Chapter 6
Amara
My hands were shaking.
For a fashion design major specializing in couture construction, shaking hands were a professional liability. You couldn't sew a straight hem on slippery silk charmeuse if your fingers were vibrating like they’d just been plugged into a socket.
I sat at my designated workstation in the studio, surrounded by the chaotic debris of creativity—swatches of velvet, spools of thread, sketches that looked like fever dreams—and stared at the needle of my sewing machine.
I threaded it. I missed the eye.
I threaded it again. I missed again.
"Dammit," I hissed, dropping the thread and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.
It had been three days.
Seventy-two hours since the window. Since the game. Since Ezra Sterling, the man I was contractually obligated to tolerate, had put his hands on me and completely rewritten the neural pathways of my brain.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
It wasn't just the orgasm. Though, to be fair, that was a significant factor. It was a biological event that I was fairly certain had rearranged my internal organs. But it was the way he had done it.
The control. The absolute, terrifying focus.
Ezra didn't fumble. He didn't ask awkward questions. He approached my body the same way he approached a defensive line or a spreadsheet: he analyzed the weak points, applied the necessary pressure, and executed the play until he got the result he wanted.
And the result was me, shattered and sobbing his name against a cold glass pane forty stories above the ground.
I shivered, a hot flush creeping up my neck that had nothing to do with the studio’s radiator, which was clanking noisily in the corner.
“You passed.”
His voice echoed in my head, low and rough.
I picked up the thread again, forcing my breathing to slow. Inhale. Exhale. Stitch.
I was supposed to be working on my collection.
Thanks to Ezra’s "investment"—a term that made me feel like a start-up company he was acquiring—I had the materials.
A bolt of oxblood leather and three yards of silver silk lay on the table, waiting to be transformed into something that would prove I wasn't just a spoiled brat with a sketchbook.
But every time I touched the leather, I thought of his car. I thought of his sofa. I thought of the way his hands felt—calloused, heavy, possessive.
“You look like you’re trying to murder that fabric.”
I jumped, dropping the needle. It pricked my finger, and a tiny bead of red bloomed instantly on my skin.
“Ouch!” I stuck my finger in my mouth, tasting copper, and spun around on my stool.
Jules was standing there, leaning against a mannequin draped in burlap. She was wearing paint-splattered overalls and holding two coffees. Her purple hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyes were narrowed in suspicion.
“Jumping at shadows, Vane?” she asked, handing me one of the cups. “You’ve been weird all week. And by weird, I mean you’ve actually been on time to class, you’ve done the reading, and you haven’t complained about the cafeteria sushi once.”
I took the coffee, wrapping my cold hands around the cardboard sleeve. “I’m turning over a new leaf. It’s called ‘Panic-Induced Responsibility.’”
“Uh-huh.” Jules dragged a stool over and sat down, staring at me. “And does this new leaf involve disappearing every night to a ‘spa’ that doesn't exist?”
My stomach twisted. I hated lying to her. Jules was the only person who knew I ate Kraft Mac & Cheese straight from the pot when I was sad.
“I told you,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I’m staying at a… friend’s place. Off campus. Until I sort out the rent situation.”
“Which friend?” Jules pressed. “Because I asked Leo, and he said you were staying with a ‘Study Group.’ Since when do study groups have sleepovers?”
“It’s an immersion program,” I lied smoothly. “Very intense. Lots of… late nights.”
Jules took a sip of her coffee, her gaze dropping to the high collar of my turtleneck. I had worn it specifically to hide the faint, purpling bruise on the side of my neck where Ezra had bitten me during the… lesson.
“Right,” she said slowly. “Immersion. Is that what we’re calling it now?”
She leaned in, lowering her voice.
“Amara, you’re glowing. You have that look. The look you get when you’ve found a new pair of shoes you can’t afford, or when you’ve met a guy who’s going to ruin your life. Which is it?”
I choked on my latte.
“I am not glowing,” I sputtered, wiping my mouth. “I’m stressed. This is the sheen of academic terror.”
“You’re wearing a jersey to class,” she pointed out.
I looked down. I was still wearing Ezra’s jersey. I had slept in it. I had woken up in it. Ezra had left for morning practice before I got up, leaving a note on the counter that just said: 1800 Hours. Dinner. Be ready.
I hadn’t wanted to take it off. It smelled like him. It felt like a shield.
“It’s laundry day,” I defended weakly.
