my face neutral while absolute dread coiled in my stomach.

When class ended, I moved slowly, changing out of my leotard and packing my bag as the studio emptied out. Needing somewhere quiet, I walked toward a row of trees near the edge of campus and sat on a secluded bench, pulling my laptop from my bag. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I told myself I was just checking, that there must have been a mistake, that the student portal would clear everything up.

I logged into the university dashboard and clicked over to the financial aid tab. The page loaded, paused, and displayed a brief, chilling message in the center of the screen:

Access to this section of your account is currently restricted. Please contact your assigned financial aid counselor for further assistance.

I stared at it, then refreshed the page. Nothing changed. I checked my classes and dormitory assignment, everything else worked perfectly. Only my financial aid had been locked away behind Adrian Whitmore's name. My fingers curled tightly around the edge of the laptop. The memory of his predatory smile made my stomach heave, and I instantly snapped the computer shut, sliding it back into my bag. I sat there in silence, watching students laugh and talk as they crossed the quad, looking entirely undisturbed by the reality collapsing around me. I could go to Genevieve. I could tell her everything and let her help me figure out a way forward. But as Whitmore's threat echoed in my mind, the suffocating weight settled back over my chest. I wasn't ready to lose everything.

With a heavy, trembling sigh, I stood up, adjusted the strap of my red bag, and walked blindly forward into a campus that suddenly felt entirely foreign. For the first time since arriving at the university, I genuinely didn't know who I was supposed to ask for help.