Chapter 6
Imogen
Humiliation has a texture.
It’s gritty, like charcoal dust trapped under your fingernails. It’s heavy, like a wet wool coat you can’t take off. And it’s loud—a high-pitched frequency that whines in your ears, drowning out everything else.
I was currently sitting in the deepest, darkest corner of the University Library, buried behind a fortress of Art History textbooks, vibrating with it.
I want you. Please, Max. Touch me.
I groaned, dropping my forehead onto the open page of Janson’s History of Art. The paper smelled like old glue and despair.
I had begged. I had literally begged. I, Imogen Sterling, the girl who had once walked a runway in Milan during a gap year I didn't finish, the girl who had a reputation for breaking hearts before breakfast, had begged a man to take her virginity against a hallway wall.
And he had said no.
Because I was incompetent. Because I was tight. Because I was... un-navigated.
I squeezed my eyes shut, replaying the moment for the thousandth time in the last twelve hours. The feel of his calloused hand. The heat of his body pressing me into the drywall. The absolute, earth-shattering shock of his finger sliding inside me.
And then the stop. The retreat. The "Good Girl" turned into a "Go to your room."
I wasn't a Good Girl. I was a fraud.
I had spent three years at Blackwood curating the perfect persona.
The Brat. The Party Girl. The Dean's Nightmare. I wore sheer dresses and danced on tables because it made people look at me, but it also kept them away. If you’re loud enough, no one notices you’re shaking.
If you’re fast enough, no one realizes you’ve never let anyone cross the finish line.
Max Vane hadn't just crossed the line. He had erased it. He had walked right through my defenses, looked at the terrified little girl hiding behind the sequins, and decided she needed a hug and a glass of water instead of a fucking.
"You're doing it again."
I snapped my head up. Chloe was standing over me, holding two iced coffees. She looked impeccable in a tweed blazer, her dark hair sharp enough to cut glass.
"Doing what?" I asked, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat. "I'm studying. Look. Flashcards. Dates. The Renaissance."
"You're hyperventilating," Chloe corrected, sliding into the chair opposite me. She pushed one of the coffees toward me. "And you're staring at a painting of a naked cherub with an expression that suggests you want to murder it."
I took the coffee, wrapping my hands around the cold plastic. "Cherubs are creepy. They're babies with weapons. It’s unnatural."
Chloe narrowed her eyes behind her glasses. She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the table.
"Spill, Imogen. You've been living in The Cage for five days. You haven't posted on Instagram. You haven't bought shoes. And now, I find you in the library, voluntarily, at 11:00 AM on a Tuesday."
She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Did he kill you? Is this your ghost?"
"I wish," I muttered, taking a long sip of the caffeine. "If I were a ghost, I wouldn't have to take this exam on Friday."
"Is he... strict?" Chloe asked, a salacious glint in her eye. "The rumors are wild, Im. People are saying he has you on a leash."
I choked on my coffee. "No one is on a leash!"
Yet, a traitorous voice in my head whispered. You wanted to be.
"He's just... organized," I lied, wiping my mouth. "He makes schedules. He eats protein bars that taste like sawdust. He vacuums in straight lines. It’s boring, Chlo. It’s terminally boring."
"Boring," she repeated, skeptical. "Max Vane. The guy who looks like he snaps necks for a warm-up. Boring."
"Yes." I forced a laugh. It sounded tinny. "He's basically a Roomba with abs."
Chloe studied me for a long moment. She saw the flush high on my cheeks. She saw the way I was picking at the label of the coffee cup until it shredded.
"You like him," she accused.
"I do not," I hissed. "I hate him. He's my jailer. He's a narc. He's doing this for a recommendation letter."
"Uh-huh." Chloe sat back, crossing her arms. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Just be careful, Im. Vane isn't like the frat boys you chew up and spit out. He’s heavy machinery. If you play chicken with a tank, you're going to get flattened."
I looked down at my textbook. The words swam before my eyes.
I'm afraid I'll break you.
"I know," I whispered. "I know."
I managed to survive two hours of studying without screaming, mostly because Max had installed a tracking app on my phone and I knew he was checking it. The little blue dot on his screen was my tether.
At 1:00 PM, my stomach growled loud enough to offend the librarian.
I packed up my things, shoving the flashcards Max had made me into my tote bag. I felt a weird surge of affection for the index cards. His handwriting was precise, all caps, block letters. MANET: IMPRESSIONISM. OLYMPIA. 1863. Even his handwriting was shouting orders at me.
