Chapter 2
Imogen
Regret tastes like stale peppermint and expensive vodka.
It sat on the back of my tongue, a fuzzy, coating sensation that made me want to scrub my mouth out with steel wool.
I opened one eye, and the world immediately punished me for it.
A beam of winter sunlight was slicing through the gap in the curtains, hitting me directly in the retina like a laser aimed by a vengeful god.
I groaned, rolling over and pulling the duvet over my head. The movement made my brain slosh inside my skull. It felt like my gray matter had shrunk two sizes and was now rattling around loose, bruising itself against the bone every time I breathed.
"Oh, look. The Princess rises from the dead."
The voice was dry, acerbic, and entirely too loud. Chloe.
I peeked out from under the blanket. My roommate was sitting at her desk, surrounded by chemistry textbooks and molecular models that looked like aggressive children's toys. She was wearing her 'I'm smarter than you' glasses and sipping black coffee from a mug that said Tears of my Enemies.
"Is it noon?" I rasped. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling gravel.
"It's nine a.m.," Chloe said, not looking up from her notes. "But considering you climbed a frozen apex predator last night, I'm surprised you're awake at all. Usually, hibernation lasts longer."
I squeezed my eyes shut, the memory of the Gala crashing down on me in a jagged, humiliating montage. The sequin dress. The champagne. The ice bear. The feeling of invincibility that always, always turned out to be a lie.
And then... him.
Maxwell Vane.
The memory of him was sharper than the headache.
I could still feel the phantom pressure of his arm hooked under my knees, the unyielding wall of his chest against my cheek.
I remembered the way the ballroom had blurred as he carried me out, not like a damsel, but like a piece of luggage he was checking at the airport.
But mostly, I remembered the snow. The shock of the cold on my ass when he dropped me. And the look in his eyes.
Don't tempt me, Princess.
A shiver went through me that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. It started in my toes and curled low in my belly, a heavy, liquid heat that made me press my thighs together under the sheets.
I hated him. I hated his stoicism. I hated that he was the size of a monument and twice as hard.
I hated that he had looked at me—Imogen Sterling, the girl who could bring a frat party to its knees with a single smile—with absolute, crushing boredom.
Until he didn't. Until that last second in the snow, when the boredom had cracked and shown something dark and hungry underneath.
"Stop thinking about him," Chloe said.
I sat up too fast, clutching my temples as the room spun. "I'm not thinking about anyone. I'm thinking about death. Sweet, silent death."
"You're blushing," she pointed out, finally swiveling her chair to face me. "You look like a tomato that's been left out in the sun. It’s Vane, isn't it? The campus is buzzing. 'Dean’s Daughter Tamed by the Warden.' It’s trending on YikYak."
"I was not tamed," I snapped, throwing a pillow at her. It landed pitifully short. "I was assaulted. He dropped me in a snowbank, Chloe. In a blizzard. That's negligence. I could sue."
"He carried you out before you cracked your skull open on the marble," Chloe countered, retrieving the pillow. "And let's be real, Im. You were putting on a show. You always put on a show when your dad is in the room."
The air left my lungs. Chloe was the only person at Blackwood who saw through the glitter. She knew the "Brat" was just armor. She knew that if I was loud enough, expensive enough, and chaotic enough, maybe my father would actually look at me instead of through me.
"He didn't even yell," I whispered, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. "My dad. He just... turned away."
"Well," Chloe said, her voice softening just a fraction. "He's not turning away now."
She picked up a cream-colored envelope from her desk and tossed it onto my bed. It landed with a heavy, ominous thud.
It was official University stationery. The paper was thick, textured stock—Crane’s 100% cotton, if I had to guess. Embossed with the Blackwood seal in gold foil.
I stared at it. It looked like a death warrant.
"A courier dropped it off ten minutes ago," Chloe said. "You've been summoned to the High Tower."
I reached for the envelope, my hand trembling slightly. It wasn't the alcohol shakes. It was the Pavlovian response I had developed over twenty-one years of being Richard Sterling’s disappointment.
I tore it open.
Imogen,
My office. 10:00 AM. Sharp.
Do not be late.
- Dean Sterling
No 'Love, Dad.' No 'Hope you're okay.' Just a command.
I checked the clock on my phone. 9:15 AM.
"I have to go," I muttered, scrambling out of bed. My legs felt like jelly.
