Chapter 2
Amara
The silence in the Sterling Penthouse wasn’t peaceful; it was judgmental.
I woke up with a gasp, my lungs seizing as if I’d been submerged in ice water.
For a split second—that blissful, hazy moment between dreams and consciousness—I forgot.
I forgot that my bank accounts were frozen.
I forgot that my father had effectively disowned me via text message.
I forgot that I was currently squatting in the luxury apartment of a man who looked at me like I was a bacterial infection he couldn’t quite scrub off his floor tiles.
Then, the smell hit me.
Not the comforting, cluttered scent of my own townhouse—vanilla candles, dry shampoo, and the lingering aroma of whatever takeout I’d forgotten to throw away. No. This room smelled like nothing. It smelled like sterilized air, crisp linen, and the aggressive absence of humanity.
I sat up, the duvet pooling around my waist. It was heavy, weighted, probably Egyptian cotton with a thread count high enough to pay my tuition. The guest room was grey. Grey walls, grey carpet, grey blackout curtains that were currently drawn tight against the world.
“Take off the coat. And hang it up. Properly.”
Ezra’s voice echoed in my head, a low, rumble of command that had made my knees traitorously weak last night.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “You are pathetic, Amara. You are absolutely, historically pathetic.”
I had agreed. I had actually agreed to his insane, BDSM-adjacent roommate proposal because the alternative was sleeping in a snowbank or calling my mother, which was essentially the same thing, only the snowbank was warmer.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand.
10:14 AM.
The blizzard was still raging. I could hear the wind howling against the glass, a distant, muffled roar that made the silence inside the apartment feel even heavier.
I had three missed texts from Jules.
Jules: Hey, did you survive the night? The snow is insane. Power is out in the dorms.
Jules: Are you at your place? Can I come crash? My room is freezing.
Jules: Amara? Hello? Don't tell me you're sleeping until noon again.
Guilt, sharp and acidic, pricked at my chest. Jules was my best friend.
Jules was the only person at Blackwood who liked me for me, not for the Vane family name or the access to VIP tables.
If I told her I was here, at The Sterling Heights, she would lose her mind.
She would assume I was sleeping with the enemy.
And if I told her I was broke? If I told her the "Rich Bitch" armor had been stripped away and there was nothing underneath but a scared little girl who didn’t know how to do laundry?
I couldn’t. I physically couldn’t do it. My pride was the only currency I had left.
I tapped out a reply, my thumbs flying over the screen.
Me: Hey! Sorry, signal is weird. I’m actually at… a spa thing. Out of town. Got stuck here before the storm hit. Heated floors, cucumber water, the works. I’ll Venmo you for a hotel room if the dorms are too cold!
I hit send, then immediately winced. I’ll Venmo you.
I couldn’t Venmo anyone. I couldn’t even buy a pack of gum.
The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. I tossed the phone onto the mattress and dragged myself out of bed.
I was still wearing the leggings and cashmere sweater I’d had on yesterday, though they felt crumpled and gross now.
I needed a shower. I needed coffee. I needed to figure out how to exist in this sterile glass cage without provoking the beast.
I cracked the bedroom door open and peered into the hallway.
Empty.
The hallway was a study in minimalism. Black slate floors, white walls, and a single piece of abstract art that looked like a violent slash of red paint on a black canvas. It was unsettling. It looked like anger contained in a frame.
“Hello?” I whispered.
No answer.
I crept down the hall toward the main living area, my socks sliding silently on the cold floor.
The living room was just as empty as the hallway.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were a wall of white.
You couldn’t see the campus, or the sky, or the mountains.
Just swirling, violent snow. We were suspended in a void.
I hugged my arms around myself. It was freezing in here. Ezra wasn’t kidding about the temperature. It felt like a meat locker.
“Coffee,” I muttered. “Find coffee, then panic.”
The kitchen was a chef’s dream and my nightmare.
It was massive, all black marble and stainless steel.
There wasn’t a crumb on the counter. There wasn’t a dish in the sink.
It looked like a showroom. I opened a cupboard.
Perfectly stacked white plates. I opened another.
Identical rows of protein powder, supplements, and oatmeal.
“God, he’s a robot,” I whispered, opening the fridge.
Inside: Eggs. Chicken breast (pre-portioned in Tupperware). Spinach. Water. More water. And a single bottle of very expensive champagne.
“Who lives like this?” I asked the spinach. “Where are the snacks? Where is the joy?”
