RUBY
A coppery-blond ponytail sways in front of my face. I direct all my anger toward it.
Lydia is to blame for everything! If she hadn't gotten involved with our teacher, they wouldn't have been caught, and she wouldn't have tattled to her brother. Then I could focus on class, and I wouldn't get nervous thinking about how he called me 'Robyn.' Or how I tossed five thousand pounds into the air.
I bury my face in my hands. It's hard to believe I actually did that. Of course, refusing the money was the right thing to do. But despite that, since yesterday afternoon, I've thought of many things I could have used it for. For instance, in our house. Since Dad's accident eight years ago, we've been gradually renovating it, removing obstacles, but there are still a couple of corners we could improve. Plus, our car is on its last legs, and we all depend on it. Especially Dad.
With the forty thousand pounds James would have given me at the end of the term, I could have bought a new minivan.
I shake my head. No, the Beauforts will never buy my silence. I won't sell myself.
I take my agenda from under the History book and open it. All the items for the day already have their approval. Only one continues to mockingly sparkle: Collect the letter of recommendation from Mr. Sutton's office.
I contemplate the sentence, clenching my teeth. I'd love to make them disappear, just like the memory of Mr. Sutton and Lydia.
For the first time since class began, I dare to look away from Lydia's head and glance forward.
Mr. Sutton stands by the whiteboard. He wears a checkered shirt with dark gray cardigan over it, along with the glasses he always has on. His three-day beard is well-groomed, and those dimples we all adore show on his cheeks.
Suddenly, laughter echoes around me; he made a joke.
One of the reasons I've always liked him so much.
And now I can't even look at him.
I don't understand. Mr. Sutton is good enough to have attended Oxford; he studied there for years and is teaching at one of England's most prestigious private schools. So why would he choose to get involved with a student? Why, I wonder?
His gaze meets mine, and an instant later, his smile fades.
In front of me, Lydia tenses up. Her shoulders and neck contract, as if she's fighting hard not to turn around.
I lower my gaze so quickly that my hair falls over my face like a dark cloud. I maintain that posture for the rest of the class.
When the bell finally rings, it feels like days have passed, not just ninety minutes. I take all the time I can. I collect my things in slow motion, meticulously putting them into my backpack. Then I zip it up so slowly that I can hear each tooth clicking into place.
Only when my classmates' footsteps and voices fade away do I stand up.
Mr. Sutton absentmindedly files the papers into a folder. He looks tense; every trace of the humor he just displayed has vanished from his features.
The only student still with us in the classroom is Lydia Beaufort. She stands by the door, watching Mr. Sutton and me intently.
I feel my pulse in my neck as I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk forward. When I reach a certain distance from the desk, I stop and clear my throat. Mr. Sutton looks at me. His golden-brown eyes are filled with regret. I sense his guilt. He moves like a robot.
"Lydia, could you leave us alone?" he asks without looking at her.
"But..."
"Please," he adds gently, glancing briefly at her.
Lydia nods, lips pressed together, and turns away, closing the classroom door silently. Mr. Sutton turns back to me. He opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.
"I wanted to collect my letter of recommendation for Oxford," I say quickly.
He blinks, perplexed, and takes a moment to react.
"I... of course."
Nervously, he rummages through the folder where he had previously stored the class papers. Not finding what he's looking for, he leans forward, picks up a brown leather portfolio from the floor, and places it on the desk. He opens it and searches for a while. His hands tremble, and I notice a hint of blush on his cheeks.
"Here's the copy," he murmurs when he finally pulls out a transparent folder with a sheet inside. "I wanted to discuss it with you point by point, but then..." He clears his throat. "I'd already sent it because I wasn't sure if you still wanted to pick it up."
With stiff fingers, I take the sheet. It's hard to swallow.
"Thank you."
The awkwardness hangs in the air, and both of us find ourselves in a delicate situation.
"I would like you to know that I...
"No." My voice emits a hoarse sound. "Please... no."
"Ruby..." Alongside the sorrow, I suddenly discern another emotion in Mr. Sutton's eyes: fear. He's afraid of me. Or rather, afraid of what I might do with what I know about him and Lydia. "I just wanted..."
"No," I say, and this time my voice is firmer. I raise my hand defensively. "I have no intention of telling anyone. Truly, I don't. I just want to forget." I open my mouth and then close it again. His gaze is both surprised and uncertain. "It's not my business," I continue. "Nor anyone else's."
We lapse into silence during which Mr. Sutton stares at me so intensely that I don't know where to look. It's as if he wants to see confirmation in my eyes that I'm truly serious. Finally, he says softly:
"You know I'll still be your teacher."
Of course, I know. And the prospect of spending several hours a week with him and Lydia in a room doesn't appeal to me at all. But the other option would be to go to the school principal, and my encounter with James Beaufort has given me a clear idea of what would happen. Not to mention that I genuinely believe Mr. Sutton's private life is none of my concern.
"I just want to forget everything, nothing more," I repeat.
He lets out a long sigh.
"And without... any personal benefits?"
When he sees my indignant expression, he adds hastily:
"Not because you wouldn't pass my class. You're one of the best in this class, you know that. I just thought that... I..."
With a defeated sigh, he stops, his cheeks flushed, looking uncertain, and his gaze almost desperate. Suddenly, I see him as incredibly young, and for the first time, I wonder how old he must be. Couldn't be more than twenty-five. I try to smile, but it doesn't quite work.
"I just want to finish the course quietly, Mr. Sutton," I reply, tucking the copy of the letter into my backpack. Since he doesn't respond, I head toward the classroom door. There, I turn my head to look at him once more. "Please treat me as usual." He observes me as if I were an apparition, and not a benevolent one. His gaze is suspicious, and I can't blame him. "Thank you very much for the letter of recommendation."
