The hallway was unnaturally silent for a Friday afternoon at Westlake Academy. Lavinia Hartwell tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear and paused outside the empty classroom, hesitating when she heard voices from within. She’d only come to retrieve her forgotten chemistry notebook, not to eavesdrop, but something in the tone of the deeper voice made her still her movements.

“Look, I get it. My parents were the same way—everything had to be perfect, or it wasn’t good enough.” The voice belonged to Henry Wynthorne, though Lavinia didn’t need to peek through the half-open door to confirm this. She’d recognize that confident baritone anywhere, even if she’d never been its direct recipient.

Henry Wynthorne. The name alone carried weight in their school. Son of business mogul robert Wynthorne, heir to Wynthorne Industries, and one of the most brilliant students in their graduating class. He wasn’t just wealthy and smart; he carried himself with a certainty that Lavinia had always found both intimidating and fascinating.

“But they don’t understand,” a younger boy’s voice cracked. “If I don’t get into Princeton, my dad says I’m letting the whole family down.”

Lavinia shifted uncomfortably. She shouldn’t be listening to this. She should either announce her presence or leave, but curiosity kept her frozen in place.

“Princeton isn’t the end-all,” Henry replied, his voice softer than Lavinia had ever heard it. “And neither is your father’s approval.”

Lavinia had always pictured Henry as detached and arrogant, wearing his privilege like custom-tailored armor. She’d watched him from afar, usually when he was with her best friend Verity. Whenever Henry was around Verity, he transformed from the stern, academically-driven heir into someone softer, almost boyish in his eagerness to impress. It was jarring to hear him now, speaking with such empathy.

“I tried to… you know,” the younger boy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Last week. My mom found me.”

Lavinia’s heart clenched. She definitely shouldn’t be hearing this.

A long silence followed before Henry spoke. “I’m glad she did. And I’m glad you’re talking to me now.” There was a rustling of paper. “This is Dr. Mercer’s number. She helped me through some rough patches after my mom died. Call her. Tonight.”

“But my dad would—”

“Would he rather have a son who’s alive?” Henry’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is ask for help. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you smart.”

Something inside Lavinia shifted. The Henry Wynthorne she thought she knew would never sit in an empty classroom counseling a depressed underclassman. He was supposed to be calculating and cold, focused only on his future empire and impressing Verity Langford.

So absorbed was she in this revelation that Lavinia didn’t notice the conversation had ended until the door swung fully open. She stumbled back, nearly dropping her bag, and found herself looking directly into Henry Wynthorne’s startled gray eyes.

For a brief, horrifying moment, Lavinia was certain he would berate her for eavesdropping. Instead, his expression shifted from surprise to a guarded neutrality.

“Ms. Hartwell,” he acknowledged with a slight nod.

Lavinia felt heat creep up her neck. He knew her name. She hadn’t expected that.

“I—I just needed my notebook,” she stammered, gesturing vaguely toward the classroom.

Henry stepped aside, his expression unreadable. As Lavinia hurried past him, she caught a glimpse of the younger boy slipping out the opposite door, eyes red-rimmed but shoulders straight.

The chemistry notebook sat exactly where she’d left it, on the third desk from the window. As she grabbed it, Lavinia felt Henry’s presence still at the doorway. When she turned, he was studying her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

“How much did you hear?” he asked finally, his voice carefully controlled.

“Enough,” Lavinia admitted, clutching the notebook to her chest like a shield. “I wasn’t trying to listen, but… what you said to him was kind.”

Something flickered across Henry’s face—surprise, perhaps, or discomfort at being caught in an act of compassion.

“It wasn’t kindness,” he said after a moment. “Just the truth.”

Lavinia nearly smiled at his reluctance to accept the compliment. This was so at odds with the Henry she’d constructed in her mind—the arrogant heir, the calculating businessman-to-be, the boy hopelessly infatuated with her beautiful best friend.

“Still,” she insisted quietly, “it was good of you.”

He seemed about to respond when his phone buzzed. The spell broke as he checked the screen, and his face transformed, softening in a way Lavinia immediately recognized. Verity had messaged him.

“I should go,” she murmured, though Henry was already lost to her, thumbs typing a rapid response.

He nodded absently, then glanced up as she passed. “Lavinia?”

Her name in his mouth was startling. She paused, heart inexplicably racing.

“This stays between us,” he said, not quite a request, not quite a command.

She understood immediately. The careful image he maintained—brilliant, aloof, untouchable Henry Wynthorne—didn’t include counseling depressed students in empty classrooms.

“Of course,” she agHartwell.