I'd been in Alexander's private dormitory suite dozens of times—studying together, strategizing about family conflicts, just spending time away from the constant scrutiny that came with living in shared housing. His suite was one of the few places at Ashwick that felt genuinely private, protected by security systems and the kind of exclusivity that came with owning an entire building wing.
That privacy turned out to be an illusion.
We were working on a project for European Economics, sitting on Alexander's bed because his desk was covered with newspaper clippings and media analysis from the Chronicle situation. I was leaning against the headboard reviewing notes, Alexander was beside me with his laptop, and everything was completely innocent and academic.
Then my phone exploded with not