"Wear something modest," Chloe advised, turning back to her chemistry. "And for the love of god, Imogen, don't flirt with anyone on the way there. You're already on thin ice."
"It melted," I said grimly, heading for the shower. "The ice melted the second I touched it."
The campus of Blackwood University was designed to make you feel small.
That was the only explanation for the architecture. It was all Gothic revival—soaring stone arches, gargoyles leering down from rain gutters, and buildings that looked more like medieval fortresses than places of learning. It screamed old money, tradition, and exclusion.
It was a beautiful, freezing morning. The storm had passed, leaving the world coated in a pristine, blinding white blanket.
Students were tramping through the cleared paths, their breath puffing in the air like dragon smoke.
They moved in packs, wearing Canada Goose jackets and carrying coffees that cost more than the minimum wage.
I walked alone.
I had chosen my armor carefully. A black turtleneck dress that covered me from chin to wrists, opaque tights, and heavy combat boots. I covered my eyes with oversized sunglasses, shielding the hangover and the fear. I had pulled my platinum hair back into a severe, tight bun.
I looked like I was going to a funeral. In a way, I was.
As I walked past the Fine Arts building, my chest gave a familiar, painful squeeze. I slowed down, my gaze lingering on the studio windows on the second floor. I could see easels, canvases, the chaotic splash of color.
That was where I belonged. In the mess. In the charcoal dust and the smell of turpentine.
But Richard Sterling didn't pay for art degrees. He paid for Law. He paid for connections. He paid for a daughter who would marry a Senator, not a girl who wanted to spend her life with graphite stained permanently into her cuticles.
Focus, Imogen.
I forced myself to look away, marching toward the Administration Building. The "Ivory Tower."
My stomach twisted. What was the punishment going to be this time? Cutting off my credit cards? That was his go-to move. I had a stash of cash hidden in a shoebox for that exact scenario. Suspension? That would actually be a relief.
But something about the gala felt different. It wasn't just the embarrassment. It was the public nature of it. The donors had seen. The Board had seen.
And Max Vane had seen.
Why couldn't I get him out of my head? It was infuriating. I had met plenty of hot hockey players. My brother was the Captain, for god's sake; our house in the summers was like a revolving door of abs and egos. They were all the same. Loud, entitled, grasping.
Max was... silent. He was a void. A black hole that absorbed light and sound.
I remembered the way he had stood over me in the snow. He hadn't tried to charm me. He hadn't tried to sleep with me. He had looked at me like I was a math problem he had already solved and found boring.
You're a brat who thinks negative attention is better than no attention.
The accuracy of the insult stung more than the cold air.
I reached the Administration Building. The heavy brass doors were polished to a mirror shine. I caught my reflection—pale, small, trembling.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my sunglasses, and pushed inside.
The Dean’s office was designed to intimidate.
It was a cavernous room paneled in dark mahogany that smelled of lemon polish and fear. The carpet was a Persian rug that probably cost more than my car. One wall was entirely glass, overlooking the snowy quad, positioning my father as the literal overlord of the campus.
I walked past the secretary, Mrs. Higgins, who gave me a look of pity that made me want to scream.
"He's expecting you, Imogen."
I opened the heavy double doors and stepped inside.
My father was sitting behind his desk. It was a massive slab of oak, completely clear of clutter except for a single file folder. He didn't look up when I entered. He was writing something with a fountain pen, the scratch-scratch sound amplifying the silence in the room.
"Sit," he said. Not a request.
I sat in one of the leather armchairs opposite him. The leather was cold and slippery. I crossed my legs, trying to stop my foot from tapping.
"Dad, look, about last night—" I started, my voice sounding thin.
"Dean Sterling," he corrected, finally looking up.
His eyes were the same hazel as mine, but where mine were usually wide and expressive, his were hard and flat. He looked at me with the same expression he used when reviewing budget cuts.
"Last night," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "was the final straw, Imogen. You climbed an ice sculpture. You flashed the Board of Trustees. You were visibly intoxicated."
"I slipped," I lied. "And the dress was high-fashion. It wasn't flashing."
"You are twenty-one years old," he continued, ignoring me. "You are failing two classes. Your GPA is a 2.1. And now, you have become a liability to the university's reputation during the most critical fundraising quarter of the decade."
I bit the inside of my cheek. "So? Cut off my allowance. Take the car. We both know the drill."