The morning after was not painted in the soft, golden hues of a romance novel. For Ren Laurent, the morning felt like a hangover made of concrete and adrenaline.
He woke up in Jace's cramped dorm room, the air smelling of sweat and stale coffee. The mattress was thin, the sheets were scratchy, and his body felt like it had been put through a professional-grade press. But as he looked at the arm draped across his chest—darker skin against his pale, marked ribs—he didn't feel the crushing weight of regret he had expected.
He felt awake.
Jace stirred beside him, his eyes fluttering open. The usual predatory sharpness wasn't there; instead, he looked at Ren with a quiet, heavy possessiveness that made Ren's heart skip.
"You're still here," Jace rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"Nowhere else to go," Ren whispered. It was the truth. He had walked out on his father, the Dean, and his entire future.
Jace sat up, his back muscles rippling as he reached for his phone on the floor. His expression shifted instantly from soft to lethal. "The Dean's been calling you. And your father. My inbox is a graveyard too."
He tapped a few buttons and handed the phone to Ren. "Listen to this. This is the recording from yesterday."
Ren held the phone to his ear. He heard the screech of the cello, the heavy silence of the hall, and then his father's voice—cold, sharp, and unmistakably cruel. 'You are a Laurent... you look like you've been brawling in a gutter.' Then came Jace's defiance, and the sounds of Ren finally standing up for himself.
"If we leak this," Jace said, his eyes locked on Ren's, "it destroys him. The 'Great Arthur Laurent' caught verbally and physically intimidating his son in a school he practically funds? The board would have to distance themselves. You wouldn't just be safe; you'd be the victim. You'd keep your scholarship."
Ren felt a cold pit in his stomach. "And what about us? If this goes public, people will ask why he was so angry. They'll look at the mark. They'll look at you."
Jace leaned in, his forehead resting against Ren's. "I don't care about my reputation, Ren. I never had one. But I care about you keeping your bow in your hand. This is the only way to win."
"Is it?" Ren asked, his voice trembling. "Or is this just another way to lose? If I use blackmail to stay, am I any better than him?"
Jace's grip on Ren's jaw tightened—not with the coldness of his father, but with a burning, desperate heat. "This isn't about being better, Golden Boy. This is about survival. He wants to erase you. I want to play the music you make when you're free. Which one do you want?"
Ren looked at the phone, then back at Jace. The "Art of Losing" was evolving. He wasn't just losing his reputation or his family; he was losing the last of his innocence.
"Do it," Ren whispered. "Send it to the campus paper. But Jace... if we do this, there's no turning back. We're in this fire together."
Jace's smirk was slow and wicked. "Princess, I've been burning for a long time. Welcome to the inferno."