Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Heather
The email sat in my inbox like a unexploded bomb.
SUBJECT: URGENT - Housing Grant Status Update
I hadn't opened it yet. I couldn't.
I was currently standing in the employee bathroom of the Sterling Falls Alumni Hall, staring at my reflection in a mirror that was cleaner than my entire future.
I looked... servile. That was the word. I was wearing the mandatory catering uniform: black slacks that were too big in the waist and too tight in the hips, a white button-down that smelled like industrial starch, and a black bow tie that felt like a chokehold.
Just open it, Hattie. It’s probably just a reminder to sign a form.
But my gut knew better. My gut was currently churning with a cocktail of anxiety and cheap instant coffee.
The "Housing Grant" was the only reason I had a bed.
It was a precarious, delicately balanced financial house of cards that required me to maintain a 3.
8 GPA, work twenty hours a week on campus, and sacrifice a goat to the gods of bureaucracy every full moon.
I took a breath, tapped the screen with a shaking finger, and watched the digital text load.
Dear Ms. Bloom,
We regret to inform you that due to a reallocation of departmental funds and a discrepancy in your work-study filing hours from the previous semester, your room and board stipend has been suspended effective immediately.
You have 48 hours to vacate Dormitory B or remit the full semester payment of $6,500.
The air left the room.
The sound of the faucet dripping seemed to amplify into a deafening roar. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Six. Thousand. Five. Hundred. Dollars.
I had twelve dollars.
I leaned forward, gripping the porcelain sink until my knuckles turned white. My vision blurred at the edges. This was it. The cliff edge I had been dancing on for three years. The ground had finally crumbled.
48 hours.
I was going to be homeless in two days. In the middle of winter. In a town where the average rent for a studio apartment was more than my kidneys were worth on the black market.
"Bloom! Let's go! Champagne needs to be on the floor in five!"
My manager's voice barked through the door, sharp and unsympathetic.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the panic down into a small, hard knot in my stomach. I couldn't cry. Crying ruined mascara, and if my mascara ran, I’d get docked pay for "unprofessional appearance."
I was a cockroach. That’s what I told myself. I was unkillable. I would figure this out. I would sleep in the library. I would sell my eggs. I would...
I didn't know what I would do.
I splashed cold water on my face, patted it dry with a rough paper towel, and slapped on my armor. A smile. A fake, brittle, terrifyingly wide smile.
"Showtime," I whispered to the terrified girl in the mirror.
The "Ice the top button was undone, exposing the hollow of his throat.
He looked like a prince. A dark, brooding, dangerous prince who had just descended from his fortress to survey the peasants.
He wasn't smiling. While everyone around him was laughing and preening, Jerry looked bored. His gray eyes were scanning the room with a predator’s detachment, as if he were calculating the structural integrity of the chandeliers rather than enjoying the party.
Attached to his arm like a barnacle was a girl in a shimmering silver dress.
Bianca St. James. The Dean’s daughter.
She was stunning, in that polished, old-money way that made me feel like a pile of unwashed laundry. Her hand was resting possessively on Jerry’s bicep. She was whispering something in his ear, laughing, tilting her head back to expose her throat.
A hot, irrational spike of acid burned in my chest.
Jealousy?
No. Absolutely not. I wasn't jealous. I was disgusted. I was looking at the physical embodiment of the wealth gap. Jerry Vane could probably buy this entire building with the change in his couch cushions, and I was about to be sleeping on a park bench.
I turned to flee toward the kitchen, my tray trembling slightly.
"Champagne!" a voice boomed.
A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder, stopping me dead.
I froze. I knew that grip. It was wet and hot and belonged to Mr. Henderson, a booster who had donated the new scoreboard and apparently thought that entitled him to touch the staff.
I forced myself to turn around, plastering the smile back on.
"Of course, sir," I said, extending the tray. "Please."
Mr. Henderson was red-faced and swaying slightly. He grabbed a glass, sloshing liquid over the rim onto my hand. It was sticky and cold.
"Aren't you a pretty little thing," he slurred, his eyes dropping to my chest. "Doesn't the university feed you girls? You're all skin and bones."
"I'm quite healthy, thank you, sir," I said, trying to pull away.
He didn't let go of my shoulder. His fingers dug into the muscle. "You know, I have a scholarship fund. Specifically for... needy students. Maybe we could discuss it? There's a private lounge upstairs."
The implication was as subtle as a sledgehammer.
My stomach turned over. Rage, hot and blinding, flared behind my eyes. I wanted to throw the tray in his face. I wanted to scream.
But I needed this job. I needed the tips.
"I'm on shift, sir," I said, my voice tight. "If you'll excuse me—"
"Don't be rude," he snapped, his grip tightening painfully. "I'm talking to you."
Suddenly, a shadow fell over us.
The air temperature seemed to drop. The noise of the party didn't stop, but in our little circle, silence slammed down like a guillotine.
"Mr. Henderson."
The voice was low. Gravelly. It vibrated through the floorboards.
I looked up.
Jerry was there.
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Henderson’s hand on my shoulder. His expression was terrifyingly blank, but his eyes... his eyes were freezing cold fire.
"Jerry!" Henderson boomed, though his smile faltered slightly. "My boy! Great game on Friday. Just... getting to know the help."
"Let go of her," Jerry said.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The command was absolute. It was the tone of a man who was used to having his orders obeyed before he even finished speaking them.
Henderson blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"
"You're touching her," Jerry said. He took a step closer. He loomed over the older man, his height and breadth making Henderson look like a child. "She doesn't like it. And I don't like it."
Henderson’s hand snatched back as if he’d been burned. He laughed nervously, wiping his palm on his pants. "Just a misunderstanding, son. No harm done. She’s... she’s fine."
"Leave," Jerry said.
"Jerry, really, I—"
"Walk away, Henderson," Jerry murmured, leaning down slightly. "Before I tell my father you're harassing the staff again. You know how he feels about liabilities."
Henderson paled. He muttered something incomprehensible and scurried away into the crowd, leaving his half-drunk champagne on a nearby table.
I stood there, clutching my tray, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I looked at Jerry.
He finally looked at me.
His gaze swept over me, taking in the ill-fitting uniform, the sticky champagne on my hand, the terror I was trying to hide.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm not shaking," I lied. My teeth were practically vibrating.
"You are." He reached out.
I flinched back instinctively.
His hand froze in mid-air. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He slowly lowered his hand, his eyes darkening.
"Follow me," he said.
"I can't," I whispered. "I'm working. My manager—"
"I don't care about your manager," he said. "Put the tray down, Heather."
The way he said my name—low, authoritative, possessive—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the stupid, traitorous heat pooling in my belly.
"I can't lose this job, Jerry," I hissed, stepping closer to him so we wouldn't be overheard. "Not everyone has a trust fund. Some of us have to tolerate creepers to pay rent."
Jerry stared at me. He seemed to be reading the subtext in my eyes, seeing the desperation I was trying to mask with anger.
"You won't lose the job," he said. "Give me the tray."
He didn't wait for permission. He reached out and took the silver tray from my hands. He placed it on a passing waiter’s empty cart without even looking at the guy.
Then, he grabbed my wrist.
His grip was firm, but unlike Henderson’s, it wasn't painful. His thumb rubbed a slow, calming circle against my pulse point. His skin was warm. Rough.
"Come with me," he said.
And God help me, I went.
He dragged me through the crowd, his body acting as a shield. People parted for him. Bianca tried to intercept us near the bar, her smile faltering when she saw his hand on my wrist.