Chapter 3 #2
"Jerry? Where are you going? The speeches are starting—"
"Not now," he said, not even slowing down.
He led me out of the ballroom, down a service hallway, and through a heavy oak door.
Silence.
We were on a balcony. It was high up, overlooking the snowy campus. The cold air hit me instantly, biting through my thin shirt, but the adrenaline kept me warm.
Jerry let go of my wrist. He turned to face me, leaning back against the stone railing, crossing his arms over his chest. The moonlight washed him in silver, making him look even more devastatingly handsome.
"Explain," he said.
"Explain what?" I hugged my arms around myself, shivering. "Why your donor friends are perverts? Or why you felt the need to white-knight me and probably get me fired?"
"You're not fired," he said dismissively. "I own the catering company. Or rather, Vane Industries does. I'll make a call."
I stared at him. Of course. Of course he owned the catering company. He probably owned the air I was breathing.
"Must be nice," I muttered, looking away, out at the dark quad. " owning everything."
"Why are you working?" he asked. "You have the greenhouse. You have the rink. Why do you need a third shift?"
"Because life is expensive, Jerry," I snapped. The stress of the email, the eviction, the humiliation—it was all bubbling up, ready to explode. "Because not all of us get handed a black card at birth. Some of us have bills."
"How much?" he asked.
"What?"
"How much do you need?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a checkbook. A literal leather-bound checkbook. "Name the number."
I felt like he had slapped me.
My pride, which was already bruised and battered, roared to life.
"Put that away," I said, my voice trembling with rage. "I don't want your charity."
"It's not charity," he said calmly, opening the book. "It's efficiency. You're tired. You're overworked. You're sloppy when you're tired. It annoys me."
"I am not sloppy!" I shouted. "And I don't care if I annoy you! I care that I'm being evicted in 48 hours because the financial aid office decided to screw me over for $6,500!"
The words hung in the cold air.
I clapped a hand over my mouth. I hadn't meant to say that. I hadn't told anyone. Not even my best friend.
Jerry went still. He slowly closed the checkbook. He tapped it against his palm, his eyes locked on mine.
"Evicted?" he repeated softly.
I looked down at my scuffed shoes. "Yes. Happy? Now you have a fun story to tell Bianca. The poor girl is getting kicked out."
"Look at me," he commanded.
I didn't want to. But the command tugged at my chest, an invisible string pulling my chin up. I looked at him.
He wasn't mocking me. He looked... calculating. Like he was seeing a puzzle piece finally snap into place.
He pushed off the railing and walked toward me. He stopped when he was close enough that I could smell the sandalwood and scotch on him. He crowded my space, blocking out the wind, blocking out the world.
"You need a place to live," he stated.
"I'll figure it out," I whispered.
"You need money," he continued.
"I have two jobs."
"You need protection," he said. His voice dropped an octave. "From men like Henderson."
I laughed bitterly. "I can handle Henderson."
"No," Jerry said. "You can't. You're small. You're soft. And you're alone."
He reached out. His hand hovered near my face, then his knuckles grazed my cheekbone. The touch was electric. It sent a shockwave straight to my toes. I held my breath.
"I have a proposition," he said.
"I'm not sleeping with you for rent," I said quickly, my heart racing.
One corner of his mouth quirked up. "I didn't ask you to."
"Then what?"
He stepped closer. His thigh brushed against mine. The heat of his body was overwhelming.
"I have a problem," Jerry said. "The Dean. The press. My father. They think I'm volatile. They think I'm... cold."
"You are cold," I whispered.
"Exactly," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "But they want me to be warm. They want me to be in love. They want a girlfriend."
My brain short-circuited. "You... you can get a girlfriend. Snap your fingers. Bianca would volunteer."
"Bianca wants to be Mrs. Vane," Jerry said with a sneer. "She wants the empire. I don't want a partner, Heather. I want an employee."
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. His eyes were intense, hypnotic.
"I want you."
I gasped. "Me?"
"You need a home. I have a spare bedroom in the penthouse. You need money. I will pay off your tuition debt and give you a monthly stipend."
"And what do I have to do?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"Live with me," he said. "Cook. Clean. And when we are in public... you belong to me."
My breath hitched. "Belong to you?"
"Hold my hand," he clarified, though his eyes darkened with a different meaning. "Wear my jersey. Sit in my box at games. Smile at the donors. Convince the world that I am a reformed man who is madly in love with the scholarship student."
"Fake dating," I said. It sounded insane. It sounded like the plot of one of the romance novels I hid under my mattress.
"A contract," he corrected. "Six months. Until the draft. Then we part ways. You keep the money. I keep my career."
He stepped back, giving me air, but the space between us still crackled with tension.
"The alternative," he said coolly, "is the street. Or back to Ohio."
I looked at him. I looked at the tuxedo, the arrogance, the outstretched hand of the devil himself.
He was offering me salvation. But I knew, looking into those slate-gray eyes, that the price wasn't just cooking and cleaning.
He was dangerous. He was obsessive.
If I moved in with him... I wasn't sure I would make it out with my heart intact.
But then I thought about the email. 48 hours.
I thought about the cold wind.
I squared my shoulders.
"Does the bedroom have a lock?" I asked.
Jerry’s lips curved into a smile. A real one. It was predatory, sharp, and devastating.
"It does," he said. "But you won't need it."
"Why not?"
He leaned in again, his lips brushing my ear.
"Because if I wanted in, Heather... a lock wouldn't stop me."
He pulled back and extended his hand.
"Do we have a deal?"
I looked at his hand. The large palm, the long fingers, the black band tattoo.
I took a deep breath.
And I placed my hand in his.
"Deal," I whispered.
His fingers closed around mine, engulfing my hand completely. He didn't shake it. He squeezed it. A claim. A seal.
"Good girl," he murmured.
The praise hit me in the chest like a physical blow. My knees went weak.
He didn't let go. He turned, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm, pulling me against his side.
"Now," he said, leading me back toward the door, back toward the lights and the noise and the wolves. "Smile. You're my girlfriend now."
We walked back into the party. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't the invisible server.
I was the center of attention.
Because I was walking with the King.
And I had just sold my soul.