The apartment was quiet when Brendon returned that evening. He had spent the day in a haze of macroeconomics and business law, his mind constantly drifting back to the girl in Unit 4B.

He found her in the living room, curled up on the far end of the sofa. The TV was on, a mindless Netflix reality show playing at a low volume. She was eating a salad out of a plastic container, her eyes fixed on the screen.

Brendon didn't say anything. He went to the kitchen, made himself a sandwich, and then sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

For twenty minutes, the only sound was the chirpy voices of the people on the TV.

"You're still using my Netflix account," Brendon said suddenly.

Kiera didn't look at him. She jabbed a piece of kale with her fork. "I forgot to log out. I'll do it tonight."

"You don't have to," he said. "I noticed you're halfway through Bridgerton. You always liked the ones with the forced marriages."

Kiera finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired. "I like the ones where the guy actually shows up to the wedding, Brendon."

The jab hit home. Brendon put his sandwich down. "Kiera, talk to me. Really talk to me. How have you been? Why did you take a Gap Year?"

Kiera set her salad container on the coffee table. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

"I couldn't play," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Brendon felt his heart stop. "What do you mean?"

"After you... after that night. I went to the stage for the concerto. I picked up my bow. And my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't even play a basic scale."

She looked at her hands now, as if they were treacherous objects.

"The judges thought I was ill. My teacher thought I was having a breakdown. I lost my spot at Juilliard. I lost everything, Brendon."

Brendon moved toward her, his hand reaching out instinctively. "Kiera, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't," she said, pulling away. "Don't you dare be sorry now. You weren't there. You weren't there when I was sitting in my dorm room for three weeks, waiting for a text that never came. You weren't there when I had to tell my parents I'd failed."

"I was in a room with five lawyers and a federal agent," Brendon said, the truth finally bursting out. "They took my phone. They froze my accounts. My father had a heart attack that night, Kiera. I was at the hospital, and I couldn't tell anyone."

Kiera stared at him. For a second, he saw a flicker of the old Kiera-the one who would have held him while he cried.

Then, her expression hardened again.

"And the Hamptons? Three days later? Was your father still having a heart attack while you were sipping champagne with Gloria Talley?"

Brendon felt the weight of the lie he couldn't explain. He couldn't tell her that the "champagne" was a staged photo op to keep the stock price from plummeting. He couldn't tell her that Gloria was the daughter of the lead investigator, and his father had practically sold him to her to get the charges dropped.

"It was complicated," Brendon said, his voice weak.

"No," Kiera said, standing up. "It was simple. You chose your family's reputation over me. You chose your money over the girl who loved you when you were just a boy with a dream."

She walked toward her room, her footsteps echoing in the large space.

"I'm not that girl anymore, Brendon. And you aren't that boy. So stop trying to find us."

She shut the door, and this time, he heard the lock click.

Brendon sat in the dark kitchen, a glass of Macallan 12 in his hand. The amber liquid burned his throat, but it was the only thing that made him feel warm.

He heard the creak of a door. Kiera walked into the kitchen, wearing a silk robe over her pajamas. She stopped when she saw him.

"Drinking alone?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

"It's a Hampton tradition," Brendon replied, raising his glass. "Want one?"

Kiera walked to the sink and filled a glass with water. "No thanks. I like to keep my head clear."

"Must be nice," he muttered.

He watched her as she drank. The way her throat moved as she swallowed. The way a single drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin.

"Why Gloria?" she asked suddenly.

Brendon paused, his glass halfway to his lips. "What?"

"Of all the girls at this university. Why her? She's everything you used to hate. She's shallow, she's obsessed with status, and she treats people like accessories."

Brendon leaned back in his chair. "That's exactly why I chose her."

Kiera frowned. "I don't understand."

"She was easy, Kiera. She didn't require any effort. She didn't want my soul. She just wanted my credit card and a guy to look good in her selfies. Being with her was like being on anesthesia. I didn't have to feel anything."

Kiera looked at him, her eyes searching his face. "So you used her."

