For the Plot (Chicago Billionaires #8)

Prologue

Skye—Ten years earlier…

I lie on my back in Archer’s bed, one leg draped lazily over the side, the other tangled in his sheets, letting the breeze from the open window ghost over my bare thighs. His room smells like dryer sheets and cheap body spray, a scent that has become my safety.

“I’m not packing your shoes for you,” I say as he digs through the bottom of his closet, chucking sneakers and slides onto a half-zipped duffel bag.

He laughs and looks over his shoulder at me. “You say that now, but when I forget them and start stealing yours, you’ll regret everything.”

We might only be eighteen and nineteen, but it finally feels like we’re starting our life together. A life I’ve dreamed of since I met him.

I don’t care that his bedroom still has high school trophies on the shelf and a crusty-looking laundry basket in the corner. I don’t care that his mom is long gone, his dad is rarely home, or that the entire house feels like it’s been preserved in a weird bachelor limbo since Archer was twelve.

We’re leaving soon. Only two more days and we’re finally off to college, off to freedom, off to the rest of our lives. And I am so in love with him it’s embarrassing.

“Try touching my shoes and see what happens,” I say, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at his back. “I will end you.”

He catches the pillow and grins. “You won’t. You love me.”

My smile wavers for half a second. Just enough for my chest to feel it. Because he’s right. I do.

And the way he says it, so casually, like it’s just understood between us, makes me want to believe he’ll never hurt me.

That the way he kissed me last night meant forever.

That we’ll live in our cramped dorm together and go to late-night diners and lie in bed on Sunday mornings, hungover, happy, and half-naked.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugs. “A little. I mean, I already did freshman year, so it’s not really new for me. But I’m glad you’re coming.”

“Yeah?” I offer my flirtiest smile. “Is that all?”

“Mm-hmm. It’ll be nice to have you there.”

Nice. Okay.

I tuck that word away and try not to let it dig in too deep. He turns back to his closet, leaving me to stew in it.

There’s always been something a little slippery about Archer… like he means well, but he’s not always present. Sometimes he gets this look in his eyes, like he’s already somewhere else. Like there’s a whole world spinning behind his smile that he doesn’t want me to see.

I tell myself I’m imagining it, that I’m just being insecure, but sometimes I worry that falling in love with the small-town girl and promising her forever won’t seem as fun or exciting once we’ve both left this town.

“Do you think your dad’s actually going to drive us?” I ask after a minute. “You said he was going to, right?”

Archer laughs again, but it’s a little tight this time. “He said he was. But I mean… you know how he is.”

I do, sort of. I’ve met Reece Blackwood maybe three times.

Once when I snuck into the kitchen for water and he walked in, still wearing a partially wrinkled suit, the jacket slung casually over one arm.

Once at Archer’s graduation, standing stiff and uncomfortable with his hands in his pockets.

And once when Archer introduced me in passing, and his dad looked up from his phone just long enough to nod and say, “Nice to meet you.”

He’s… intimidating.

Not because he’s loud or overbearing, but because he’s quiet in a way that makes you feel like you’re being studied and dismissed at the same time. Not to mention the way Archer always shrinks a little when he’s around.

“Is he still working on that tech thing?” I ask, watching Archer shove socks into the corner of the bag.

He snorts. “Yeah. Blackwood Technologies or whatever. Always something. He’s obsessed with it.”

I nod, even though Archer isn’t looking at me.

Before I can say anything else, we hear the front door open and close downstairs. It’s quiet for a moment, then comes the distinct thud of dress shoes on hardwood.

My stomach tightens automatically. Speak of the brooding devil.

Archer stands up straighter, wiping his hands on his jeans. “He’s home.” The footsteps pause outside the room, then the door creaks open.

Reece Blackwood stands in the doorway, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a phone in one hand. His jaw is tense, eyes scanning the room in a second flat before landing on Archer.

“Hey,” he says. With a brief glance in my direction, he adds, “Skye.”

My throat goes so dry, I am barely able to nod and utter the words, “Hi, Mr. Blackwood.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t come in. He just stands there like he’s about to deliver bad news.

“I have to leave for New York tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped and apologetic in the most superficial way possible. “Meeting with a group of Series A investors. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to drive you up to school.”

Archer stiffens beside me. “Okay.”

“I know I said I would. But this came up, and it’s?—”

“It’s fine,” Archer cuts in, voice flat. He goes back to stuffing socks in his bag, a little more forcefully this time, and it’s obvious it bothers him.

Reece’s gaze lingers on him for a beat too long. Then he nods once. “I’ll have Marie schedule a car service if you need it.”

Archer shrugs. “We’re good. I’ll just take my Jeep like I originally planned.”

Reece briefly looks at me again, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence stretches between us. I wait five seconds. Ten. Then I say quietly, “That kind of sucks.”

Archer grabs the pillow I threw earlier and flops down beside me. “It’s whatever. He’s always like that.”

I study his profile. “You okay?”

He stares at the ceiling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know why I still expect anything different.”

I roll onto my side, inching closer. “He should’ve told you sooner.”

He shrugs again. “He’s busy. Always is.”

