Chapter 11
Amara
There is a specific kind of vertigo that comes with living a double life.
It’s not the spinning sensation of being drunk, or the dizzying rush of standing on a high ledge.
It’s more like walking on a tightrope made of dental floss while juggling flaming chainsaws, all while smiling and telling everyone you’re just taking a leisurely stroll.
Publicly, I was Amara Vane, the disgraced socialite who had somehow clawed her way into the orbit of Ezra Sterling.
To the campus gossip blogs, I was the "Kodiak Queen," a title that made me want to gag. To my professors, I was the girl who had miraculously paid her tuition fees and was suddenly turning in assignments on time. To Ezra’s father—Cyrus Sterling, the man with eyes like a shark and a soul made of ledger paper—I was the "acceptable acquisition," a charming, if slightly flighty, accessory that signaled his son’s stability.
But privately?
Privately, I was a woman on fire.
I woke up in the Penthouse on a Tuesday morning, the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and turning the dust motes into suspended gold. The room smelled of coffee and that distinct, crisp scent of sandalwood that was purely Ezra.
I rolled over, my hand seeking the warmth of the other side of the bed.
Empty.
Of course. It was 7:15 AM. Ezra had been up since 5:30. The Schedule waited for no one, not even a secret girlfriend.
I sat up, stretching my arms over my head. My body felt… different. It wasn't just the soreness—though there was plenty of that, a delicious ache in my thighs and a tenderness where his grip had been a little too tight last night. It was deeper.
I felt lighter.
For months, ever since my father cut me off, I had been walking around with a ten-pound weight on my chest. The fear of failure, the humiliation of poverty, the loneliness.
Now? The weight was gone.
I threw back the black silk sheets—which I was starting to grow fond of, despite their severe aesthetic—and padded toward the bathroom. I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I looked like a disaster. My hair was a bird’s nest. I was wearing one of Ezra’s grey t-shirts that came down to my knees. There was a love bite high on my inner thigh that was turning a spectacular shade of violet.
But I was smiling. A goofy, irrepressible smile that I couldn't wipe off if I tried.
"Get it together, Vane," I whispered to the mirror. "You’re a secret agent. Secret agents don’t grin like idiots."
I showered quickly, scrubbing away the physical evidence of the night before, though the emotional evidence was tattooed on my soul. I dressed in jeans and a cashmere sweater—one of the few nice things I hadn't sold yet—and headed out to the kitchen.
Ezra was there.
He was standing at the island, dressed in his game-day suit (grey wool, tailored to within an inch of its life), reading a report on his tablet. He was holding a mug of coffee. He looked devastatingly handsome and completely unapproachable.
The Iceman.
Then he looked up.
The transformation was subtle, invisible to anyone but me. The ice in his blue eyes cracked. The corner of his mouth ticked up. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was low, a rumble that went straight to my core.
"Morning, Sir," I teased, walking over to the coffee machine.
Ezra reached out without looking up from his tablet and snagged me by the waist, pulling me between his legs.
"Careful," he murmured against my stomach. "We have twenty minutes before we have to leave. Don’t start something you can’t finish."
I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like expensive soap and power.
"I can finish anything in twenty minutes," I countered. "I’m very efficient. You taught me that."
He chuckled, dropping the tablet on the marble counter. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight.
"How’s the… collection?" he asked, diverting the conversation before we ended up back in bed.
"Coming along," I said, leaning back to look at him. "The leather arrived yesterday. It’s gorgeous. I’m going to drape it today. Professor Halloway actually nodded at me in the hallway. A nod, Ezra! That’s basically a standing ovation from her."
"Good," he said. He kissed my forehead. "You’re doing the work."
"We’re doing the work," I corrected. "We survived the dinner. Your dad didn't liquidate you."
A shadow passed over his face. The dinner with Cyrus on Friday had been a masterclass in tension. I had played the part of the doting, subdued girlfriend perfectly. Ezra had played the focused executive. Cyrus had watched us like a hawk, looking for cracks, but we had been seamless.
"He’s watching," Ezra reminded me. "He’s still suspicious. He thinks you’re a temporary fix. We have to keep selling it."
"I know," I said. "Public affection. Private discipline. I read the memo."
He squeezed my waist. "Speaking of public… I’m picking you up from the studio at five. We’re going to the team dinner at The Hive."
"Together?"
"Together. Hand in hand. The happy couple."
