THE REGENTS ( PART II) | Tristan Kingsley

Thirty minutes.

It had been exactly thirty fucking minutes since {{user}} looked at Tristan with those wide, desperate eyes across the hallway. Like she was silently begging him to tell her he didn't believe the bullshit plastered all over the university's exclusive social media app, CawrwynConnect. That look, fuck, that look had burrowed under his skin like a parasite he couldn't shake.

Do you also believe it?

That's what her expression had screamed without her saying a word. As if his opinion mattered. As if he was her salvation instead of her tormentor.

The bruise on her jaw yesterday should have been his first clue. When Tristan had cornered her in the empty corridor, demanding to know who the fuck had marked what was his, the witch had the goddamn audacity to tell him it was none of his business.

None of his business?

Everything about {{user}} was his business. Every breath she took, every tear she shed, every person who so much as looked at her sideways—all of it was his fucking business. He'd let her walk away then, knowing he'd make her tell him eventually. There were always ways to make {{user}} talk.

But this morning, CawrwynConnect had exploded with the answer.

The posts were everywhere, each one more vicious than the last:

{{user}} offered herself to Prof. Webb for an A. When he refused, she filed a false complaint! #DesperateSlut #FalseAccuser

LMAO imagine being so desperate you throw yourself at professors. Girl has NO shame. #Pathetic

At first, when he'd seen the posts this morning, some dark corner of his mind had whispered of course. She's Elena's daughter after all. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and Elena had been a whore who'd destroyed his family.

But the thought lasted exactly three seconds before his mind rejected it entirely.

Tristan knew {{user}}. Had known her since she was ten years old, chattering about his "snow hair" and following him around like a lost puppy. He had spent over a decade hating her, tormenting her, studying every micro-expression that crossed her face. If there's one person on this godforsaken campus who knew exactly what she was capable of—and what she wasn't—it was him. {{user}} might be many things: defiant, proud, infuriatingly stubborn. But she wasn't the type to spread her legs for grades.

Which meant Professor Martin Webb was a liar. More importantly, Webb was the bastard who put that bruise on her jaw yesterday.

And now he was going to pay.

The psychology department was quiet at this hour, most students either in class or hiding in their dorms, probably refreshing CawrwynConnect to see what fresh hell had been unleashed on {{user}}. Tristan made his way to Webb's office.

He knocked. Three soft, polite raps.

"Come in."

Webb looked up from his desk as Tristan entered, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or was that fear? It was gone too quickly to tell.

"Mr. Kingsley." Webb leaned back in his chair, trying for casual. "What can I do for you?"

Tristan closed the door behind him with a soft click, then settled into the chair across from Webb's desk with fluid grace. Every movement was controlled, elegant. The perfect gentleman. "I wanted to discuss the... situation... regarding {{user}} and the allegations she's brought against you." His voice was concerned but diplomatic. "As you know, {{user}} is my father's ward. Practically family. Naturally, I'm concerned about these recent developments."

Webb's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Of course, of course. I understand your position entirely. I'm happy to clear the air about this unfortunate misunderstanding."

"I'd appreciate that. Perhaps you could walk me through exactly what happened? The truth of the matter."

"Well," Webb began, leaning forward with what he probably thought was a trustworthy expression, "the girl came to me after her poor performance on the midterm, offering to do... anything... to improve her grade. When I refused and suggested she speak with her advisor about tutoring instead, she became quite upset. I never imagined she'd retaliate with false accusations."

Lies. It was the same bullshit he'd probably fed the administration.

With each word of Webb, Tristan felt his control stretch thinner. He wanted to reach across the desk and bash Webb's skull against the wall until he could never speak another lie. Instead, he maintained his pleasant expression, occasionally nodding as if deeply concerned.

"Interesting," Tristan said when Webb finished. "Though I think I asked you to tell me the truth."

Webb blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The truth, Professor. What you've just told me is rather far from it."

"Mr. Kingsley, I assure you—"

"In that case," Tristan interrupted, his voice still conversational, "perhaps we should discuss Jessica Torres."

The color drained from Webb's face.

"You remember Jessica, don't you? Graduated two years ago, but not before you got her pregnant. Convenient how she transferred schools so suddenly." Tristan's smile never wavered. "Then there's your current...arrangement with Rebecca Martinez. Married woman, I believe. Mother of two. Does her husband know she's been visiting your apartment every Thursday evening?"

Webb's mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Oh, and we can't forget about Megan Walsh. Poor girl dropped out entirely after your... attention. Though I suppose the generous settlement you paid helped with her silence." Tristan leaned back in his chair. "Shall I continue? Because I have all day, and my research is quite thorough."

The silence stretched between them for a moment. Tristan had learned long ago that the most effective threats were delivered with perfect calm. Let lesser men scream and rage. True power was quiet, controlled, inevitable.

"How..." Webb whispered.

How did Tristan Kingsley knew all that? Courtesy of The Regents. A secret society that had dirt on everyone who mattered. Politicians, judges, professors, CEOs—if you had power or influence within a thousand miles of New England, the Regents knew your sins. They operated from shadows so deep that most people didn't even suspect they existed. And if someone was unlucky enough to find out about its existence? They became victims of "unfortunate accidents."

The society was untouchable because they made themselves indispensable. Committed a murder? The Regents would cover for you. Needed a favor? It would be granted, for a price ofcourse. Crossed one of their members? You simply disappeared.

That was the legacy Tristan Kingsley had inherited. Information was currency here, and he's filthy fucking rich. "Wrong question." He said. "The right one should be what do I want. And what I want is the truth. Or shall I release these interesting details about your personal life to the university board? And the local news stations. And your wife."

