Love Leaves Scars

𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭

It has been a few weeks since Tobias visited my home, and he hasn't returned since. I'm relieved that he hasn't. That evening, I found it difficult to hold back my tears. What made it worse was discovering the letter he left behind. Like the previous one, I tore it into pieces and discarded it. I refuse to read it and be manipulated by him once again.

Right now, I'm sitting in class, pretending to listen to whatever the teacher is talking about. Images of finding Tobias Hawthorne in my living room keep flashing in my mind, making it challenging to focus on anything. I glance at the clock nailed to the wall above the whiteboard. Thirty minutes until 1 o'clock. Just thirty more minutes until lunch.

"Attention, Ms. Rosewood. Please come to the principal's office," a woman's voice announces over the speaker.

All the students' attention, as well as the teacher's, shifts toward me. I notice the teacher stops talking and puts down his marker. "Miss Rosewood," he calls out, grabbing my attention. I start to hear everyone else whispering to each other. I close my notebook, grab my backpack, and walk out of the door. 

Being called to the principal's office is a rare occurrence for me. I try to maintain a low profile and stay out of trouble as much as possible. Having the last name Rosewood already attracts enough attention—I don't need any more of it.

The hallways are mostly empty, except for some students transitioning between classes. Most stare, while others pay no mind to me. The principal's office is located at the end of the hall. Before I know it, I'm standing in front of the door. I feel the cold doorknob in my hand, take a deep breath, exhale, and twist the knob, opening the door.

As I step into the room, a blast of cold air from the air conditioner hits me. The walls are entirely white, devoid of any other colour. It resembles a doctor's office to me. Cushioned chairs are arranged along the side, and two chairs are placed in front of the principal's desk. However, the principal is absent. In the meantime, I decide to make myself comfortable.

I let my eyes wander around the room. There's a picture of the principal's family sitting on his desk. His gold-plated name shines on the desk, indicating his meticulous cleaning habits. A bookshelf occupies the left corner of his office, filled with books mostly from 19th-century authors and biographies of unfamiliar people. I spend a few minutes in the silence, patiently waiting for the principal.

Then, I hear the lock on the door click open. I stand up and turn, ready to greet the principal in our school's traditional way. "Good after—" I stop mid-sentence. My eyes widen, and my body freezes as I stare at the person standing before me. I can't move or even breathe. It's as if some kind of magic has immobilized me. All I can do is stare in shock. And the reason? Standing next to Mr. Harlow is none other than Nash Westbrook Hawthorne, the eldest grandson of Tobias Hawthorne, wearing his stupid cowboy hat.

"Miss Rosewood, will you just stare at me and my visitor all day long?" Mr. Harlow says, snapping me out of my trance. I shook my head and continued what I was about to say. "Good afternoon, Mr. Harlow and visitor," I say, leaning forward to give them a bow. Bowing while greeting is one of the traditions at Red Crest International College. "Good afternoon to you too, Miss Rosewood," Mr. Harlow replies before gesturing for Nash and me to sit down. He walks behind his desk, takes a seat, folds his hands, and leans slightly forward.

"I've been wanting to speak to Verity alone, Principal Harlow," Nash says in his thick Texas accent. Mr. Harlow appears somewhat surprised, but he quickly covers it up with a cough. It seems being kicked out of his office does not excite him. "Very well, Mr. Hawthorne. You may see me when you are finished," he says, then slowly exits the room. I continue staring forward, not acknowledging Mr. Harlow or Nash. We both hear the doorknob click, indicating Mr. Harlow has left the office.

Nash waits for about 30 seconds before speaking up. "How are—" he begins, but I quickly cut him off. "What are you doing here?" I ask, my tone harsh, and I notice him flinch from my peripheral vision. I still refuse to look directly at him. He remains silent, likely expecting another verbal blow. "If you're going to ask me to come home, I won't do it. So save your breath and leave," I tell him. "I can't do that," he replies. "There's nothing a Hawthorne can't do."For the first time since we sat down, I turned to Nash. His soft brown eyes were already fixed on me, pleading for my attention. "The old man's dead, Verity," he revealed.

I was taken aback. No remorse or sadness washed over me. Perhaps deep down, they lingered, but I refused to acknowledge them. Tobias Hawthorne didn't deserve my tears, not my pity. "My condolences, Nash. To your family as well. If that's all you've come to say, then you've said it. Now, please, leave me be." I stood up abruptly, snatching my bag. I was ready to walk out, but Nash seized my wrist.

"You need to come home," he insisted once more, his grip firm.

"I will never return there," I snapped, wrenching my wrist free and striding toward the door. Just as I reached for the doorknob, Nash's voice pierced the air again. "Your name is written on the will. We can't decipher it unless everyone's present," he revealed.

His words ignited a fire within me. All the anger and hatred I had suppressed since laying eyes on him now erupted. "You want me to come home for your ludicrous will reading? So you can inherit billions from that madman?" I shouted, my bag crashing to the floor as I confronted Nash head-on. "You are as selfish and arrogant as your grandfather," I sneered, my finger jabbing at his chest.

Our faces were mere inches apart, and through his eyes, I saw my reflection—a visage filled with anger. The anger wasn't reflected in his eyes, but in my own. I resembled my mother. The woman I swore not to become. Yet here I am. 

I stepped back, maintaining the distance between us. Nash continued to gaze at me, his eyes still soft, filled with concern and worry. He reached out to hold my hand, but I recoiled, refusing to let his touch affect me. "I have no interest in the money," he assured me, his voice gentle. He wanted me to believe that the inheritance or any wealth he might acquire wasn't the reason behind his plea. "You'll only be there for the will reading, and once it's done, you can go home. I promise to shield you from any further disruptions," he vowed. I looked up at him, searching for sincerity.

"Besides, you're not the only non-Hawthorne —except for the Laughlins and Oren—named in the will," Nash revealed, and my curiosity was piqued. Why would Tobias Hawthorne name an outsider in his will? "Who else?" I inquired.

"A girl named Avery Kylie Grambs."