And just like that, the subject is closed. But I don’t stop thinking about it. About the way Reece looked at him. About the way Archer’s shoulders tensed like he was trying to take up less space. About the quiet disappointment in his voice that he tried to mask as indifference.

Maybe it’s not my place, but I want to protect him. To love him hard enough that none of it matters. I lean down and press a kiss to his jaw, hoping it’s enough.

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it in the way Archer kisses me. Too quick. Too distracted. Like I’m a task he’s checking off before something else steals his focus.

We used to spend nights tangled up in his twin XL bed, whispering plans for summer internships and spring break getaways and all the things we’d do when we weren’t buried under coursework and chaos.

Now I’m lucky if he texts back within an hour.

He blames his fraternity. His econ classes. His T.A. schedule. “You know how it is,” he says, smiling like it’s normal. Like it’s fine. But it doesn’t feel fine.

It feels like I’m holding my breath every time I see his name light up my phone.

It feels like trying to keep something alive without knowing where the wound is.

And tonight? Tonight feels like a heavy burden that I cannot ignore, no matter how many times my best friend Maya tries to tell me I’m reading into things.

Maya watches me from our dorm bed as I swipe on mascara for the third time. “You sure he’s at the library?”

“He said it’s a group study session,” I say, capping the mascara like I believe my own words. “Econ midterm’s next week.”

She gives me a look but I ignore it. I grab my purse and coat, pretending like I didn’t see the pity in her eyes.

“Text me if you need me,” she calls out as I shut the door behind me.

The walk to the frat house is brutal, cold enough that my nose burns and the wind cuts through my tights. The sidewalk’s wet with slush, and I nearly bust my ass dodging a group of drunk freshmen singing “Mr. Brightside” like it’s still 2005.

I wasn’t planning on going out. But something in my gut told me to.

Maybe it was the text I saw from an unknown number on his phone asking if he was going tonight.

Or maybe it was the way his eyes shifted when he told me he’d be stuck at the library all night.

Either way, my stomach has been a bubbling pit of acid the last few hours and no amount of times I tell myself that he wouldn’t lie to me will convince me tonight.

When I push open the door to Beta Chi, I’m hit with warmth, sweat, and the overwhelming stench of spilled beer and testosterone.

The music is deafening, a loud thumping beat that gives me an instant headache. Lights strobe over too many bodies, and I hate myself for coming the second I step inside. Still, I look for him. I check the couch, the beer pong table, and the kitchen. Nothing.

“Hey,” I say loudly—so loud it hurts my throat and I can still barely hear myself—to a few guys standing by a makeshift bartop. “Have you guys seen Archer Blackwood here tonight?”

They shake their heads and shrug, so I push on.

I head upstairs, taking the narrow staircase two steps at a time.

Maybe he’s actually studying. Maybe they moved the group session here.

Maybe I’m just paranoid because he’s stressed and I’m— Laughter.

Familiar. His. It comes from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. Room 206. I pause, stomach dipping.

Maybe he’s watching something. Maybe his study group is up here. Maybe— A soft moan cuts through the door. High-pitched. Feminine.

I freeze. Then I softly tiptoe closer until my ear is pressed firmly against the door. The music isn’t as loud up here; in fact, it’s almost nonexistent. I hold my breath, and my hand shakes as I reach out and press it against the wood.

Then I hear it… Another laugh. Lower this time. His again. Then a whisper. Skin rustling against fabric. The creak of the mattress. The sound of my heart shattering in real time.

My hand is on the doorknob before I realize what I’m doing. I don’t knock. I open the door. And the world ends… my world ends.

Archer’s shirt is half-open, his jeans unzipped. There’s a girl on top of him. Her blond hair spills over his shoulder like liquid gold. She’s straddling him, her mouth on his neck, her hands digging into his chest.

He looks up. Sees me. And everything stops. His eyes go wide. Her lips freeze on his collarbone.

“Skye,” he says, like my name is a question he wasn’t expecting to ask tonight.

I take one step back. Then another. The hallway tilts. The door slams shut behind me, though I don’t remember touching it. I stumble down the stairs, tears blurring the lights into streaks of neon and shame. Someone calls my name—I think. But I don’t stop. I can’t. I just keep walking.

I don’t stop until I’m outside. Until the cold hits me like a slap and I realize I can’t breathe. I make it back to my dorm on autopilot. Don’t remember how. Don’t care.

By the time I collapse onto my bed, my lungs are heaving and my face is soaked. My fingers are numb and my knees are bleeding from where I slipped on the stairs, but I don’t even feel it.

I curl into myself like maybe if I get small enough, the pain won’t find me. But it does. It always does.

The door creaks open. Then I hear a quiet, familiar voice. “Skye?”

I can’t speak. I just sob.

Maya shuts the door behind her and crawls into bed with me, fully clothed, mascara smudged from wherever she was before this. She doesn’t ask what happened. She already knows.

Instead, she pulls me into her arms like a child and lets me cry until there’s nothing left but shaking. Her hand strokes my hair. Her voice is soft. Steady. “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t believe her. Not yet. But I cling to her anyway. Because love is supposed to be enough. And tonight… I learned it’s not.