Lucien Pov.
The pain doesn’t go away. So I drown it in drinks—chasing solace at the bottom of every glass. But it only buys me a blinding headache and the relentless buzz of my damn phone.
I barely remember stumbling in. My mouth tastes like whiskey, and my skull’s trying to split in two.
Groaning, I slide out of bed and reach for my phone, desperate to silence the noise. The screen lights up: Nathaniel Graves. Vice President for Academic Affairs
Why the hell is Nathaniel Graves calling me this early?
I let the phone ring once before answering.
“Drake,” Graves snaps.
I don’t speak. Just wait for him to continue.
“There are photos of you circulating,” he continues. “On the student forum. You’re clearly drunk. Shirt unbuttoned.”
Shit. Who the hell took that picture—and why?
Graves
