Vengeful (Villains #2)(50)

He leaned back in his chair. “Do pretty girls count as bad choices, or are those two separate things?”

Maggie rolled her eyes and walked away, and Eli turned back to his paper, but he’d taken the words to heart. He’d gone to one or two frat parties, plastered on a lazy smile and sipped awful beer (which honestly felt like a bad choice).

But now, he had Charlotte.

A relationship, Eli had learned, was a universal shorthand for normal. A societal stamp of approval. Dating Charlotte Shelton in particular was more like a gold seal. She was old money, the breeding so deep she didn’t even notice it lining her every seam.

She was cheerful, and pretty, and spoiled—she lived in the school dormitories, but only because she wanted an authentic college experience. Not that that desire for authenticity extended much beyond a single twin bed and a communal hall.

Charlotte came to Eli’s boardinghouse once, and only once, and on her insistence. She knew he was an orphan (a word that seemed to generate in her an intense protective instinct), but the threadbare truth wasn’t as romantic. He’d seen the pity masquerading as sympathy.

“I don’t love you for your stuff,” she’d insisted. “I have enough stuff for the both of us.”

But after that, they didn’t share a life—Charlotte just pulled Eli into hers.

And he let her.

It was easy.

It was simple.

She adored him.

And he enjoyed the attention.

Charlotte liked to say they were a perfect fit. Eli knew they weren’t, but only he could see the jagged sides, the empty spaces.

“How do I look?” she asked as they climbed the steps to her parents’ house—mansion—for Thanksgiving, sophomore year.

“Stunning,” said Eli automatically, pairing the word with a wink. Charlotte fixed his tie. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, and he let her, his own hand grazing the bottom of her chin, tipping her face up for a kiss.

“Don’t be nervous,” she whispered.

Eli wasn’t.

The door swung open, and he turned, half expecting to see a butler, a grim old man in coattails, but instead he found an elegant, older version of Charlotte.

“You must be Eli!” said the woman brightly as a slim, stern man in a well-tailored suit appeared at her back.

“Thank you for having me,” said Eli, holding out a pie.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Shelton warmly. “When Charlotte said you didn’t have plans, we insisted.”

“Plus,” said Mr. Shelton, shooting Charlotte a look, “it’s about time we meet the boy our girl’s been so taken with.” They started down the hall, Charlotte and her mother arm in arm.

“Eli,” said Mr. Shelton, putting a hand on his shoulder, “why don’t I give you a tour while the ladies catch up.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” said Eli, falling in step behind the man, who led him through a pair of doors into a private study. “This,” he said, “is really the only room that matters.”

He opened a cabinet and poured himself a drink.

“I can see why Charlotte likes you,” he said, leaning back against his desk. “She’s always had a weakness for charity cases. Especially handsome ones.”

Eli stilled, his easy manner stiffening a fraction. “Sir, if you think I’m with Charlotte for her money or her station—”

“The truth doesn’t matter, Mr. Cardale, only the optics. And they don’t look good. I’ve done my homework on you. So much tragedy—you handle it with poise. While I admire how far you’ve come, the fact is, you’re tracking mud into my home.”

Eli’s teeth clicked together. “We can’t shape our past,” he said. “Only our future.”

Charlotte’s father smiled. “Well put. And that’s what I’m offering you. A bright future. Just not with my daughter. I’ve seen your grades. You’re a smart young man, Eliot. Ambitious, too, Charlotte tells me. You want to be a doctor. Haverford is a decent college, but it’s not the best. I know you got into other schools. Better schools. I assume you couldn’t afford them.”

Eli stared, amazed. He was being bribed.

Mr. Shelton pushed off the desk. “I know you care about my daughter. Hell, you might even think you love her . . .”

But Eli didn’t.

If Mr. Shelton was better at reading people—or if Eli hadn’t made himself so hard to read—he might have seen the simple truth. That Eli didn’t need persuading. That Charlotte Shelton had always been, for him, a vehicle. A way to move through the world on an upward trajectory. What her father was now offering, if he was truly offering it, was a true chance for meaningful change, a great gain for a minor loss.

But what came next was a delicate maneuver.

“Mr. Shelton,” started Eli, contorting his face with an aspect of tightly controlled defiance. “Your daughter and I—”

The man held up a hand. “Before you play the noble card, and insist you can’t be bought, remember that you are both very young, and love is fickle, and whatever you have with Charlotte might feel real, but it won’t last.”

Eli exhaled, and looked down, as if ashamed. Let his features settle into a semblance of resignation. “What would you have me do, sir?”