What?! She filed for a leave of absence?!
In an instant, Grayson's heart felt like it had been stabbed again—and even more viciously. He had known that Jasmine was heartbroken, that she was in pain, but he never imagined she would be suffering so profoundly that she would actually withdraw from school. Had she completely severed ties with him? Or worse, had his actions driven her to this extreme? He had ruined her life—he had driven her to take a leave of absence.
"Ah, Grayson, right? I heard you owe the school one million dollars," said the student affairs officer with a dismissive pat on Grayson's shoulder and a forced, cheery tone. "Son, you'd better hurry up and figure out how to pay that back. Don't waste time moping here over some love drama."
Grayson had no idea how he'd managed to make his way back to the dorm. All he knew was that when he finally stumbled inside, Miles and Tyler—who had been playing video games—looked up and were so startled by his appearance that they dropped their controllers and rushed to his side.
"Dude, Grayson—what the hell happened to you?" Miles exclaimed.
"Your face looks like you've seen a ghost!" Tyler added, panic in his voice.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?"
They both fussed over him, trying to prop him up on the bed or fetch him water. But Grayson said nothing. He waved them off with a listless gesture, as if he had no energy to speak, and collapsed onto his mattress. His eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling.
Seven days…
For a full week, Grayson remained in that bed. Miles and Tyler brought him food during those days, but he hardly ate a morsel.
"Grayson, what's wrong, man? Talk to us," Miles finally said one afternoon, his voice thick with concern.
"Yeah, Grayson," Tyler chimed in. "When you and Sienna broke up last time, you didn't fall apart like this. Say something."
"Look, we might not have much going for us, but if you're in trouble, just tell us. We'll figure it out together!"
They exchanged troubled looks. On the surface, they teased each other constantly, but when it mattered, they were brothers through and through.
Grayson shook his head—a gesture that seemed too final. There was no way Miles or Tyler could fix what was happening now.
Still, after seven days, Grayson realized he couldn't remain confined to that room any longer. He forced himself to stand and walked in a daze out of the dorm. His feet carried him to the edge of campus, and eventually he found himself at Mirror Lake.
The water glistened softly under the late-afternoon sun, and the foliage was still vibrant and green. The scenery was as beautiful as ever—untouched—but Jasmine was nowhere to be seen. A bitter thought struck him: the view remained perfect, but the one person he longed to share it with was gone.
A sudden breeze swept across the lake, and Grayson felt something brushing against his cheek. He reached up and brushed the soft strand away—only to discover he was holding a single, long lock of hair.
It was Jasmine's.
Grayson froze, and then the dam inside him burst. Tears poured down his cheeks as he stared at that fragment of her.
"Jasmine… where are you? I… I miss you so much," he whispered, his voice breaking. "If I ever see you again, I swear I will never let you suffer like this. I promise—on my family's honor—Grayson Jenkins swears it."
He folded her hair carefully into his jacket pocket and stood, feeling hollow and adrift. Without any real destination in mind, he wandered off the campus grounds.
He walked until he no longer recognized the streets, and then he looked up to find himself in front of an elegant restaurant called Le Clair Obscur. The façade was dark wood and black stone, accented by softly glowing lanterns. Expensive cars lined the sidewalk in front—suggesting that it catered to a clientele with deep pockets.
Pain coursed through his chest. He and Jasmine had known each other long enough to promise that someday they would dine at every top-tier restaurant in Cleveland—yet they had never succeeded. Their only attempt, at La Trattoria, had ended with Kayla and her friends humiliating them and chasing them out.
Grief rose in Grayson's throat and forced him inside. He was drawn to a small table for two in a corner overlooking the softly lit dining room.
A server approached, polite and smiling. "Good evening, sir—may I take your order?"
Grayson glanced at the menu with milky, unfocused eyes. Then, pulling himself together, he recited in a flat voice, "I'll have one Black Truffle Symphony…two orders of A5 Wagyu Under the Moon…two orders of Chocolate Big Bang…and a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild."
The server's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Sir—are you sure you can finish all of that by yourself?"
Grayson didn't bother to look up. "Just bring it," he said, too weary to discuss further.
The server nodded and hurried off, and before long, each dish arrived in succession. The tiny table, set for two, began to overflow with plates of black truffle pasta, perfectly seared A5 Wagyu beef, and towering mounds of decadent chocolate dessert—along with the single bottle of red wine.