"And then?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"And then," his eyes darkened, "we come back here. And I remind you who you belong to."
My breath hitched. The promise hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating.
"Deal," I whispered.
He kissed me then. A hard, possessive kiss that tasted of coffee and promise. Then he released me, checked his watch, and the mask slammed back into place.
"Eat something," he commanded, pointing to a bowl of oatmeal on the counter. "And don’t be late for your history lecture."
"Yes, Dad," I rolled my eyes.
"Careful, Vane," he warned from the door. But he was smiling as he walked out.
I stood in the silent, pristine kitchen and ate my oatmeal.
I was happy. Terrifyingly, stupidly happy.
And I had absolutely no idea how long I could keep this up before the universe realized I was cheating and brought the whole house of cards crashing down.
The Design Studio was a war zone of tulle and stress.
The semester showcase was three weeks away. The air was thick with the smell of scorching fabric, spray adhesive, and desperation.
I was in my element.
For the first time in my academic career, I wasn't drowning. I was swimming.
I had draped the oxblood leather over the dress form, pinning it into a structure that looked like armor melting into water. It was aggressive. It was soft. It was everything I felt right now.
"Okay," I muttered, sticking a pin into the leather. "Stay there. Don't move. Be obedient."
"Talking to the fabric now?"
I looked up. Jules was leaning against my work table, eating a bag of pretzels. She looked exhausted, paint smudges on her cheek, but her eyes were sharp.
"Fabric listens better than people," I said. "Fabric doesn't text you at 2 AM asking if you're awake."
"Is Sterling texting you at 2 AM?" Jules asked, crunching a pretzel.
"No," I lied smoothly. "Ezra sleeps in a cryo-chamber to preserve his athletic perfection. He doesn't text."
Jules narrowed her eyes. "You're lying."
"I'm focusing," I corrected. "Hand me the shears."
Jules handed me the heavy scissors. "You know, the whole campus is talking about you guys. The dinner at The Gilded Stag. The way he carried you out of the party when he was hurt. People are saying it's like… a fairytale. Beauty and the Beast, but with more hockey pads."
I snorted. "Beast is accurate."
"But is it real?" Jules pressed. She lowered her voice. "Amara, seriously. I know you said it was an arrangement. I know he's paying your tuition. But… I saw the way you looked at him at the game. That wasn't an arrangement. That was 'I will murder anyone who touches him.'"
I froze, the scissors hovering over the expensive silk.
I couldn't tell her. The Protocol was clear. The fewer people who knew the truth—that I was in love with him, that he was unraveling for me—the safer we were. If Leo found out it was real, he'd go nuclear. If Cyrus found out it was real, he'd pull the plug.
"It's… complicated," I said finally. "We're friends. Good friends. The chemistry helps sell the lie, Jules. That's all."
Jules looked at me for a long moment. She didn't buy it. But she was a good enough friend not to push.
"Okay," she said. "Just… careful. The higher you climb, the harder the fall. And the Sterling penthouse is really high up."
"I know," I whispered. "I'm wearing a parachute."
"Are you?" she asked softly. "Or are you just hoping he catches you?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Because the truth was, I wasn't wearing a parachute. I was free-falling. And I was counting on the man who had broken my heart open to be the one to put it back together.
At 4:45 PM, my phone buzzed.
Ezra: Outside. Bring the coat. It’s snowing.
I smiled at the screen. Bossy. Direct. Perfect.
I grabbed my things, waved goodbye to Jules, and hurried out of the Arts building.
Ezra’s Aston Martin was idling at the curb, a sleek black shark amidst the sea of sensible student sedans. He was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, wearing a black pea coat over a white t-shirt and jeans.
He looked like a movie star. Or a hitman. Or both.
Students were staring. A group of freshman girls were whispering and giggling a few feet away.
Ezra ignored them. His eyes were locked on the door. When he saw me, he pushed off the car.
He didn't wave. He just opened the passenger door.
I walked toward him, feeling the familiar flutter in my stomach. I was wearing my "Consort" uniform: tight jeans, heeled boots, and the white shearling coat that had started this whole mess.
"You're early," I said as I reached him.
"Traffic was light," he said.
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek. It was a small touch, barely anything, but to the onlookers, it was intimate. To me, it was fire.
"Hi," he whispered, so only I could hear.
"Hi," I whispered back.
"Get in. It's freezing."
I climbed into the car. The interior was warm, smelling of leather and him.