The light we found

People like me don’t get invited to Rothman parties.

We’re the ones who slip in through the service entrance, keep our heads down, and pray no one with a last name worth money notices we’re breathing their air.

But tonight, I’m not even supposed to be here as staff.

I only came to drop off the catering van keys. Quick. Quiet. Invisible. The way I’ve learned to be since my dad walked out and my mom vanished a year ago, leaving me with overdue bills, a peeling apartment, and a silence so heavy it felt like a second skin.

No one at the college knows. No one at work knows. No one can know.

If they did, they’d take everything — the scholarship, the housing, the tiny sliver of hope I’ve been clinging to.

The scholarship I still don’t understand. The one that arrived out of nowhere. The one I later learned was funded by the Rothman Foundation.

I should’ve known then that nothing in my life comes without a price.

I’m halfway across the cliffside terrace when I hear it.

A scream.

High. Sharp. Cut off too fast.

My breath catches. The wind whips cold across my face as I step toward the balcony railing, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

Then I see her.

A girl in a white dress — no, the girl, the Rothman princess, the one whose face is plastered across every charity gala and magazine cover — falling.

Arms flailing. Dress twisting. Body dropping like a broken star.

My stomach lurches. I grab the railing, knuckles white.

And then I see something worse.

A figure at the top of the balcony. Standing exactly where she fell. Watching her drop.

They turn their head.

They see me.

My blood turns to ice.

Before I can move, a hand clamps around my arm and yanks me back into the shadows.

A security guard. Rothman crest on his jacket. Eyes cold.

“You didn’t see anything,” he hisses. “For your own good, girl. Walk away.”

My voice dies in my throat.

He shoves a wad of cash into my hand. Threatens me without raising his voice. Makes it clear that if I breathe a word, I’ll lose more than the scholarship.

I stumble away, heart racing, vision blurring.

But as I reach the service corridor, I feel it — a presence behind me. Heavy. Focused. Burning.

I turn.

And there he is.

Adrian Rothman. The heir. The golden boy. The one who never looks at anyone like me.

Except now he does.

And the way he looks at me?

Like I’m the one who pushed his sister.

Like he’s already decided I’m guilty.

Like he’s going to hunt me down until he proves it.

***

SIX MONTHS LATER.

The dorm hallway smells like fresh paint and too many nervous eighteen‑year‑olds pretending they’re not terrified.

I drag my suitcase behind me, the wheels squeaking in protest. Everything I own fits inside it — clothes, a few books, and the last photo I have of my parents before everything fell apart.

Six months since the party. Six months since the fall. Six months since I’ve slept without jolting awake, convinced someone is standing over me.

But nothing happened. No police. No questions. No Rothmans.

Just silence.

Maybe they forgot me. Maybe they believed the official story. Maybe I’m finally safe.

I don’t believe any of that, but I pretend.

I reach my new dorm room — 3B — and push the door open. It’s small, but clean. One bed. One desk. One closet. A window overlooking the courtyard.

It’s more than I’ve had in a long time.

“Hey! You must be my next-door neighbor!”

I turn to see a girl with bright eyes, a messy bun, and a smile so warm it feels like a hug. She’s holding a stack of posters and wearing mismatched socks.

“I’m Shyan,” she says, sticking out her hand like we’re already friends. “And you’re… Silver, right? Coolest name ever, by the way.”

I blink, thrown off by her energy. “Yeah. Silver.”

“Perfect,” she beams. “We’re gonna get along. I can feel it.”

And somehow… I believe her.

For the first time in months, something inside me loosens. Just a little.

Shyan chatters as she watches me tape up fairy lights and unpacks the small amount of clothes, trying to fill the room with life and noise and warmth. She doesn’t ask about my past. She doesn’t pry. She just accepts me.

It feels dangerous to let someone in.

But it also feels like breathing again.

I’m halfway through unpacking when my phone buzzes.

A notification. From an unknown number.

Welcome to Rothman University, Silver. We’ve been expecting you.

My heart stops.

Shyan doesn’t notice.

But I do.

The past didn’t forget me. It followed me here.

My room maybe small, but it’s mine. A double bed just for me, a desk that doesn't rock, a wardrobe that smells faintly of cedar. Sunlight spills across the floor like it’s trying to convince me this is a fresh start.

Next door, Shyan is humming loudly as she unpacks, her music drifting through the thin wall. She’s already knocked twice to offer snacks, and a coffee I desperately need.

For the first time in a long time, I almost feel… normal.

I’m halfway through making my bed when the hallway erupts with noise — laughter, footsteps, the chaotic energy of rich kids who’ve never had to worry about anything except which designer bag to bring to orientation.

I step out to throw away the plastic wrapping from my sheets.

That’s when everything inside me stops.

He’s standing at the far end of the hallway.

Adrian Rothman.

Six months haven’t softened him. If anything, they’ve sharpened him — jaw tighter, shoulders broader, eyes colder. He’s dressed in black, hands in his pockets, like he owns the entire building.

Maybe he does.

My throat closes. My fingers go numb around the trash bag.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even know I’m here.

But he does.

His gaze sweeps lazily across the hall… until it lands on me.

And stays.

Heat prickles across my skin. Not the good kind. The kind that says run.

I force myself to breathe, to look away, to pretend I’m just another student and not the girl who saw his sister fall.

But then he smiles.

Slow. Controlled. A smile with no warmth, no kindness, no humanity.

A smile that says he remembers me. A smile that says he’s been waiting. A smile that says I’m not safe.

My stomach twists.

Shyan pops her head out of her room, oblivious. “Silver! You coming to the welcome mixer?”

I can’t answer. I can’t move.

Because Adrian takes a step toward me.

Just one.

But it’s enough to send a cold shiver down my spine.

His eyes never leave mine.

And that smile — that awful, knowing smile — widens by a fraction.

Not friendly. Not curious. Not even angry.

Predatory.

Like he’s finally found what he’s been hunting.