Chapter 211

Harrison sprinted back to the girls' dormitory, her heart pounding. She found Rosalind sitting on her bed, gingerly holding an ice pack to her swollen ankle.

"Rosalind, I'm fine," her roommate insisted. "Just twisted it on the way to class. Already applied some cream. I told Daphne not to bother you about this."

So it was just a sprain.

Daphne's frantic call had made it sound like a life-or-death emergency. Harrison had nearly panicked, imagining the worst.

"Stay off your feet," Harrison ordered, examining the injury. The skin was red but intact.

"Will do."

Assured it wasn't serious, Harrison finally exhaled. She grabbed her sleepwear and headed for the shower.

Every muscle ached. And then there were the marks—Nathaniel's possessive love bites scattered across her neck and collarbones.

The scalding water did little to wash away the memories. His smoldering gaze last night had pinned her in place, dark with desire.

She'd tried covering his eyes playfully. "Stop staring."

He'd caught her wrist instead, pressing hot kisses along her palm. "Harrison," he'd murmured against her skin, "you're breathtaking."

The recollection made her shiver. Harrison shook her head sharply, dispelling the images.

He'd be awake by now. She'd slipped out at dawn without a word. Would he come after her?

Clean and exhausted, Harrison collapsed onto her bed. Sleep claimed her instantly.

When she woke, afternoon light slanted through the blinds. She checked her phone.

Nothing. No calls. No texts. Radio silence from Nathaniel.

A dull ache settled in her chest.

The knock at the door startled her. Rosalind answered to reveal three strangers in sleek black suits.

"Can I help you?" Rosalind frowned.

"We're here for Miss Sinclair's belongings," the lead woman announced.

"Daphne's moving out?" Harrison exchanged shocked glances with Rosalind. "Where to?"

"The Regal Estates."

Harrison's eyebrows shot up. That was Willowbrook's most exclusive gated community—home to A-list celebrities and billionaires.

"You must be mistaken," Rosalind sputtered.

"No error," the woman said crisply. "Miss Sinclair signed with Blackwood Talent Agency this morning. Ms. Genevieve Blackwood will be personally overseeing her career."

Genevieve Blackwood? The legendary manager who'd launched three Oscar winners?

The team worked with clinical efficiency, taking only Daphne's passport and textbooks. Everything else—clothes, toiletries, even her favorite stuffed bear—went straight into trash bags.

Rosalind looked shell-shocked. "Harrison, what just happened? Since when does Daphne have industry connections?"

Yesterday, their roommate had been juggling three part-time jobs. Today, she was moving into a penthouse with a superstar agent.

It felt like watching Cinderella's pumpkin turn into a golden carriage.

The oddest part? Daphne hadn't even come to say goodbye. Harrison watched the entourage leave, unease prickling her neck.

"Those weren't scam artists," she said slowly. "But something's off about this."

Rosalind nodded. "I hope she's safe. After everything she's been through..."

They'd both seen Daphne's struggles—the shame over her working-class roots, the constant financial stress. Whatever this was, Harrison prayed it was truly her friend's fairy tale ending.