It was nearing noon when Amelie's phone vibrated unexpectedly on the desk.
A message from her academic advisor flashed onto the screen.
[Miss Amelie Ford, please come to the principal's office right now.]
Amelie frowned slightly.
She couldn't think of anything she'd done wrong lately. Still, she gathered her books, slipped them into her bag, and headed over without delay.
The redwood door to the principal's office was left ajar.
She paused, lifted her hand, and knocked lightly.
"Come in."
Amelie pushed the door open—and froze.
The usually stern, dignified principal was standing beside his desk with an ingratiating smile plastered across his face, his posture almost deferential.
And seated on the leather sofa that should have belonged to the principal was someone she never wanted to see again.
Christopher Hayden.
He wasn't wearing a suit today.
Instead, he had on a dark gray cashmere sweater, impeccably tailored despite its simplicity. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, lending him a scholarly air that did nothing to soften the danger beneath it.
His long legs were crossed casually, his posture relaxed—too relaxed.
He didn't need to say a word. Simply sitting there, he dominated the entire room, his presence so overwhelming it felt as though the air itself had grown heavy.
The moment Amelie stepped inside, the principal shot her a meaningful look, then turned to Christopher with exaggerated politeness.
"Mr. Hayden, I'll… step out for now. You can speak with your… niece in private. If you need anything, just call for me."
With that, the principal all but fled the room, carefully pulling the door shut behind him.
Click.
The soft sound echoed like a lock snapping into place.
The office instantly felt less like a workplace and more like a sealed cell.
Amelie remained standing by the door, her hands and feet turning ice-cold.
Christopher didn't look at her.
Nor did he speak.
Instead, he reached for a box of exquisitely packaged pastries on the coffee table. With deliberate slowness, he opened it and nudged it in her direction.
"You didn't eat breakfast," he said calmly. "You must be hungry."
His tone was mild—almost gentle—the sort of concern an elder might show a younger family member.
But Amelie felt her scalp prickle with dread.
How did he know?
No—she had eaten.
She had eaten the sandwich Dylan Ross bought her.
Which meant—
This wasn't a question.
It was a reminder.
A quiet, unmistakable warning that he had seen everything.
Her body began to tremble, the reaction instinctive and impossible to suppress.
"Why are you standing so far away?" Christopher finally lifted his gaze, eyes settling on her. "Afraid I'll eat you alive?"
His expression was calm, unreadable, yet the invisible pressure radiating from him made her legs weaken. It took everything she had just to remain upright.
She forced herself to move, each step stiff and unnatural, stopping in front of the sofa.
She didn't sit.
Her head stayed bowed.
"U-Uncle…"
"Sit."
The single word was an order.
Amelie had no choice but to obey. She lowered herself onto the armchair opposite him, her hands twisting tightly together in her lap.
The office was deathly quiet.
The ticking of the wall clock sounded unbearably loud, each second stretching like a countdown.
Then there was another sound.
Soft. Dull.
The unsettling click of prayer beads sliding against one another.
Christopher was turning the string of black agarwood beads wrapped around his wrist. His thumb lingered on the largest bead, rolling it back and forth, again and again.
Amelie knew that gesture.
It was the sign that his patience was wearing thin.
Time passed.
Long enough for her breathing to grow shallow.
Then, finally, he spoke.
His voice was low, almost gentle—but every word cut like a blade.
"Amelie," he said softly, "which hand was it?"
Her head snapped up in confusion, eyes wide as she looked at him.
Christopher tugged at the corner of his lips, forming a faint smile devoid of warmth.
"This morning," he continued, "when he handed you breakfast… which hand did you use to take it?"
He stood.
Step by step, he walked toward her.
His tall frame cast a shadow that swallowed her whole.
Christopher bent down.
Cool fingers closed precisely around her right wrist, lifting it with unerring accuracy.
His lips brushed close to her ear as he spoke in a voice meant for her alone.
"Was it this one?"
His grip tightened slightly.
Then he murmured, almost conversationally:
"Tell me—if I were to cut it off…"
"…do you think you'd finally remember your place?"