Chapter 15: Wrath of an Exile: Chapter 14

September 9

You may be asking yourself, what drives someone to smoke pot in their college parking lot?

The answer would be simple.

Jude Sinclair thought it would be funny to fuck with my paper.

Imagine my surprise this morning when Dr. Delaney pulled me aside to chat. Instead of my well-thought-out, concise analysis of Kepler’s work transforming the scientific landscape that took three hours to finish, it was a page of only two lines.

Don’t get drunk and leave your laptop unattended.

White flag time, Geeks?

Now, I can’t be certain, but I think literal steam blew from my ears as I lied to my professor about it being an uploading mishap. Had she not been fond of my Aunt Lyra and hadn’t let me reupload the correct file, I was going to strangle Jude.

A gracious History of Science and Technology teacher had spared his fucking life today. That being said, I hope he’s prepared for me to verbally rip his head off when I get home.

He makes me fucking volatile.

So, for the safety of everyone on campus, I needed a bong rip.

I lean back in the driver’s seat, the glass of my bong cool against my palm as I bring it to my lips for one last hit. My eyes widen as the next song comes through my speakers, fumbling to turn up the sound of “Feel Good Inc.” by Gorillaz.

Some people have 2000s divorced dad rock, but courtesy of Rook Van Doren, I have domesticated stoner dad hip-hop. Which just so happens to be the name of this playlist.

When I was, like, ten, Dad and I would drive to Tilly’s every single Thursday. Always just before sunset, and I would sit in the front seat of his car while he showed me music no kid my age had any business hearing.

My dad was my best friend, until one day, he wasn’t.

The bowl burns red, and smoke fills the chamber thickly. I pull hard, the air hissing through the water before I let it flood my lungs, holding it for a beat longer than I should.

My head already feels light, that familiar haze I love so much creeping in, softening the edges of my royally shit-tastic mood.

I know I could confront Jude.

I could tear into him with every ounce of rage that’s burning beneath my skin, cut him down with all the words I’ve been choking on for years.

But what’s the point?

What good would it do to scream at him, to let that anger out now?

It wouldn’t make me feel better. It wouldn’t change what’s already been done. It won’t rewind the years of pain or the twisted knot of guilt and shame that sits in my chest like it’s been welded there.

And more than that—I can’t bring myself to.

Not because I don’t want to but because I know it won’t be enough.

Nothing I say could match what I’m feeling, the depth of it, the way it coils around my bones like it’s part of me. And maybe I’m afraid that if I start, I won’t be able to stop.

I won’t be able to hold back the flood of everything I’ve locked away. All the nights I spent staring at the ceiling, replaying every second in my mind, wondering if I could’ve done something different.

If I could’ve saved myself when no one else did. If I could’ve screamed louder. Fought harder. Never fucking believed Oakley when he told me I was special.

I could tell him all of that, unleash the storm he deserves, but it wouldn’t fix me.

Nothing was ever going to fix me.

With a lazy exhale, I turn my car off, sitting the bong on the floorboard of my passenger seat and gently laying a discarded hoodie over it, tucking it out of sight. When I shove the door open, smoke billows out like a rolling fog.

I step out of the car, stretching my arms above my head as I ignore the heads that turn my way. From the corner of my eye, I see a group of students at their cars, pretending not to stare, before one of them, someone I vaguely recognize from chem class, lifts a hand in an awkward wave.

“Hi, Phi!” she calls out, her voice too bright, too eager. “We were just headed to Tilly’s. Wanna come?”

I nod in her direction, giving a tight-lipped smile. “Headed to my next class. Next time though.”

That is a lie, but oh well.

They don’t actually give a shit about befriending me. It’s all about status, being seen with me and using whatever information I divulge as weaponized gossip. I learned very quickly growing up here the only people to be trusted were those with the last names Van Doren, Hawthorne, Caldwell, or Pierson.

That’s it.

People are nice to me in person. They wave, give a smile, pour me shots at a random party, but behind closed doors? They’re all vipers, just waiting to strike.

