ETHAN
Aldridge waited.
He didn't rush them.
That was part of it.
Silence made people fill it.
Silence made people confess.
Ethan stood with his hands loose at his sides, like he was waiting for a bus, not a verdict.
Nora stood beside the chair opposite him. Not sitting. Not giving Aldridge the visual of submission.
Boring.
Controlled.
Aldridge's folder sat on the table between them like a body.
"Show me your process," Aldridge repeated, soft.
Out loud.
Ethan heard the runner's message in his skull.
He likes to hear her say it out loud.
Aldridge smiled like he already knew what Ethan was thinking.
That was the magic trick.
He didn't need to read minds. He only needed to make you believe he could.
Ethan kept his voice calm.
"What specifically," Ethan asked.
Aldridge's eyebrows lifted.
"Specificity," he said, delighted. "Yes. That's what I want. Specificity is where truth lives."
Ethan didn't flinch.
Truth lived in silence too. Aldridge just didn't like silence because he couldn't own it.
Aldridge tapped the folder.
"I want to hear," he said, "how you arrived at the current versions of your prize submissions."
Nora's jaw tightened.
Ethan felt the tension in her like a wire.
Prize submissions.
Plural.
Always plural.
Aldridge looked at Ethan.
"Mr. Cross," he said. "Start."
Ethan breathed once.
He didn't improvise.
He used the script.
He said, evenly, "I drafted by hand. I did two rewrites. I annotated intent, change, reason, effect."
Aldridge's smile widened.
"Of course you did," he murmured.
He glanced at Nora.
"And you, Ms. Chen," Aldridge said.
Nora's voice was flat.
"Same," she said.
Aldridge laughed softly.
"Same," he repeated. "How modern. How… aligned."
Ethan kept his face neutral.
Aligned was another word that meant suspicious.
Aldridge sat, finally, taking the head of the table like a king who had remembered he deserved a throne.
"Show me," Aldridge said.
Nora didn't move.
Ethan didn't move.
Aldridge's eyes narrowed.
"Not the folder," he said, as if he were clarifying something small. "Not paper. Not proof. I'm not asking you to incriminate yourselves."
He paused.
He enjoyed the pause.
"I'm asking you to explain," he said. "Out loud. Like writers."
Ethan felt his stomach turn.
Writers.
Aldridge said it like a brand.
A club.
A religion.
Nora's voice stayed level.
"My process is boring," she said.
Aldridge's eyes lit.
"Boring is safe," he said.
Ethan's pulse jumped.
Aldridge smiled.
"Did you think I didn't hear that phrase," Aldridge asked, gentle. "It's been circulating."
Circulating.
Like gossip.
Like contamination.
Ethan saw Nora's hand twitch once, then still.
A tell she killed before it could become one.
Aldridge leaned back.
"Tell me," he said to Nora. "What are you protecting yourself from."
There.
The question disguised as mentorship.
Nora's eyes stayed steady.
"My own melodrama," Nora said.
Aldridge's smile tightened.
"And what is your melodrama," he asked.
Ethan could feel the trap closing.
Aldridge wanted the romance.
Aldridge wanted the sex.
Aldridge wanted the scholarship desperation.
He wanted Nora to say it.
Out loud.
Nora's voice went colder.
"I'm protecting my time," she said. "You asked for revisions. I did revisions."
Aldridge's eyes flashed.
He didn't like being answered like an administrator.
He liked being answered like a god.
Aldridge opened the folder.
The sound of paper sliding out was almost obscene in the quiet.
Ethan saw the top page.
Typed.
Double-spaced.
A title at the top.
Ethan's throat tightened.
It was his work.
But it wasn't the version he had submitted.
Aldridge held it up.
"This," Aldridge said, "is an early draft of your piece."
Ethan kept his face blank.
"I don't know where you got that," Ethan said.
Aldridge smiled.
"I have a job," he said. "My job is to know."
He turned a page.
"And this," he continued, "is a later draft."
Another page.
Nora's name appeared in a sentence.
Not her name.
A version of her.
A description that could only be her.
Ethan felt heat crawl up his neck.
Aldridge watched him.
"You see," Aldridge said, almost kindly, "what fascinates me about young writers is how they pretend their bodies aren't involved."
Nora's jaw clenched.
Aldridge's eyes flicked to her.
"And you," he said. "You pretend your body is irrelevant because your survival is at stake."
Nora didn't blink.
Aldridge leaned forward.
"Ms. Chen," he said softly, "do you want to keep your scholarship."
Ethan's stomach dropped.
There.
No more craft.
Just power.
Nora's voice stayed flat.
"Yes," she said.
Aldridge nodded.
"Then be honest," he said.
Ethan's hands curled, then loosened.
Honest.
Another word that meant confess.
Another word that meant give me something I can punish.
Ethan spoke carefully.
"We are being honest," he said. "We're describing our process."
Aldridge's smile sharpened.
"You're describing the wrapper," he said. "Not the candy."
Nora let out a small, humorless breath.
"That's because the candy is none of your business," Nora said.
Aldridge's eyes narrowed.
Then he smiled.
"Good," Aldridge said. "Good. That's the first true thing you've said all day."
Ethan's pulse slammed.
True.
Aldridge stood.
He walked around the table slowly.
Predator calm.
He stopped behind Ethan.
Not touching.
Not yet.
Touch was too obvious.
He leaned in slightly, close enough that Ethan could smell coffee and mint.
"You know what I think," Aldridge murmured.
Ethan didn't move.
Aldridge continued.
"I think you're helping each other," Aldridge said. "I think you're rewriting each other. I think you're crossing a boundary and calling it collaboration."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
Nora's shoulders went rigid.
Aldridge stepped away.
He looked at them both.
"And I think," Aldridge said, "one of you is going to crack."
Silence.
Ethan kept his face neutral.
Nora kept hers neutral.
Aldridge's smile faded.
For the first time, he looked… annoyed.
Because boredom was armor.
Aldridge turned to the door.
He opened it.
"Come in," he called.
Ethan's blood went cold.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
Priya entered first.
Hannah behind her.
Not alone.
Witnesses.
Aldridge smiled again.
"I thought," he said, "we might benefit from a broader conversation."
Priya's eyes flicked to Nora.
Anchor.
Hannah's face was pale.
Aldridge gestured to the chair at the far end.
"Ms. Kapoor," Aldridge said, "you're Nora's closest friend. You've been around. You've heard the drafts. Perhaps you can tell me."
Priya's smile was bright.
Almost cheerful.
A performance.
"Tell you what," Priya said.
Aldridge's eyes gleamed.
"Whether," Aldridge said, "Ms. Chen's work is entirely her own."
The question hung in the air.
A guillotine disguised as a lesson.
Priya blinked slowly.
Then she said, in a voice so bored it was almost comedic:
"I don't know," Priya said. "I'm pre-med. I don't read feelings for a living."
For half a second, the room went still.
Then Aldridge laughed.
But it wasn't warm.
It was sharp.
He looked at Hannah.
"Hannah," Aldridge said softly. "You filed a complaint. Tell us what you know."
Hannah's hands started shaking.
Ethan watched her throat move.
Watched her swallow.
Aldridge waited.
Out loud.
Hannah whispered, "I—"
And then, from the hallway outside, a new voice said, too clear to ignore:
"Excuse me. Dean Whitmore asked me to sit in."