I finally found a coffee machine—a sleek, chrome monstrosity that looked like it required a PhD to operate. It had more buttons than my car. I stared at it, baffled. There was a grinder on top, a steam wand on the side, and a digital display that was currently flashing READY.
“Okay,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “I can do this. I designed a collection for Fashion Week. I can operate a bean juicer.”
I found a bag of beans in the freezer. I poured them in. I pressed a button that looked like a cup.
The machine roared to life. It sounded like a jet engine.
Whirrrrrr-GRIND-GRIND-GRIND.
I jumped back, heart hammering. Steam hissed from the side. Dark liquid started dripping—not into the cup I hadn’t placed yet, but directly onto the pristine silver drip tray.
“Shit!”
I scrambled to find a mug. I yanked open drawers—cutlery, towels, whisks—where were the damn mugs?
The coffee was spilling over the tray now, pooling onto the black marble counter. Hot, dark liquid spreading like an oil spill.
“Stop!” I hit the button again. It didn't stop. It just hissed louder.
I finally found a mug in a cabinet above the sink. I stood on my tiptoes, stretching to reach it—my sweater riding up, exposing my midriff to the freezing air—and grabbed the handle.
I spun around, slamming the mug under the stream, but I was too late. The machine sputtered and died just as I got the cup in place.
The counter was a disaster. Puddles of coffee. Wet grounds splattered on the stainless steel backsplash.
And standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, was Ezra.
I froze.
I hadn’t heard him. He moved like a ghost. A very large, very angry ghost.
He was wearing a black Henley shirt that hugged his chest tight enough to show the definition of his pecs, and grey joggers. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead. He was holding a tablet in one hand, but his eyes weren’t on the screen.
They were on the coffee puddle.
Then they moved to the grounds on the wall.
Then, finally, they landed on me.
He didn't yell. He didn't sigh. He just stared, his expression completely unreadable, which was somehow infinitely worse than if he had screamed.
“Good morning,” I squeaked. My voice was an octave too high.
I cleared my throat and tried to summon the Vane bravado.
I tossed my hair back, striking a pose that I hoped looked nonchalant and not terrified.
“Your machine is temperamental. You should really get a Keurig. It’s much more user-friendly. ”
Ezra looked at the machine. Then he looked at me.
“It’s a three-thousand-dollar espresso machine, Amara,” he said. His voice was rough, like gravel tumbling down a hill. “It requires intelligence to operate, not just button-mashing.”
He walked into the kitchen. The space instantly felt smaller. He was so big. It wasn't just his height; it was the density of him. He occupied space with an arrogance that made me want to shrink into the cabinets.
He stopped in front of the mess. He ran a finger through the spilled coffee on the counter, then held his finger up, inspecting the dark liquid.
“Rule Number Two,” he said softly.
My stomach did a little flip. “I… I didn’t know the rules were numbered.”
“Rule Number One was obedience,” he said, not looking at me. He grabbed a cloth from a drawer I hadn’t checked. “Rule Number Two: Respect the space. This—” He gestured to the puddle. “—is disrespect.”
“It was an accident!” I protested, clutching the empty mug to my chest like a shield. “I just wanted coffee. I didn’t mean to create a… a hazmat situation.”
He turned to face me. He was close. Too close. I could smell him—clean soap, fresh rain, and that underlying scent of sandalwood. It was intoxicating and infuriating.
“You don’t pay attention,” he said. He tossed the cloth onto the counter. “Clean it up.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Clean. It. Up.” He articulated every word. “You made the mess. You fix it.”
My spine stiffened. I was Amara Vane. I had people who cleaned up for me. I had people who made my coffee. I didn’t scrub counters.
“I’m a guest,” I said, lifting my chin. “And you’re being a host-zilla. It’s just coffee, Ezra. Don’t have a stroke.”
Ezra’s eyes narrowed. The blue darkened, shifting from ice to deep ocean. He took a step toward me, and my bravado faltered. I backed up until my hips hit the edge of the sink.
He placed his hands on the counter on either side of me, trapping me.
My breath hitched.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of silver in his irises. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, contrasting sharply with the freezing air in the room.
“You are not a guest,” he murmured. His voice dropped to a whisper that vibrated through my bones. “Guests are invited. Guests leave when the party is over. You are a refugee. You are here because I am allowing you to be here. And the condition of that allowance is that you follow my protocol.”