"Sir, here is your place setting." The server laid down a pristine white plate, gleaming silverware, a folded napkin, and two crystal wine glasses at Grayson's seat.
Grayson lifted his gaze, steeled himself, and murmured, "Bring another place setting."
"Excuse me?" The server paused as if unsure.
"I said, bring a second set of silverware and a wine glass. I'm expecting someone," Grayson repeated, his voice heavy.
The server blinked and then hurried away to fetch the extra place setting. Moments later, the second plate, utensils, napkin, and glass were placed opposite his own.
Grayson gently arranged the additional utensils in front of the empty chair. For a heartbeat, he simply stared. Then he felt tears well up again—tears born from longing for Jasmine to be seated across from him.
"Jasmine… you're not here, but I'll pretend you are," he whispered. His voice trembled. "I miss you so much."
He uncorked the bottle of Château Lafite and poured a full glass into the glass on the opposite side first. "You've never tried red wine, have you? Here—taste it."
Then he poured himself a glass, lifted it, and sipped. He closed his eyes briefly as the rich, tannic liquid met his tongue.
He set his glass down and turned his gaze toward the empty chair once more. "How is it? You must be surprised—it doesn't taste like you thought, does it? Ha! I bet you sputtered on the first sip. Here—let me wipe your mouth."
He picked up the napkin and, holding it gingerly, swept it in the air toward the space where Jasmine would be seated—pinkies weakly poised as though he were gently dabbing at her lips. The server and the other diners watched in stunned silence.
A cluster of guests exchanged bewildered glances. Was the man insane? Or was there something deeper behind his performance?
"Heh—try some of this too." Grayson lifted a fork laden with seared scallop and brought it out to the empty plate opposite him, as if feeding an invisible companion. Then he smiled through his tears, recalling Jasmine's delicate frame. "You're so thin, Jasmine. I'll fatten you up until I can't lift you… Ha! You don't want me to carry you? Too bad—I'm going to carry you anyway."
The server hovered a few feet away, held her breath, and watched as Grayson continued.
"Come on—eat. You haven't tried these dishes before, right? Jasmine… come on, eat." He lifted his fork again and pressed forward—as if eager to share a meal with her—then suddenly his hand shook and the fork clattered onto the plate.
He dropped his gaze to the table, and his composed façade collapsed. He draped himself over the table and wept, sobbing, "Jasmine, I am so, so sorry. I miss you… I miss you so much…"
A gentle voice broke through his anguish. "Sir—are you all right?" The server approached slowly, concern etched in her features.
Grayson did not respond. He closed his eyes as his chest heaved, and after a long moment, he lifted his head and stood. "Check, please," he said in a broken whisper, his voice barely audible.
The server's eyes widened. Earlier, she had seen him ordering an absurd amount of food, then acting as though he were dining with an imaginary guest—laughing, coaxing, and crying. Now, without taking a single bite, he wanted the bill. She glanced at him, realizing that beneath his erratic behavior was a grief so raw it isolated him completely.
She nodded and returned with the check. "Sir, your total, including service charge, comes to twenty-seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars."
Grayson simply retrieved his credit card from his pocket and swiped it without a word. He left a hefty tip, then walked to the glass door.
Just as he pushed it open, a harsh male voice ripped through the air: "What the hell is this? I ordered the Roman-style Beef Consommé with Egg Drop Soup—why did you bring me a Mexican Meatball Soup? You incompetent idiot! I brought my friends here for a nice meal, and you embarrass me like this?!"
Grayson froze. Through the open door, he saw a booth filled with men—one of them wearing a duckbill cap, a long scar running from his brow to his chin, and heavy gold chains coiled twice around his wrist. He was leaning over a young server, screaming in rage. The manager rushed over, panic in his eyes.
"Sir, I apologize! He's new to the restaurant. Please, forgive us!" the manager stammered.
The scarred man snarled and, in a swift motion, grabbed the bowl of steaming meatball soup and hurled it at the server's chest. The scalding liquid hit him, eliciting a horrific scream as the hot broth seared his uniform and skin.
Grayson's breath caught—he recognized that scream. It was a cry of agony so unmistakable. His own heart thundered in his chest, and his sense of dread snapped him back to attention.
He slammed his hand on the door's handle, hard enough to bend the metal slightly, and shouted, "Wait!"