The Beast I Want

I never expected this day would make me partner with the worst man alive.

Just a few hours earlier, the lecture hall smells like coffee and dry-erase markers, and Professor Lang's voice drones on about load-bearing structures while I sketch a cantilever in the margin of my notebook.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. I ignore it.

It buzzes again.

I glance down and immediately tense. Dad.

He never calls during the day. Never. He texts memes of old buildings and pictures of his lunch, not calls, not when I'm sitting in a lecture hall three hours from home.

I slide out of my seat, mouthing a sorry to the girl next to me, and duck into the hallway before I even hit answer.

"Dad?"

"Lola." His voice cracks in a way I've never heard before, not once in twenty-two years. "There's been an accident at the site. The elevator—it malfunctioned. People got hurt."

My stomach drops through the floor. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine, sweetheart, but they're saying—" He stops. I hear him swallow hard. "They're saying it's my fault. They're charging me."

The hallway tilts.

I press my palm flat against the cold concrete wall to keep myself upright.

"That's insane. You've been doing this for thirty years, you don't make mistakes like that..."

"I know. I know, but I need you to stay calm, okay? I need you to—"

"Where are you? I'm coming."

"Lola, you have class—"

"Where. Are. You."

He tells me. I'm already running.

The courthouse looms gray and indifferent under a sky that can't decide if it wants to rain. I shove through the doors, my backpack still slung over one shoulder, my textbook forgotten somewhere in the hallway of a building I'll never remember leaving.

By the time I find the right room, they've already started. I slip into the back row, breathless, my heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape too.

My father sits at the front, small and gray-haired and completely alone at that long table, like a man already convicted. I want to run to him. I dig my nails into my palms instead.

That's when I see him.

Aiden Quilles sits three rows ahead of me, flanked by two men in suits who look like they charge by the word.

He's the kind of handsome that feels almost aggressive—sharp jaw, dark hair combed back like he doesn't have a single hair out of place in his entire life, expensive suit that probably costs more than my father makes in a month.

He's the CEO. He's the one who owns the company my father has bled for since before I was born.

And he's sitting with the prosecution.

The lawyer stands and reads from a folder, voice flat and clinical, like he's describing a weather pattern instead of my father's life. Structural miscalculation. Negligence. Failure to properly inspect load specifications before installation.

Lies. Every word of it, lies.

My father shakes his head slowly, mouthing something to his lawyer, but the man just puts a hand on his arm like he's trying to keep him from combusting.

I glance up, and Aiden is already looking at me.

His eyes lock onto mine across the room, dark and unreadable, and for one terrible second I understand something with total, sickening clarity: he knows exactly what happened at that site. And he's letting my father take the fall for it.

I don't look away. Neither does he.

A slow, almost imperceptible curve tugs at the corner of his mouth, like my hatred amuses him, and something in my chest ignites.

The judge's voice cuts through the room. "Eight years."

The words don't make sense at first. Then they do, all at once, like a wave crashing over my head.

Eight years in prison.

My father's shoulders cave inward. I hear a sound come out of me, something broken and small, and the woman next to me shifts away like grief is contagious.

They lead him out in handcuffs. He looks back once, finds me in the crowd, and mouths, it's okay. It's not okay. Nothing about this is okay.

I sit there long after the room empties, staring at the empty chair where my father used to be a person and not a case number, until a security guard clears his throat and tells me they're closing up.

I find Aiden in the corridor outside, alone, scrolling through his phone like he just closed a business deal instead of destroying a family.

"You." My voice comes out low, shaking. "You did this."

He looks up, unbothered, and slides the phone into his pocket. "Miss Rosemund. I wondered when you'd introduce yourself."

"Don't." I step closer, fists clenched so tight my nails carve half-moons into my skin. "Don't you dare act calm with me. My father didn't malfunction that elevator. You did! Your company cut corners, and you let him take the fall for it!"

"That's a serious accusation." His tone stays maddeningly even, almost bored, like I'm a minor inconvenience between him and his car. "Do you have proof?"

"I don't need proof to know the truth!"

"Unfortunately," he says, stepping closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep glaring at him, "the justice system disagrees with you."

"I will find proof." My voice cracks, but I push through it, refusing to let him see me break. "I will find it, and I will bury you with it."

Something shifts in his expression—amusement, sharp and cold, curling at the edge of his mouth. "Will you, now?"

"Watch me."

He tilts his head, studying me the way you'd study a storm rolling in from a safe distance, like he finds it more interesting than threatening.

He steps so close I can feel his warm breath on my skin.

"What are you going to do about it, dear Lola?"

"Miss Rosemund."

His voice stops me, calm and unbothered, like he's calling after someone who forgot their umbrella and not someone who just watched her father get dragged away in handcuffs.

I turn around anyway. I hate myself a little for it.

"What?" The word comes out sharp, clipped, daring him to say something else infuriating.

"You didn't let me finish." He slides his hands into his pockets, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world. "You said you'll find out what I plan to do. I'd rather just tell you."

"I don't want anything from you."

"You will." A small, knowing smile tugs at his mouth, the kind that makes my skin crawl. "Everyone wants something from me eventually."

"You're disgusting." My voice shakes, and I hate that too, hate that he can hear it. "My father is going to spend eight years in prison for something you did, and you're standing here smiling like it's a game!"

"It's not a game." For the first time, somethi