Over the next few days, I perfected the art of avoidance. I woke up at five-thirty in the morning, before Hannah's alarm, and showered in the communal bathroom down the hall. I left the dorm before she woke up and only returned after she was asleep. I spent my time in the library or the student union, hiding in the corners with a book.

It was exhausting. But it was necessary.

Hannah, however, was not easily deterred. She left sticky notes on my desk. Saw you left early! Have a good day! and Brought you back a cookie from the dining hall! and Movie night soon?

The guilt gnawed at me, but I pushed it down. I couldn't afford to get close to her. The closer I got, the closer I got to Dean, and the closer I got to the plot that would ruin my life.

Friday afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, headphones on, pretending to study. Hannah burst through the door, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. She was talking loudly into her phone.

"Okay! See you soon!" She hung up and spun to face me, her eyes sparkling. "That was Dean! He's taking me to that new Italian place downtown tonight for dinner. The one with the truffle pasta? And you're coming!"

I pulled out one earbud. "I can't. I have a lot of reading to do."

"Chloe." Hannah's smile vanished. She walked over and stood in front of my desk, her arms crossed. "You've been avoiding me."

"I haven't," I lied, looking down at my textbook. "I'm just busy."

"You're never in the room. You don't eat with me. You barely talk to me." Her voice trembled slightly. "Did I do something wrong? Because if you hate me, you can just tell me. I'm a big girl."

I looked up. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Her bottom lip was sticking out in a pout that looked childish but completely genuine. She looked like a kicked puppy.

A sharp pang of guilt hit me square in the chest. I was hurting her. This fictional character, who had done nothing but try to be my friend, was hurting because of my paranoia.

"I don't hate you," I said softly. "I promise."

"Then come to dinner," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Please? Just this once. Dean is paying, and I really don't want to sit in a fancy restaurant alone with my brother.That's strange, I need your help.

I was trapped. Again. The tears welling in her eyes were a weapon I had no defense against. I couldn't be cruel to her just to save myself. That wasn't who I was, even in a fictional world.

I sighed, dropping my pen. "Fine. I'll go."

Hannah let out a shriek of joy, pulling me out of my chair and into a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're the best! Get dressed, he'll be here in twenty minutes!"

I changed into a simple black dress, the nicest thing I owned. It was still cheap compared to what Hannah was wearing, but it would have to do. I kept my makeup minimal, trying to look as invisible as possible.

At exactly seven, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. Dean stepped out to open the door for us. He was wearing a dark suit this time, looking even more powerful than before. When I climbed into the back seat, I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. He was watching me. His expression remained neutral, but his eyes held a glint of something intense I couldn't decipher before he looked away.

The restaurant was dimly lit, with white tablecloths and candles. It smelled like garlic and expensive wine. A hostess in a black dress greeted us at the door.

"Reservation for three," Dean said. "Under Crane."

My ears perked up. Crane? His last name was Gibbs. Why would he use a different name?

The hostess nodded, her demeanor instantly becoming more respectful. "Right this way, Mr. Crane."

I glanced at Hannah, but she was busy texting on her phone, completely unfazed. This was normal to her. My mind raced. Dean Gibbs was using an alias. That meant he was hiding. Or he was involved in something he didn't want traced back to the Gibbs name.

We sat down at a private booth in the back. Dean handed me a menu, his fingers brushing against mine. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my arm. I pulled my hand back quickly.

"Order whatever you like," he said, his voice low. "Don't look at the prices."

I scanned the menu, the numbers blurring together. I settled on the cheapest pasta dish I could find. I wasn't here to enjoy the food. I was here to survive the evening.

Hannah did most of the talking, filling the silence with chatter about her classes and the cute guy in her English lit seminar. Dean listened patiently, nodding along, but his focus was clearly elsewhere.

"So, Chloe," he said, cutting into his steak. He didn't look up from his plate. "Hannah tells me you're from out of state. Where exactly is home for you?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and pointed. I took a sip of water, buying myself a second to think. This was the interrogation I had been dreading. He was digging into my background, looking for inconsistencies.

"Here and there," I said vaguely. "We moved around a lot."

"Your parents?" he pressed, finally meeting my eyes. "What do they do?"

My heart pounded in my ears. I had to lie. I had to make myself as boring and uninteresting as possible, so he would lose interest and leave me alone.

I forced my face into a neutral mask, even though my pulse was racing. I had rehearsed this lie in my head a hundred times. It was the only way to keep him from digging deeper.

"They're archaeologists," I said, the words coming out smoothly. "They travel constantly. Mostly in the Middle East and Egypt. They're rarely stateside."

It was a half-truth. My real parents had been academics, but they were gone. This lie made them distant, unavailable, and most importantly, it made me independent. A lonely college student with absent parents wasn't unusual.

Hannah's eyes went wide. "Archaeologists? Like Indiana Jones? That is so cool!"

I smiled, a tight, practiced expression. "Something like that. It's mostly dust and old rocks."

Dean chewed his steak slowly, his gaze never leaving my face. He was analyzing every micro-expression, every breath I took. I kept my hands steady on my lap, fighting the urge to fidget.

"So you grew up alone?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. "While they were off digging up history?"

"Mostly," I said. "I lived with my grandmother until I was in high school. She passed away a few years ago. After that, I just... learned to take care of myself."

The memory of my real grandmother's funeral flashed in my mind, sharp and painful. I pushed it down, burying the emotion before it could show on my face. I needed to sound detached, like I was reciting a grocery list.

Hannah reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her eyes full of sympathy. "That must have been so hard. I'm so sorry, Chloe."

"It's fine," I said, pulling my hand back gently but firmly. "I'm used to it."

I took another sip of water, hoping the subject was closed. I had given them a tragic backstory, one that should make them pity me and leave me alone. People didn't usually push for details when it came to dead relatives.

