◈ѕlaтer нarтley◈

Every other man in the room wears a blank canvas for a face, stoically adjusting the cuffs of their smart blazers or pushing their angular glasses further up their pointed noses.

Every other man but one, that is.

Charles Lincoln stares unblinkingly at me, lips pursed and hands locked together in front of him. The huge distance between us caused by a long rectangular table does little to ease my discomfort. I pretend not to notice. Is this unusual or does he normally stare with the intention to kill? I despise him. I know I should not judge him based off his son's actions, but you know what they say - like father like son.

My plan is to get through this meeting as naturally as possible, and then talk to him at the end. Hopefully he has not heard about anything from his vile son yet, but judging by the expression on his face, it seems dreadfully unlikely.

I fist my hands together in my lap, channelling my anxiety away from my expression.

The silence stretches out three seconds longer before he clears his throat, attracting the attention of all the professors in the room.

Then, with impeccable enunciation and an agonisingly chelonian speed, he speaks.

"Team, this meeting was initially arranged for me to get an idea of where we all are in the academic year. After all, the wellbeing of students here is incredibly important to me, and I should be able to trust that they are in good hands."

His eyes sweep across the room, analysing every one of us and, if I'm not hallucinating, staying particularly long on me.

"However, recent events have been brought to my attention, and I feel the obligation to discuss them. Immediately. Firstly, I'd like to draw your eyes to the following document."

Charles slides a hefty booklet of papers out from a drawer of his desk and sets it down on the table. One simply has to question the need for hardcopies in a world of constantly developing technology.

"Are you all aware of what this is?" he questions rhetorically.

I try to remain composed, but with each passing second, I feel my face pale by a few shades. I shouldn't have come here at all.

"This is the university's law. Upon applying for your positions, you all read and signed this: yes? Feel free to correct me at any point if and when you see fit," he continues, flipping through the thick pages of the booklet with great care, as if it is the Bible.

Silence reigns on in the rest of the room, other professors sending each other confused glances. What is this about? I see one of them mouth.

I wish I didn't know, I want to mouth back.

"Clause 12 - No individual in a professional or superior position will form romantic or sexual relationships with any individual in an inferior position. Any professor caught doing so will have their position at Harrow University immediately terminated," Charles reads, each word more venomous than the last as his gaze zeroes in on me.

I try and fail the remain blank-faced.

"Professor Hartley," he addresses as I clench my fists at my father's title, "Is there anything you would like to say or admit to before I continue?"

Nails cutting crescents into my palm, I hold his gaze and feign indifference, "No, Mr Lincoln."

He smiles unkindly, as if that was the response he wanted. The other adults in the room furrow their eyebrows at our interaction.

"Alright, then."

He taps the spacebar on the laptop next to him, causing the projector to display an image on the wall behind him.

All the colour drains from my face as I get up from my seat. It screeches back with a sickening sound that does little to drown out the gasps and murmurs travelling around the room.

A photo from the outside of a tent depicts two individuals. Their bodies are pressed together as close as their lips, hair tousled amidst their passion. It is dark, but impossible to deny their identities.

"Tell me, Professor Hartley," Charles speaks louder over the reactions of the professors around me, who now shoot me disapproving and incredulous looks, "Do you still have nothing to say for yourself?"

My patience depletes faster than my reputation. If I'm ruined, I may as well go out with a bang.

"Actually I do have something to say, Charles," I answer, knuckles turning white with my bottled up emotion, "You should be ashamed of yourself. I know what I've been doing and I know it is wrong and against every ounce of logic in my body - but love isn't logical. What you have done is far, far worse. How could you try to fight on your son's side, after what he did to Quorra? He raped her and completely destroyed her. That will never go away. How could you try and stop his sentencing to jail? He deserves to rot in there, like all rapists should. Your son is a despicable human being and I hope you know that. Fire me and ruin me all you want. Tell me I lack honesty and morality all you want. But I will be forever glad that I lack one thing you will always possess: a fucking god-awful son. Have a great life."

With that, I storm out the room, leaving Charles Lincoln utterly speechless.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

I return to a half-naked Quorra, wrapped in a towel and trailing water across the carpet as she searches her closet.

"I'm done," I declare, slamming the door shut and grabbing two empty bags from behind it.

She jumps as I set them down on my bed, turning pink and clutching her towel tighter around her. As she whips around, droplets of water from her soaked hair sprinkle over me, but I'm far too stressed to notice.

"Wait, what? What happened?" she asks, eyes wide as I grab my things from the desk and mindlessly shovel them into my bag.

I walk over to the closet, pulling her behind me by her waist as I rifle through for my things. She squeaks as her damp skin soaks through my dress shirt, but I dismiss it and return to my bag, haphazardly folding my clothes and throwing them inside. I return several more times, ultimately deciding to leave a few items in my rush.

"What happened, Slater?" Quorra repeats, worry seeping through her words as I ignore her searching gaze and enter the bathroom.

"I have to leave," I state, hoping to save her from the details of what just happened in the meeting room, "I can't be here anymore."

She's silent for a while as I grab my products and head for my bag again. As I round the corner, I bump into her.

She rests her hands on either side of my face and forces me to look at her.

"What happened in there, Slater?" she repeats for the third time as my heart sinks at the anxiety swimming in her eyes.

"Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters," I quote, gently pulling her hands away from my face to plant a soft kiss on her lips.

She remains stunned as I pull back, making my way around her to dump the possessions in my hands into my bag. I zip it up despite knowing that I left some of my things out.

"What? Slater, that didn't answer me. Why are you leaving? And for how long?"