I’m sure the little group will go for lunch and spend the majority of the time talking shit about me. They probably have a slew of colorful words to describe me—whore, cunt, spoiled brat, bitch, the list goes on and on.

Yet I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that not a single person would dare say any of that shit to my face. And I can’t blame them—I stabbed a guy with a screwdriver at the Graveyard for grabbing my ass.

I’d be scared of me too.

It’s a short walk from the parking lot to the Bursley District. My boots thump against the damp green lawn of the Commons as I cut across it.

Hollow Heights University.

“We invited success.”

The words are etched into stone, a permanent fixture beneath the arched gates that lead into a place steeped in history and heavy with expectation. Hollow Heights doesn’t just wear its prestige—it bleeds it.

The gothic spires pierce the sky like needles, and the ivy clings to the ancient walls as if it, too, knows this place will outlast time itself.

Despite the hit to its reputation years ago, nothing could strip away the glory that seeps through every creaking floorboard, every shadowed corner. The university breathes with the weight of its past, each corridor whispering the secrets of those who’ve walked these halls long before I ever did.

If you listen close enough, you can almost hear them—the soft murmur of ambition, betrayal, and promises made in the dark.

After Aunt Lyra became dean, Hollow Heights grew sharper, more refined, expanding beyond its legacy of catering to trust fund babies like me. She rebuilt the cracks left behind by scandals, restored the name to something more than just gilded halls and old money.

I should have loved it here.

I did love it, once.

Then things changed. I changed.

It’s quiet when my feet hit the plush red carpet lining the aisles between the seats of the theatre. My mom is leaning against the stage, glasses on her face as she stares down at the paper in her hands.

Her light red hair is loose around her shoulders, lips pursed as she strikes a line through whatever is written in front of her.

Sage Van Doren is not only a business owner, but she also happens to be the chair of the Theatre Department at Hollow Heights. This is her kingdom of order and art, and she rules it flawlessly.

When she pops by to check on things, we meet here for lunch on my free block. A way to continue a tradition we started when I was in high school.

My freshman year, I may or may not have been involved in a touch of vandalization in the form of graffiti that got me suspended for a day. In my defense, Victor Kincaid absolutely fucking deserved to have his locker spray-painted.

He and his caveman friends tried to jump Reign over some girl. Gave him a black eye before Reign cracked his jaw. I think that’s also when Ezra broke his knuckle.

Either way, after I told her, she took me to lunch.

So a few times a month, we have lunch together.

“Please tell me that paper bag has a burger with extra pickles and no onion in it,” I plead as I drop into one of the front-row seats, the velvet absorbing my weight.

“Why? You have the munchies?” Mom looks up from her papers, arching a perfectly manicured brow at me.

I open my mouth to defend myself, but she quickly cuts me off with a playful smirk.

“Don’t deny it. You smell like a Grateful Dead concert.”

Yeah, I definitely should’ve gotten more dryer sheets before smoking.

Pro tip: If you have a scheduled lunch date with your mother and you don’t want to smell like a skunk, rub your clothes with dryer sheets. Works like a charm.

“Would it help my case if I said I don’t have any more classes today?”

“No,” she says bluntly, handing me the bag of food. “Your punishment is waiting until after Reign’s soccer practice to catch a ride home. Now, hand over the keys.”

“Mom,” I groan, thinking about being subjected to organized sports.

“Don’t Mom me.” She grins, laughing a little. “You can smoke at the house, where I know you’re safe. You know this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” I mutter, reaching into my bag and tossing her my keys, watching her catch them with ease.

I’m far too stoned to argue with her, so I settle for reaching into the bag, grabbing my food while she starts eating, and asking her if she’d watched the last episode of our favorite reality television show.

Which eventually leads us to me asking about how the department is going, and that is when she starts her ramble. You see, my mom develops a case of word vomit every time something she is passionate about is brought up.

And I, unfortunately, have not mastered my dad’s ability to absorb all of the information that comes out of her mouth when she talks this fast. That may have more to do with the fact I’ve never really understood or enjoyed the arts.

The way people crave a metaphor. How they pull meaning from the mundane, extracting emotions and spinning them into stanzas, brushstrokes, or characters on a stage. I don’t see the world in shades of feeling.