But Dean wasn't most people. He stared at me for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. Then, his expression shifted. The hard lines of his face softened, just a fraction. He set down his fork and leaned forward.

"You're very resilient, Chloe," he said, his voice quieter now, less interrogating and more... direct. "But you're my sister's roommate, living under the same roof. That makes your safety a concern of mine."

I froze. This wasn't right. This wasn't the reaction I wanted.

"Here at Blackwood, you can run into trouble you aren't prepared for," he continued, his gaze locking onto mine. "You can consider this a guarantee: if you have a problem, anything you can't handle, you contact me directly. I'll take care of it."

My stomach twisted into a knot. I had tried to push him away with a sad story, and instead, I had triggered his savior complex. In the novel, Dean Gibbs was a fixer. He saw a problem, and he dominated it. And right now, he saw me as a problem that needed fixing.

"Thank you, Mr. Gibbs," I said, my voice stiff. "But I can take care of myself. I always have."

"It's Dean," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm sure you can. But even the strongest people need backup sometimes."

Hannah beamed, clearly delighted that her brother was being so welcoming. "See? I told you he was great!"

I picked at my pasta, my appetite completely gone. I had played myself. I had tried to build a wall, and I had accidentally handed him a ladder.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced small talk and Hannah's cheerful chatter. I kept my answers short and my eyes down, trying to project an aura of complete unapproachability. But Dean's gaze kept returning to me, heavy and assessing.

When the check came, Dean paid without even glancing at the total. He stood up, helping Hannah with her coat, then turned to me. "I'll drive you back."

We walked out into the cool night air. Hannah skipped ahead, her heels clicking on the pavement as she answered a call from a friend. Dean slowed his pace, falling into step beside me. The silence between us was thick, charged with something I couldn't identify.

We reached the parking garage. The echo of our footsteps bounced off the concrete walls. Dean stopped walking. I stopped too, turning to face him. He was standing too close, his tall frame blocking out the overhead lights.

"You tell a very compelling story, Miss Carrillo," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My blood turned to ice. The words hung in the air, a clear threat. Did he know? Had he seen through my lie?

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. His face was unreadable, half-hidden in shadow. He could be complimenting my storytelling skills, or he could be calling me a liar to my face.

I didn't wait to find out. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and quickened my pace to catch up with Hannah. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes burning into my back the entire way to the car.

I sat in the back seat of Dean's sedan, my body rigid against the leather. The car smelled like his cologne, a rich, woody scent that filled the enclosed space and made it hard to breathe. I pressed my temple against the cold glass of the window, watching the city lights blur past.

Hannah was in the front seat, softly humming along to the radio. She was completely oblivious to the war raging inside my head. I hadn't spoken a word since we left the restaurant. My mind was spinning, replaying Dean's parting words over and over.

You tell a very compelling story.

Was it a warning? A threat? Or just a casual observation? I didn't know, and the uncertainty was killing me. I glanced up at the rearview mirror. Dean's eyes were already there, watching me. The reflection of the streetlights made his blue eyes look almost silver.

He wasn't just checking the traffic. He was studying me. Like a hawk watching a mouse in a field. The intensity of his gaze made my skin prickle. I quickly looked away, my hands clenching into fists in my lap.

This wasn't part of the plot. In the book, Dean barely noticed the roommate. She was furniture. But here, he was laser-focused on me. My presence, my lies, my background-everything about me had caught his attention. And that attention felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.

The car finally pulled up to the curb outside our dorm. I didn't wait for Dean to open the door. I grabbed the handle, shoved the door open, and practically jumped out onto the sidewalk.

"Goodnight!" I called out, already taking a step toward the building.

"Chloe."

Dean's voice cut through the night air, stopping me dead in my tracks. My body went rigid. I slowly turned around. He had stepped out of the car and was walking toward me. He moved with a predatory grace, his long strides eating up the distance between us in seconds.

He stopped right in front of me. The top of my head barely reached his shoulder. I had to tilt my head back to look at him, which only made me feel smaller and more vulnerable.

"My offer stands," he said, his voice low and serious. "Blackwood isn't just a school. It's a battlefield. And you're walking into it blind. Take care of yourself."

It sounded like a warning. Not a friendly piece of advice, but a statement of fact. He knew something about this place that I didn't. Something dangerous.

Before I could respond, he turned and walked back to the car. He said goodbye to Hannah, and then the sedan purred away, disappearing into the night. I stood on the sidewalk, my legs shaking, the cold wind biting through my thin jacket.

Hannah asked, looking down at her phone. "Did my brother say anything to you?" she asked, frowning. "You look like you've seen a ghost.""Just a little tired," I lied, grabbing my toiletries. "I'm going to shower."

I locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the cold water. I splashed it over my face, gasping at the icy shock. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes wide with fear. I looked exactly like what I was: a prey animal that had just been cornered by a predator.

I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't keep letting Dean Gibbs corner me. His interest in me was growing, and if I didn't do something, I would be sucked into his world permanently. I had to cut ties. Completely.

I walked back into the room, my mind made up. I would ignore Hannah's invitations. I would avoid the places Dean frequented. I would become a ghost. A nobody. Just like the original Chloe was supposed to be.

I sat down at my desk, pulling out my phone to set an alarm for the next morning. Just as I unlocked the screen, it lit up on its own. A notification popped up at the top.

I frowned, my thumb hovering over the message from an unknown number. The preview on the lock screen showed a jumble of nonsensical words: "Lamb little hello..." Spam, probably. Some poorly translated phishing attempt. I swiped it away without another thought and tossed the phone onto my bed. I had bigger problems than a random text. I had to figure out how to disappear in plain sight.

I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin, staring at the ceiling. I had to be strong. I had to stay away from the main characters.