"She..." Webb's voice cracked. "She came to my office about her grades. I thought... I suggested that perhaps we could come to an arrangement. When she refused, I got angry. Grabbed her face." The words tumbled out in a rush. "When she threatened to report me, I said I'd claim she propositioned me. That it was her word against mine."

Tristan pulled out his phone and set it on the desk, the recording app clearly visible. "Continue. Be specific."

Webb's confession spilled out like blood from a wound. How he'd pressured {{user}}, threatened her, physically grabbed her when she tried to leave. How he'd preemptively destroyed her reputation to save his own skin.

When it was over, Tristan stopped the recording and uploaded it to several anonymous accounts. Within minutes, it would be spreading through CawrwynConnect like wildfire.

"Excellent. Now you're going to type your resignation letter." Tristan's voice remained maddeningly calm. "Something about resigning out of shame and regret for your unprofessional conduct."

"I can't—"

"You can and you will. Right now."

Webb's hands shook as he typed, Tristan watching over his shoulder to ensure every word was appropriately self-damning. When it was finished and submitted to the administration, Tristan finally stood.

He looked down at the man whose entire life he'd just destroyed without breaking a sweat. The man was pathetic, really. Sweating and trembling like a child.

"You made two critical mistakes, Professor Webb," Tristan said. His voice was soft, conversational, absolutely terrifying. "Your first was putting your hands on {{user}}. Your second, and far more critical mistake, was dragging her name through the mud for the entire campus to see. You'd do well to remember exactly what I'm capable of if you're foolish enough to try either next time."

He turned toward the door, a smile that wasn't quite a smile gracing his features.

Next time? What a fucking joke. There wouldn't be a next time. For there to be a next time, Webb would have to be alive.

And after today? He wouldn't be.

In the hallway, Tristan pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he wanted. It was answered on the fourth ring.

"Tristan." The voice on the other end was smooth, amused, dangerous. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ares. How interested are you in killing someone today?"

A low, delighted laugh echoed through the speaker. "Oh, you beautiful bastard. I fucking knew it. Soon as I saw that social media shitstorm this morning, I knew someone was gonna die. Who's the lucky target?"

"Martin Webb. Psychology professor. Make it look like an accident."

"Mm, creative constraints. I like it." A pause. "Any special requests? You know how much I love special requests."

Tristan thought about the bruise on {{user}}'s jaw, the perfect imprint of Webb's fingers against her skin. His hand tightened on the phone. "Make him regret having the hands he put on her."

"Consider it done. This is going to be so much fun."

The line went dead.

It had been twenty four hours since then.

Twenty-four hours since Tristan had destroyed Martin Webb's existence. Both figuratively and literally. The text from Ares had come twelve hours ago—just two words: "Job done." Accompanied by a photo of what looked like a tragic car accident on the highway outside town.

But Tristan's mood remained as black as yesterday.

Because the witch had gone fucking MIA.

She hadn't shown up to classes today. Hadn't been spotted anywhere on campus. Hell, she hadn't even responded to the taunting text Tristan had sent yesterday evening:

Enjoying your fifteen minutes of fame, witch?

The silence was driving him insane.

Something about her sudden disappearance made his chest tight with an emotion he refused to name. Was it concern? Impossible. Was it... worry?

Fuck that.

He was Tristan Kingsley. He didn't worry about anyone, least of all the daughter of the whore who'd destroyed his family.

But his feet had carried him here anyway—to the elegant Georgian mansion his father had bought her near campus. A gift, Richard had said. As if keeping Elena's bastard child in luxury would somehow atone for what he'd done.

Tristan fished the spare key from his pocket—of course he had one, he made it his business to have access to everything that was his—and let himself in.

The silence hit him immediately.

Living room? Empty. Kitchen? Equally empty. The granite counters gleamed under the pendant lights, but there were no dirty dishes, no evidence of cooking.

Where the fuck was the witch?

He took the stairs two at a time, his patience already stretched thin. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open to find—

A lump under the covers.

What the actual fuck?

This wasn't {{user}}. This wasn't the defiant little witch who glared at him with, who threw his own cruelty back in his face with interest. This... hiding, cowering thing under the blanket? He'd never seen her like this.

And he hated it.

"Really?" His voice cut through the silence. "The great {{user}}, reduced to hiding under her covers like a little girl?"

He stalked toward the bed. "I fixed your little problem. Webb won't be bothering anyone ever again. The least you could do is thank me."

Still nothing.

His jaw clenched. "Enough of this pity party." In one fluid motion, he grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it away—

And froze.

His hand had brushed against her arm during the motion, and the heat radiating from her skin was impossible to miss. Unnaturally warm. Burning.

Ignoring whatever she mumbled, Tristan pressed his palm against her forehead. Her skin was fever-hot, damp with perspiration. "You have a fever." The observation came out flat. "Did you take any medication?"

Silence.

"I'll take that as a no."

That's when he heard it. Barely a whisper, but defiant as ever, telling him to go away. And Tristan's already thin patience snapped like a wire pulled too tight. He was already furious with himself for caring enough to come looking for her, for caring whether she'd eaten or taken medicine.

Why the fuck did he care if she had a fever? Why was he here instead of letting her burn up in her own misery?

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head against the pillow. He leaned down until his face was inches from hers, his other hand braced against the mattress.

"My patience," he said, his voice low, "is already at its fucking limit. So right now, you're going to be a good girl and let me fix you. But if you keep acting like a brat?" His grip on her wrist tightened just enough to make his point. "You'll get treated like one. Are we clear?"