I see him swallow with difficulty. Then he nods. I turn around and leave the room. After closing the door, I lean against it, close my eyes, and take several deep breaths.
Just then, I realize I'm not alone. A faint sound prompts me to open my eyes instantly.
James Beaufort is leaning against the wall in front of me. His arms are crossed over his chest, and one foot rests against the wall. His gaze is fixed on me, harder, darker. There's no trace of the complicit smile he tried to pass off with the money.
He pushes off the wall to straighten up and approach me. He walks slowly, almost menacingly. Time seems to slow down. My heart starts to race. This is his domain, and I feel like an intruder.
He stops very close to me. He lowers his gaze without saying a word, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. When I do, I notice how good he smells. Like star anise. Spicy and acidic at the same time, but pleasant. I would have loved to nuzzle closer, but I remember who the man in front of me is.
James reaches into his inner pocket. That breaks the paralysis of fear. I squint my eyes and look at him.
"If you ever put money in my hand again, I'll make you swallow it."
His hand pauses for a second right where it is, then withdraws. His eyes darken.
"Stop playing the Mother Teresa act and tell me what you want from my family," he says, his voice velvety and deep, in strange contrast to the harshness of his words.
"I don't want anything at all from your family," I reply, relieved to have the door behind me. "Except, perhaps, for them to leave me alone. And by the way, Mother Teresa would have taken the money and distributed it in the dining hall or given it to those in need on the streets. You know, that whole love thy neighbor thing."
James's face freezes.
"Do you find this amusing?" he asks.
His anger is palpable, evident in his voice. He takes another step toward me, so close that the tips of his shoes touch mine. If he comes even a millimeter closer, I'll kick him where it hurts—I don't care if they find out who I am at Maxton Hall.
"I don't want any trouble with you, Beaufort," I say, trying to maintain my composure. "Nor with your sister. And above all, I don't want your money. All I want is to finish this last year of school."
"Really, you don't want the money?" he says, sounding so incredulous that I automatically wonder about his past and the kind of people he and his family associate with.
"It's true, I don't want your money." Maybe he'll believe me if I repeat it a couple of times, staring directly into his eyes.
He continues to gaze at me, what feels like an eternity, as if studying every centimeter of my face, trying to discern my intentions. Then his eyes drop to my mouth, then my chin and neck, and lower. Centimeter by centimeter.
When he raises his gaze again, his facial features reflect something different. He steps back slightly.
"I understand," he sighs, glancing both ways down the hallway. "Where do you want to go?"
I have no idea what he's referring to.
"What?"
"Anywhere you want," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "I think there's an empty staff room back there. I have a master key." He studies me with his eyes. "Do you scream a lot? Next door is Mrs. Wakefield's office, and she usually stays until late."
I can only stare at him, wondering what the hell he wants from me.
"I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about."
He arches an eyebrow mockingly.
"Of course. Listen, I'm familiar with the 'I don't want money' trick."
Then he suddenly grabs my hand and drags me down the hallway. In front of the room he mentioned, he pulls a key from his pants pocket and opens the door. With his free hand, he starts loosening his tie.
"Where do you want?" he asks.
When I understand what he means, horror leaves me breathless. But then he takes my hand and pulls me into the room. I cling to the doorframe and break free from him.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
"We're renegotiating," he replies. He glances at his wristwatch—a black strap and a bronze dial, very elegant, and incredibly expensive. "I have training soon, so it would be great if we could expedite this."
He holds the door open and nods toward the room with his chin as he completely unties his tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
When he bares his torso, revealing the muscles underneath, my brain short-circuits. I have sawdust in my mouth.
"Have you lost your mind?" I ask hoarsely, taking a step back before he unbuttons the last button of his shirt.
He pierces me with his gaze.
"Don't pretend you don't know what's going on here."
I scoff.
"You're crazy if you think you can silence me with sexual favors. But who the hell do you think you are, you arrogant jerk?"
He blinks several times. Opens his mouth and then closes it. Finally, he shrugs. My cheeks burn. I'm not sure if this disgusts me or if I'm embarrassed. I think it's a mix of both.
"What's wrong with you?" I mutter, shaking my head.
"Everyone has a price, Robyn. What's yours?" he retorts, exhaling.
"My name is Ruby, damn it!" I exclaim, rolling my eyes and clenching my fists. "From now on, all you have to do is leave me alone; that's my price. And honestly, I can't afford to be seen with you."
His eyes spark.
"You can't afford to be seen with me?"
The incredulity in his voice should probably make me indignant, but at this point, I can only feel pity for him. Almost.
"It's enough that you talked to me in the dining hall. I don't want to be part of your world."
"My world," he repeats dryly.
"You know... the parties, the drugs, and all that nonsense. I want nothing to do with it."
Suddenly, footsteps echo in the hallway. My heart leaps and races. I push James further into the room and close the door behind us. Holding my breath, I listen attentively as I wait for the person approaching not to enter this room. "No, please; no, please; no, please." The sound of footsteps grows louder, and I squeeze my eyes shut. They stop in front of the door. Then they move away again and fade completely. I breathe a sigh of relief.
"You're serious," James says. His tone of voice is inscrutable, just like his gaze.
"Yes," I reply. "So you can button up your shirt now, please." He complies slowly, never taking his eyes off me. As if he's searching for a hidden escape route I might have left open. But he doesn't seem to find one.
"Fine." The pressure in my chest eases suddenly.
"Okay. Great. Now I need to go home; my parents are waiting for me." I gesture back over my shoulder with my thumb. When he doesn't say anything, I awkwardly raise my hand in farewell. Then I turn toward the door.
"Still, I don't trust you," his dark voice sends shivers down my spine.
I push down on the door handle.
"Likewise."