Dirty Little Secrets

17.

SUMMER'S POV

The final vibrating chord of the piano faded into the acoustic paneling, but the silence it left behind wasn’t empty. It was heavy, electric, and completely alive.

The ugly, chaotic noise of the internet, the vile slurs of the campus gossip forum, and the suffocating weight of my double life had all vanished the moment our voices locked into harmony. In this small, locked room, there was only the beautiful, quiet sanctuary we had built out of notes and chords.

But the music had stripped away my armor, leaving me completely exposed.

Our breathing was synchronized, shallow and uneven in the tight space. The emotional climax of the song had brought us inches apart, our faces so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Every micro-movement of our slow-burn tension felt magnified under a microscope. The agonizingly slow brush of our thighs on the narrow piano bench sent a dangerous current straight through my veins, and the lingering warmth where his hands had guided mine still tingle against my knuckles.

The tension was palpable, a slow-burn simmer ready to boil over into a kiss.

Kingsley’s dark eyes dropped to my lips, his gaze heavy and clouded with a raw, desperate longing. My breath hitched as he leaned in, the faint, intoxicating scent of cinnamon and lavender enveloping me completely. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to lean forward and let the world burn if it meant experiencing the safety of his touch just once.

The space between us vanished, down to a mere fraction of an inch.

But just as my eyelashes began to flutter shut, a sharp flash of artificial white light cut through the dim room.

My eyes caught my phone screen lighting up on the piano lid. It was just a generic calendar notification, but the glowing screen was a brutal, icy reminder of the shadows constantly chasing me. In that cold flash of light, reality crashed back into the room like a tidal wave. The signed contract in Mr. Robert’s pocket. The anonymous blackmailer’s text. The stalking photo of Clyde at school.

The internal torture screamed back to life in my mind. I had literally just sung a gorgeous song about rewriting the stars and being together, all while internally knowing with absolute certainty that I had to push him away to keep him safe. If I let him kiss me, if I let him in, Mr. Robert would use me to destroy him and his mother completely. Loving Kingsley was a luxury that would cost me my brother’s life.

Panicking, I violently pulls away, breaking the spell.

I scrambled backward on the wooden bench, my shoes scraping loudly against the floorboards as I stood up. The abrupt movement ripped the shared warmth away instantly, leaving the air between us freezing cold.

Kingsley blinked, looking entirely disoriented as he sat frozen on the bench, his hand still suspended in the empty air where my face had just been. He looked breathless, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a profound, deeply cut hurt by her sudden coldness.

"Summer?" he breathed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked up at me. "What... what's wrong?"

"I can't," I choked out, refusing to meet his eyes because I knew the heartbreak in them would make me break down. "I can't do this, Kingsley."

"We just arranged the perfect medley," he protested, standing up from the bench, his tone a mix of desperation and confusion. "You felt that. You know we work together."

"It's just a class assignment," I lied, my voice turning harsh and robotic as I forced my walls to slam shut. "Don't mistake a rehearsal for something else. I told you before—you're a chore. A means to an end for my grades."

I didn't wait to see the impact of my venomous words. I gathered my things with frantic, trembling hands, shoving my manuscript and notebooks blindly into my backpack. Zip. Snap. I swung the bag over my shoulder, unlocked the heavy studio door with a loud, metallic click, and threw it open.

As I left the studio, sprinting down the hallway away from the boy who wanted to save me, a crushing weight settled onto my shoulders. I burst through the exit doors into the grey, drizzling New York afternoon, my mind racing in a frantic, terrifying loop.

The Showcase was in exactly six days. I had less than a week to figure out a way to save my grades and keep my scholarship, without letting the anonymous blackmailer release that hospital photo and completely destroy my life. I was running out of time, running out of options, and entirely alone in the dark.

The cool drizzle hit my face the moment I burst through the glass exit doors of the music building, but it did absolutely nothing to wash away the burning heat of Kingsley's gaze or the suffocating panic twisting in my chest. My feet moved on pure instinct, carrying me away from the studio, away from the piano bench, and away from the terrifying temptation to just collapse into his arms and let the world burn.

I needed to breathe. I needed to think.

I tried to calm down and walked aimlessly through the winding stone paths of the campus, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, my fingers tightly gripping my phone. The grey, concrete walls of NYU loomed around me like a labyrinth. My mind was a chaotic storm of conflicting deadlines. Six days until the Orientation Showcase. One anonymous blackmailer holding a photo that could cost me my scholarship. And an entire student forum calling me a "ghetto w***e" because of a heavily edited video.

How am I supposed to survive this? I thought, my throat tight with a sob I refused to let out. How do I protect Clyde if I lose everything here?

I walked aimlessly until the path opened up near the courtyard behind the humanities building, a secluded spot hidden by overgrown ivy walls. I stopped abruptly when I spotted a very familiar leather jacket.

It was George, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as he stood near the edge of the brick archway. He was also talking to someone—a female—but from this angle, I could not see who it was. The girl was tucked partially into the shadow of the ivy wall, her posture defensive.

Relief flared in my chest for a split second. George was my anchor, the one person who truly knew the weight I was carrying. I approaches them, my sneakers clicking softly against the wet pavement as I hurried forward, trying to call him out and get his attention.

"George—"

The name died in my throat as I drew closer, the wind carrying the sharp, hushed tone of his voice right to me. I froze in my tracks, my hand hovering in the air.

"Did you post it?"

It was George that spoke. His voice wasn't gentle or reassuring like it usually was with me. It was cold, demanding, and laced with a dangerous edge that made my blood run instantly cold.

My heart did a violent, sickening drop. Did you post it? Post what? The forum video? The edited clip of my fight with Dira that was currently destroying my life? Was George talking to the person who leaked it? Or worse... was he somehow involved?

Before I could take another step forward to confront them, or even see the face of the girl he was interrogating, the phone tightly clutched in my pocket vibrated with a sharp, aggressive buzz.

Bzzzz.

Immediately shattering the quiet tension of the courtyard. I flinched, quickly pulling it out, terrified that the noise would give away my position to George and his mysterious companion.

But it wasn't another threat from the anonymous blackmailer.

The Dean, Professor Finerty, had sent me a message. I stared at the official university email notification flashing across my screen, the text brief, formal, and entirely ominous:

> From: Office of Dean (Music Dept.)

> To: Summer Walker

> Subject: IMMEDIATE MEETING REQUIRED

> Miss Walker, please report to my office immediately upon receipt of this message regarding the incident in the lecture hall today.

My breath caught in my throat. The viral video had reached the administration. Just like Kingsley had warned me, the dean had seen the public forum uproar, and now my scholarship was officially hanging by a thread.

I looked up from the screen, my eyes darting frantically between the corner of the archway where George was still murmuring to the hidden girl, and the path leading toward the administration building.