Chapter 19
Carrington Row - Wexley University
Carrington Row isn’t just a dorm. It’s an entire kingdom.
Three massive modern mansions curved into a sleek horseshoe claiming an entire city block like glass and stone royalty.
At the center stands the main house—bigger, bolder, built like a fortress.
It’s home to the football and basketball elite where captains like Cal and August rule with muscle, money, and magnetic power.
To the north sits the athlete overflow, housing star recruits and future draft picks in waiting. To the south, the Cash House pulses with trust fund prodigies and hedge fund heirs like Knox.
Between them sprawls the courtyard. Polished stone walkways, a huge stage, crimson cabanas, and a black-tiled pool that glows like liquid obsidian. A built-in marble bar lines the edge, and stadium seating wraps around like a private amphitheater.
At night, The Row doesn’t just throw parties, it becomes a private club pulsing with bass and booze. And behind the DJ booth, Knox rules like a warlord, controlling the music, the lights, and the crowd.
The bass rattles through the foundation, lights low and golden. Top-shelf whiskey pours like water. Imported tequila chills on ice sculptures carved with The Order’s crest. A margarita bar glitters under Edison bulbs while trays of glowing shots balances on golden platters.
Javi and Rico stand near Knox at the DJ booth, dressed in all black like the fashion-forward gods of backstage chaos.
Javi has that no-bullshit stance, arms crossed, headset on, hair slicked back.
Beside him, Rico looks like he belongs on a Milan runway, tight black tee, tailored pants, silver rings flashing as he waves at Knox about light cues and skirt angles.
“You know what to do,” Javi says, voice sharp. “Start the night with a fucking explosion.”
Done.
Knox cuts the music and grabs his mic, voice low and smug. The blue back light catching the sharp edge of his jaw and the glint of the silver hoop in his brow.
“Ladies. Gentlemen,” he drawls out. “Please… take your seats.”
A few guys whistle. Most just freeze.
“Wexley’s finest are about to lose their minds. Give it up for the hottest Wolves in the building, The Trifecta!”
Lights cut. Bass drops. Music booms. We step out. Me. Ellie. Haley. All three of us in oversized Wexley football jerseys, numbers barely covering what’s underneath. Hair down. Eyes locked. Heels high.
The crowd roars.
Three gold-trimmed thrones sit center stage, already occupied. Cal in the middle. His legs are spread, jaw tight, smirk cocky. To his left, August. To his right, the tight end, Jalen. All shirtless. All grinning from ear to ear.
On the first beat, we stop in front of the guys. The next beat, the jerseys hit the floor. Underneath is a Rico special: custom black two-piece sets, lingerie reimagined for war. Lace clinging to curves, high-cut and scandalous. Under strobes the fabric shimmers like smoke and shadow.
Then we move.
Three girls.
Three chairs.
One routine.
We circle the chairs, fingertips gliding and teasing.
One beat.
Two.
Straddle.
My knees frame Cal’s thighs as I sink into his lap. My hips roll with precision, hands sliding up his chest. I don’t break eye contact. His hazel eyes track every move. He tries to stay cool, but fails miserably.
My fingers ghost down his chest. I lean in, lips near his jaw but not touching. Then roll again, deep, slow, and steady. Cal’s grip tightens on the chair. Then I feel it, Callum Whitmore is hard as hell underneath me.
Ellie teases August with sugar-sweet precision. Haley rocks Jalen like a storm in heels.
Three bodies in perfect sync. Arched backs. Parted lips.
Final beat.
Freeze.
One inhale.
Then we turn and walk away like we hadn’t just set the place on fire as the applause explodes.
We change fast. Heels kicked off, lashes adjusted, and lace swapped. Ellie adds glitter. Haley throws on a blazer with nothing underneath. I go with a black crop top and a leather mini.
We make it back down just as Knox’s backup DJ drops a remix and the crowd surges.
“Trifecta,” a voice smooth, smug, unmistakably amused. I turn. Cal strolls up, drink in hand with an arm around a Barbie in pink.
“Hell of a performance,” he says, gaze still lingering. “I used to think The Order ran this place. But after that? I’m starting to think we’re just the warm-up act.”
Haley scoffs. “You finally caught up.”
Ellie bats her lashes. “That chair okay, bro? It looked like it survived something biblical.”
August steps in, sun-kissed curls, mischievous eyes, and charm for days. “If that routine was meant to intimidate, then it worked.”
“Good,” I say. “Then we choreographed it right.”
Cal chuckles. “Careful, Bells. Keep moving like that and someone might think you’re dangerous.”
I lean in, close enough to draw a glare from Barbie. “Oh sweetheart, I am dangerous. You just don’t know how to handle it.”
Before he can reply, Javi swoops in. “?Dios mío, cabronas!” he screeches, pulling us into a group hug. “That was art. Pure, filthy art. I want this energy bottled and sold.”
Knox follows, phone raised. “Already posted. Over two thousand likes already.”
Ellie gasps. “You icon.”
“Truly,” Javi says. “If Wexley doesn’t frame this moment in gold, I swear I’m defecting to USC.” He pulls Rico toward the exit. “See you divas tomorrow.”
Haley beams. “Alright, bitches. Let’s get a drink.”
Ellie nods. “Tequila. Now.”
We head to the marble bar. As they order, a tall, blonde guy in a crimson polo steps up behind me.
“Hell of a dance.”
I turn. Blue eyes. Cute. Clean-cut. Preppy. Probably a tennis player or maybe basketball.
“I’m Wes,” he says, flashing an easy smile. “Starting forward for the Wolves. You’re Bella, right? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Didn’t know that The Legacy danced like that.”
I smirk. “The Legacy doesn’t. The Trifecta does.”
He leans in. “So… what do you think of Carrington Row so far?”
“It’s—”
“THIS IS OUR SONG!” Ellie shrieks, yanking me away.
Wes blinks, amused.
I shrug, grinning. “Guess I’ll have to tell you later.”
He smiles back. “I’ll hold you to it.”