I see it in data. Rules. Logic. The stuff that can be broken down into numbers and processes, where you know exactly where you stand. Equations that hold true no matter how chaotic life gets.

The arts, on the other hand, feel like chaos itself. No boundaries, no control—just raw, unpredictable emotion spilling onto a canvas or into words. It’s messy. And maybe that’s why I don’t get it. Maybe that’s why I cling so hard to the things I can measure. The things I can control.

Because the opposite scares me.

Despite all of that, I fucking love watching Mom in her element.

“Am I boring you, or did I lose you at Hamlet for the Fall Showcase?”

Her voice cuts through the haze, and I blink and refocus on the smile on her face. The faded velvet curtains behind her clash with the deep red of her blouse, but somehow, it works.

Sage Van Doren is a force of nature. Not because of her wealth or success, though she has plenty of both. It’s something more. There is an intensity that crackles in the air around her. It gives her the ability to command every room she walks into without ever raising her voice, the type of woman who doesn’t give you a choice in respecting her.

People talk in hushed tones about how Sage is not to be crossed, and I believe it. I’ve seen it.

But there’s another side to her too, one that the town doesn’t get to see. The side that let me crawl into her bed night after night when nightmares took hold until I was too old to admit I still wanted to. The side that refills the strawberry-scented diffuser in my room because she knows it smells like her, and that somehow keeps the darkness at bay.

That duality—sharp, no-nonsense, fierce, yet endlessly soft with her family—is what makes her terrifying and comforting, all at once.

My mother is who I want to be when I grow up.

I shrug, offering a sheepish smile. “You are anything but boring, Mom. Shakespeare, however, could use some more excitement.”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she tosses a crumpled napkin my way. I catch it, barely.

“How’s the weather, my fire child?” she asks gently, just before taking a bite of her burger.

Mom has asked me that question for as long as I can remember. Her way of checking in on me without prying too much. Sometimes, the answer is sunshine; other times, it’s a thunderstorm. But every time she asks, I know she’s really wanting to know, Are you okay?

It makes me love her a little more every time, if that’s even possible. Even though I have to lie about the weather on several occasions, just knowing she is there to ask is enough.

I lean back in the seat, absently tracing the intricate carvings on the armrest. “Cloudy, but the sun’s in the forecast.”

Apparently, the fake-ass grin I give her doesn’t get past her ’cause she gives me that look, the one that says you’re full of shit.

“Is it because of Jude? I know the transition has been a little difficult, but if you’re uncomfortable, we can make other arrangements for him.”

Yes, please and thank you.

That’s what I want to say.

Yes, he makes me more than uncomfortable. He makes me homicidal.

Jude is not only the reason I almost failed a paper but also the reason I have to watch sweaty men run up and down a field before I go home.

But then I remember the look on her face the night she fought Dad to take Jude in. The guilt, the fight in her.

A stupid retaliation prank isn’t enough to take that away from her. Not yet, anyway.

“No, Mom. It’s just stress from school. Jude is…” I trail off, inhaling the scent of the polished wood stage, searching for the right words. I settle on, “Fine. He’s fine.”

I can’t remember much from the other night, just flashes of him showing up at the party and killing my vibe. And then waking up with a hangover so bad it felt like my head was splitting in two.

Our interaction hadn’t been terrible, but it’s the principle that he was in my room. On my laptop. Going through my things. Meddling around like an unwanted, nosey neighbor.

However, her bringing him up does open the door for something that could even the playing field between Jude and me.

I don’t say this lightly, but my mother knows everything, and if she doesn’t, it’s not long till she finds out.

If anyone has dirt on Jude, it’s her.

A secret for a secret.

I take a breath, trying to sound casual as I pop another fry in my mouth. “Speaking of him, can I ask you something?”

She arches a brow, setting her burger down as she dusts her hands. “Of course you can. Anything.”

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s both.

But the question I ask isn’t the one I expected to come out of my mouth.

“Why did Easton pick you to be the person to take care of Jude?”