“It’s a Sterling jersey,” Jules said, raising an eyebrow. “Number 19. Since when do you wear the Captain’s number? You hate him. You called him a ‘sentient block of ice’ last week.”
“I lost a bet,” I said quickly. “With Leo. I have to wear it until we beat BU.”
“We beat BU three days ago, Amara.”
I froze.
Damn it.
Jules smirked, triumph dancing in her eyes. “So. You’re wearing the enemy’s jersey. You’re disappearing at night. You look like you’ve been thoroughly… educated.”
She leaned back, crossing her arms.
“Tell me it’s not him. Tell me you aren’t hooking up with Ezra Sterling.”
“I’m not hooking up with him!”
The denial came out too loud. Several heads turned in our direction. I lowered my voice to a frantic whisper.
“I am absolutely not hooking up with him. He is… he’s helping me study. That’s it. He’s my tutor.”
“Your tutor,” Jules repeated flatly. “Does he tutor you with his tongue? Because that hickey on your neck says he’s very hands-on.”
My hand flew to my neck. I flushed scarlet.
“It’s a curling iron burn,” I lied, mortified.
Jules laughed. It was a warm, knowing sound. She reached out and patted my knee.
“Okay, Mara. Keep your secrets. But be careful. Sterling isn’t like the guys you usually date. He’s intense. And his family… they eat people like you for breakfast.”
Her smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine concern.
“Just don’t get hurt, okay? The fall from the penthouse is a long way down.”
I stared at her, the words settling heavy in my chest.
Don’t get hurt.
It was too late for that. I wasn't hurt yet, but I was in freefall. And the only thing keeping me from hitting the ground was the very man who had pushed me off the ledge.
By the time I left the studio, the sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the snowy campus. The air was crisp, biting at my cheeks as I walked toward the library.
I had an hour before I had to be back at the penthouse for "Check-in."
I needed to clear my head. I needed to remember who I was before I became Ezra Sterling’s secret.
I walked into the library, the smell of old paper and coffee instantly grounding me. This was neutral territory. This was where normal students came to stress about normal things.
I wandered through the stacks, trailing my fingers along the spines of books I would never read. I found a quiet corner in the back, near the oversized windows that overlooked the frozen pond, and slid down to sit on the floor.
I pulled out my phone.
Ezra had given it back to me permanently after the window incident. A reward for "good behavior." Or maybe a sign of trust.
I opened our text thread. It was ridiculously utilitarian.
Ezra: practice running late. eat without me.
Ezra: don’t forget to review chapter 6.
Ezra: I transferred the funds to your student account. fees are paid.
That last one had come through this morning.
I stared at the words. Fees are paid.
He had done it. He had actually done it. I was enrolled. I could present my collection. He had saved me.
Why?
Because of the deal? Because he needed a fake girlfriend to impress his dad? It seemed like a steep price to pay just for a prop.
“You’re staring at that screen like it’s a bomb defusal manual.”
I looked up.
Ezra was standing at the end of the aisle.
He was wearing his team track jacket zipped up to his chin, a black beanie pulled low over his forehead, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes that the harsh fluorescent lights of the library did nothing to hide.
But seeing him—actually seeing him in the flesh—sent a jolt through me that was purely electric. It was the secret knowledge. Everyone else in the library saw the Captain. I saw the man who had whispered Good girl against my skin.
“Maybe it is,” I whispered, scrambling to my feet. “Maybe I’m waiting for it to explode.”
He walked toward me. He moved silently, a predator in a forest of books. He stopped when he was just inside my personal space. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell the cold air clinging to his jacket.
“Why are you here?” I asked, looking around nervously. “People will see us.”
“Let them,” he said. His voice was rough, distracted. “We’re supposed to be together, remember?”
“Right. The deal.”
“The deal,” he echoed.
He looked at me, his gaze dropping to the jersey I was still wearing under my coat. His eyes darkened, a flash of heat cutting through the exhaustion.
“You’re still wearing it,” he murmured.
“It’s laundry day,” I repeated my lie.
“Liar.”
He reached out, his hand hovering near my waist before he dropped it to his side. Restraint. I could feel the effort it took him not to touch me.
“We need to talk,” he said. “About tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Friday?”
“My father is coming.”
He said it like he was announcing a natural disaster. The hurricane is making landfall.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Dinner. I remember. I have a dress. I promise not to use the wrong fork or talk about my arrest record.”
He didn't smile. He looked past me, out the window at the darkness. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.
“It’s not just dinner, Amara. It’s… an assessment.”