"We used each other," Brendon said. "But it didn't work. The anesthesia wore off."

Kiera set her glass down. She walked over to the table and sat across from him. "You're a mess, Brendon."

"I know," he said.

"This whole thing... us living together... it's toxic. We're just going to keep hurting each other until there's nothing left."

"Probably," Brendon agreed.

"So let's make a pact," she said. "No more talking about the past. No more 'I'm sorrys.' No more explaining. We just coexist until the semester is over. And then we walk away and never look back."

Brendon looked at her. He saw the wall she'd built around herself, and he knew he was the one who had provided the bricks.

"Okay," he said. "A pact. No past. No feelings."

Kiera stood up. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she stopped herself.

"Goodnight, Brendon."

"Goodnight, Kiera."

As she walked away, Brendon noticed something. She was still wearing the small, silver necklace he'd given her for her eighteenth birthday. It was a tiny treble clef, barely visible against her skin.

She hadn't thrown it away.

And as long as she was wearing it, Brendon knew the pact was already broken.

While Brendon was nursing his whiskey, a very different conversation was happening across campus at the Delta Gamma house.

Gloria Talley was sitting on her four-poster bed, a thick charcoal mask covering her face. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was clutching a silk pillow as if it were a weapon.

"He's playing a game, Hettie," Gloria said, her voice muffled by the mask. "He has to be. Nobody just walks out on me at Le Coucou."

Hettie Obrien, Gloria's best friend and self-appointed lieutenant, was sitting on the floor, meticulously painting her toenails a shade called 'Billionaire Pink.'

"It's a power move," Hettie said, not looking up. "Think about it. He's been your lapdog for months. He's probably tired of being the 'Simp.' He wants to see if you'll chase him."

Gloria sat up, her eyes wide. "Chase him? I don't chase. I'm the prize."

"Exactly," Hettie said. "But he's a Hampton. They're used to winning. By walking out, he's trying to shift the dynamic. He wants you to feel insecure so that when he finally 'forgives' you, you'll be more compliant."

Gloria considered this. It made sense in her world. Everything was a transaction, every relationship a negotiation.

"But his tone," Gloria whispered. "He looked right through me... like I was nothing."

Hettie waved a hand dismissively. "Acting. He's a good actor. He probably practiced that look in the mirror for an hour. And the cold shoulder thing? It's a classic negging technique. He's trying to lower your self-esteem."

Gloria felt a surge of relief. "So he's not actually done with me?"

"Please," Hettie snorted. "He's obsessed with you. Did you see the way he looked at you at the Zeta formal? He looked like he wanted to eat you alive. Men don't just stop feeling that way overnight."

Gloria reached for her phone. She looked at the blocked status on her messages. "Then why did he block me?"

"To make you panic," Hettie said. "And it worked. Look at you. You're a mess. Tomorrow, we're going to find out where he moved. I heard a rumor he's at The Kensington."

"The Kensington?" Gloria's nose wrinkled. "That's so far from the Greek row."

"He's hiding," Hettie said. "He wants to see if you'll go looking for him. We'll go there tomorrow afternoon. We'll 'accidentally' be in the area for a coffee run. When he sees you, he'll fold like a house of cards."

Gloria smiled, the charcoal mask cracking around her mouth. "You're right. He's just a boy. And I'm Gloria Talley."

She didn't see the way Hettie's eyes flickered with a brief moment of annoyance. Hettie didn't actually care if Brendon came back. She just wanted Gloria to stop crying so they could go to the club.

"I'll get him a gift," Gloria decided. "Something expensive. But I'll make sure the bill goes to his father's office. That'll show him I'm still in control."

"Perfect," Hettie said. "Now, can we please get dressed? The party started twenty minutes ago."

Gloria stood up and headed for the bathroom to wash off her mask. She felt powerful again. She was the Queen, and Brendon Hampton was just a rebellious subject who needed to be reminded of his place.

She had no idea that at that very moment, Brendon was watching Kiera Richards sleep through the crack in her bedroom door, his heart breaking in a way that Gloria Talley could never understand.