Her expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her face. I see the way she bristles at his name, like no matter how many years pass, the Sinclairs will forever be a sensitive subject.

I don’t know all the details of what my mother went through all those years ago, but I know she fought like fucking hell to make it to this point.

I almost think for a second, for the first time, my mom isn’t going to give me an honest answer.

But true to her character, she does.

“I don’t know, honestly,” she admits, tucking a piece of soft red hair behind her ear before continuing. “There is a long, bitter history between us. But Easton didn’t have anyone. He didn’t have the family we’ve built. He was alone most of his life, and I think he wanted Jude to have a chance of growing up differently than we were forced to.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, words slipping out like water. “You think Jude’s like his father? I’d ask Dad, but I think we know where he stands.”

Mom smirks, a soft eye roll at the mention of Dad. “No, I don’t. We aren’t our parents. Your father knows that better than most. I think Jude’s been through more than he lets on. He is lost and just trying to find where he belongs.”

Her words linger.

Lost and just trying to find where he belongs.

It echoes in my head because a part of me knows what that feels like. That gnawing, quiet sense of not fitting in, even when everyone around you insists you do.

I know because I’m living it.

For the first fourteen years of my life, I belonged.

It was easy to slip into the rhythm of family dinners, beach trips, late-night movie marathons. The way Reign teased me relentlessly but always had my back. The way Andy and I fit together like puzzle pieces, practically reading each other’s thoughts.

I used to be able to breathe in that space, where love was as natural as the waves crashing outside our window.

But then it happened. Oakley happened.

Suddenly, the weight of being adopted felt like a boulder on my chest. A crack in the foundation I’d never noticed before. Sure, my parents had told me when I was young, and at the time, it didn’t really bother me.

It was just a fact—something I accepted without question. But as I got older, that fact did turn into a question. And that question turned into a feeling.

A feeling that maybe there was a reason this terrible, nasty, awful thing happened to me and not anyone else.

I started seeing the differences in everything. Reign with his fierce temper that mirrored Dad’s. Andy’s nose and freckles, identical to Mom’s.

And then there was me.

Different eyes, different hair, different genes.

I’m not a Van Doren by blood, and no matter how many times I cover my naturally blonde hair with red dye, I’ll never shake the weight of that.

“Do you regret it?” I start, hating that I said it out loud and reminding myself to never smoke before lunch with Mom ever again.

Mom watches me with the patient, unflinching gaze she always gives before prompting gently, “Regret what?”

I take a breath, the words sticking in my throat. “Adopting me. I know I’m not who you expected I’d be. I wouldn’t blame you if you⁠—”

“Do you know why I named you Seraphina?” She cuts me off, face not shifting. There is no hurt, no shock, just her steady voice as she pushes off the stage and walks toward the seat next to me.

“No?”

“It means fire.”

Mom takes a seat, tilting her head as she looks at me and running the tip of her finger down the bridge of my nose softly.

“We were scared. We just had Reign, and I was already terrified of trying to be a good mother to one child. Then suddenly, we had two.” A smile breaks across her red lips, eyes distant with the memory. “But when your father laid eyes on you? When I watched him refuse to leave your side? All the fear left, and I knew you were ours. I named you Seraphina because your father’s name means smoke.”

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

I hate crying. Loathe it with every fiber of my being. It makes me feel weak, exposed, like my heart is on display for the world to pick apart.

I’ve spent years building walls, brick by brick, to keep all that vulnerability locked away.

But now, as she speaks, those walls slide down a little, and I can feel the burn of tears in my eyes. And the worst part? I can’t even be angry at her for making me feel this way ’cause all I feel is love.

“You are exactly who we expected you to be,” she mutters, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Our daughter. Nothing will ever change that.”

“Not even if I hate Shakespeare?” I counter, arching a brow as I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks.

She tilts her head back with a laugh, shaking it as she says, “Not even then.”

Before we part, she pulls me into a hug, squeezing me a little tighter than normal.

Her parting words remind me why blood has never and will ever determine who my family is.

“I know that weight on your shoulders is heavy. I can see it. When you’re ready, I’m right here, baby. I’m strong enough to help you carry it, always.”