She stands in my ways and pushes me back when I try to pass her. My heart burns.

"Quorra, I'm sure you can figure that out on your own."

She remains quieter than a grave.

"They do know..." she states, voice shrinking.

I inhale a much needed breath and sit down, taking a moment to just stop and think.

"I'm sorry, Quorra. It's entirely my fault and I should have just done what I demanded from you at the start of that trip: keep it professional. I'm fired now, but you won't be expelled. The full blame is on me as the adult in the situation under the university's law. Just continue your studies here and try to ignore all the rumours. I will forever be infinitely sorry," I say, getting up and grabbing the handle of my bag.

I successfully bypass her and head for the door.

"Wait, why does it feel like you're saying goodbye?"

I close my eyes, overcome with a thousand emotions at once as I force myself to reach for the door and open it.

"Because I am, Quorra,"

She's completely shocked at this point. I hear her rush towards me as I try to leave, and a hand grabs the back of my shirt before I can move further, "Slater, wait! You're just going to leave? We're never going to see each other again?"

It's for your own good, I want to say. Focus on your studies, I want to say. I know it doesn't make sense but it does, I want to say.

I love you, I want to say.

So I do.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, forehead pressed against hers, knowing that my words will never be enough.

"Don't leave," she pleads, eyes searching mine as if trying to memorise every eyelash.

I close my eyes, unable to bear the emotion rising in my chest.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Quorra Neversea."

Then, leaving a kiss on her cheek, I do the one thing she's begging me not to.

I leave.

Little did I know that that would be my last time seeing my angel for the next three years.

● qυorra neverѕea ●

I lie quietly in bed, still wrapped in my towel from an hour ago. I profusely shiver, though I can't tell if it's from the coldness of the room or the coldness of abandonment. How could he just leave like that? So what if everyone found out and so what if he was fired? We should have talked it out and found out a way to still see each other.

It hurts. Everything. My heart, my head, my body, my brain, my hands, my feet. Everything hurts. Everything knows that he's gone.

I love you, he said. A white lie.

How could someone who loves me dart straight out of my life at the first obstacle? Where did he even go?

My answer comes in the form of a phone call three hours later.

Bundled up under the covers in pyjamas, I repress a wave of tears, hands balled into fists as I tightly grip the comforter. It does little to provide what its name says it should. My throat feels raw and scratchy.

The abrupt ringing of my phone slices through the dead silence of the room.

Refusing to turn around and look at Slater's bed, I blindly reach for my phone and click answer.

"What?" I mumble into it, feeling the deflation in my own voice.

I pull the covers up higher, seeking a warmth it will never provide.

"Q! Hey, how's it going?" comes the perky tone of Lucas' voice.

My frown deepens. I'm not in the mood to be cheered up right now. Everything and more aches as if I'm sick. My head is constantly spinning. I feel physically drained, as if someone has stuck a straw in my chest and sucked the life right out of me.

"Hey. It's going pretty... well, shit," I reply earnestly, tracing a minuscule crack in the wall with my finger. How relatable. I feel pretty broken too.

I hear a strangely familiar female voice in the background before he responds with, "I assumed as much. I know what happened. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named arrived at my house ten minutes ago, unannounced. He looked heartbroken, so I knew something was wrong and made him tell me. He's in his room now, probably face down in bed like you."

I don't know what I feel towards him anymore. He's wallowing in self pity? He doesn't deserve to. He caused this. It was his choice. He has no right to feel upset; this is all because of him.

And yet, I would trade anything to have him back.

"I'm not face down," I mumble, trying to find the humour in the situation and dramatically failing.

I turn over to face the ceiling, closing my eyes as a stray tear trickles down the side of my face. I wipe it away unhurriedly, already predicting the break in my voice, "I don't know what to do, Lucas."

Another tear follows. And then another. And then another, until they're streaming down the sides of my face and soaking into my pillow. I choke back a sob. The pain in my chest escalates to a roaring fire that melts the glue holding me together.

"Shit, she's crying," I hear him murmur to someone else as I debate on whether I should just hang up and throw a pity party.

"Listen, Q. I know you're hurting and I know you feel all alone, but you aren't. I'm here for you. I know a lot of this doesn't make sense to you but Slater is past the point of selflessness and genuinely thinks that with him gone, you'll be able to focus on your studies. Please don't cry."

I only sob harder, unable to stop the sudden surge of emotion. Not a single word of his registers in my mind as I finally cast my gaze over to Slater's side of the room. His covers are unkempt from his rapid packing, a complete 180 to his usual organisation.

A new voice enters my ear, "Quorra, it's going to be fine."

I scrub at the tears running down my face, but they are only replaced by fresh ones. I force down my next sob and force my breathing into check, feeling like an absolute mess. When have I ever not been one though?

"Hannah? What are you doing at Lucas' house?" I sniff.

She concatenates a series of unintelligable noises before telling me, "That's not important. What's important right now is that you rest. I can tell that you are physically and mentally drained."

I stay quiet, knowing that I will have to befriend the silence to cope with the days to come.

"Fine."

But it isn't.

●（=｀～'=） ●

This is so late! As an apology, I made the chapter longer than usual.

Having said that, it really is an upsetting chapter so... sorry?

But yeah, Slater and Quorra are now separated. Slater has been fired and is temporarily seeking refuge at Lucas', and Quorra is left to fend for herself in her dorm. Any predictions?

The story is ending soon, which is really sad, but this will be my first to actually surpass fifty chapters! Wooo!

Thank you for all the support! I love you all so much.

Over and out,
Spud 🥔