I walked out of the library and into the biting cold of the afternoon. The campus was busy. Students rushed between buildings, heads down against the wind.
I headed toward the Student Union for food. I needed carbs. I needed a bagel the size of my head.
The Union was a chaotic roar of noise. Clattering trays, shouting students, the hiss of espresso machines. It smelled of grease and overly sweet muffins.
I got in line at the bagel station, scrolling through my phone to avoid eye contact with anyone who might ask about the Gala Incident.
"Sterling."
The voice came from behind me. Deep. Resonant.
My spine stiffened. My nipples, traitors that they were, hardened instantly against the fabric of my sweater.
I turned around slowly.
Max was standing there. He was wearing his team gear—black track pants, black hoodie, a beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looked massive. He took up space in a way that made the air around him feel thinner.
He wasn't alone. He was flanked by three of his teammates, including Jinx, and two girls from the volleyball team who were looking at him like he was the last glass of water in the desert.
But Max wasn't looking at the volleyball girls. He was looking at me.
His slate eyes swept over me, checking for... what? Injuries? Distress? Compliance?
"Hi," I said, clutching my tote bag like a shield.
"You were at the library," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I was," I said. "Checking the box. Earning my keep."
The volleyball girls whispered something to each other, giggling. One of them, a tall brunette, touched Max’s arm. "Max, are we still on for the study group tonight?"
Max didn't even look at her. He stepped closer to me, ignoring the hand on his bicep until the girl awkwardly pulled it away.
He stopped inches from me. The crowd seemed to fade into a blur of background noise. It was just the smell of him—sandalwood and cold air—and the heat radiating off his body.
"Did you eat?" he asked.
"I'm in line," I pointed to the bagel counter. "I'm capable of feeding myself, Warden. I've been doing it for years."
"Bagels are empty carbs," he muttered. "You need protein. Your brain needs fuel if you're going to retain the Renaissance."
He reached into the front pocket of his hoodie.
My breath hitched. For a wild, insane second, I thought he was going to pull out a ring. Or a weapon. Or maybe just grab me and kiss me in front of the entire Student Union.
He pulled out a plastic-wrapped bar. Chocolate peanut butter.
He took my hand, pried my fingers open, and pressed the bar into my palm. His skin was warm. rough. The friction sent a shockwave up my arm that settled heavy and hot in my stomach.
"Eat this while you wait," he said.
"I hate these," I whispered, staring at his chest. "They taste like sadness."
"They taste like discipline," he corrected.
He leaned in. He got so close that his breath brushed my ear, hidden under my hair. To anyone watching, it might have looked like a casual exchange. But the intimacy was suffocating.
"We need to talk about last night," he murmured.
I flinched. "No. We really, really don't."
"We do," he insisted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my bones. "But not here. Tonight. After practice. Be home. 6:00 PM."
"Or what?" I tried to summon the Brat, but she was hiding. "You'll ground me?"
Max pulled back. His eyes were dark, swirling with that secret knowledge. He knew what I looked like falling apart. He knew what I sounded like when I begged.
"I'll cook," he said simply.
He turned to his teammates, barking a command. "Let's go. We have film in ten."
He walked away without looking back, the Red Sea of students parting for him.
I stood there, clutching the protein bar, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Jinx lingered for a second, looking between Max’s retreating back and my flushed face. He raised an eyebrow.
"You guys are weird," Jinx said. "It's like watching a nature documentary where the lion and the gazelle are... discussing taxes."
"Go away, Jinx," I said weakly.
"Going," he saluted. "Eat your sadness bar, Immy."
I watched them leave. I looked down at the bar in my hand.
He had carried it for me. He had sought me out. He had ignored the volleyball girls.
I tore open the wrapper and took a bite. It tasted like chalk.
It was the best thing I had ever eaten.
By 6:00 PM, my anxiety had evolved into a full-blown existential crisis.
I was back at the apartment—The Cage. I had showered, scrubbing my skin until it was pink, trying to wash off the weird mix of shame and longing. I had changed three times.
First, sweatpants. Too casual. It said, "I don't care," which was a lie.
Second, a dress. Too formal. It said, "I'm trying to seduce you," which was true, but pathetic given the circumstances.
Third, jeans and a soft, oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder. The Goldilocks zone.
I was sitting on the kitchen counter—my new favorite perch—pretending to read my notes when the front door unlocked.
Max walked in.