Chapter 6
Sofia
The sound of a sewing machine is usually my therapy. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the needle piercing fabric, the hum of the motor, the smell of hot dust and ironed cotton—it’s supposed to be the one place where my brain goes quiet.
Today, however, the sewing machine sounded like a accusation.
Good girl.
Thwack.
Good girl.
Thwack.
So wet for me.
Snap.
The needle broke. The sharp ping of metal hitting the plastic casing of the machine echoed through the otherwise silent Design Studio.
"Dammit," I hissed, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my temples.
It was Friday morning. The sun was glaring off the snowdrifts outside the high windows of the Arts Building, blindingly bright and cheerful.
It had no right to be cheerful. The world should be gray and stormy, matching the absolute chaotic hurricane that was currently ravaging my central nervous system.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Just a little. A fine, persistent tremor that made threading a needle impossible.
It had been twelve hours since I walked out of the costume archive.
Twelve hours since Liam Vanner—the man who looked at me like I was a pest he wanted to exterminate—had pinned me against a rack of polyester blends and dismantled my entire personality with three fingers and a two-word praise kink I didn't know I had.
I closed my eyes, but the darkness just made the memory sharper. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his hand. The heat of his body. The terrifying, exhilarating weight of his authority.
I think you’re tired of being in charge.
He had read me. He had looked past the Balenciaga, past the attitude, past the carefully curated "Brat" persona, and seen the exhausted, lonely girl underneath. And instead of mocking her, he had taken the wheel.
And I had let him.
God, I had begged him.
"You're staring at that broken needle like it murdered your family," a voice said.
I jumped, nearly knocking over my pin cushion.
Mia was standing at the end of my worktable, holding two coffees. She looked impeccable, as always, in a structured blazer and severe glasses. She set a cup down in front of me.
"Drink. You look like you've been electrocuted."
"I feel like I've been electrocuted," I muttered, grabbing the cup. The heat seeped into my cold palms, grounding me. "I didn't sleep."
"Design crisis?" Mia asked, pulling up a stool.
"Life crisis," I corrected. "Identity crisis. Existential crisis. Take your pick."
Mia studied me over the rim of her cup. She was a pre-law shark; nothing got past her. She scanned my face, my messy bun (which I hadn't bothered to redo since the incident), and the slight flush I knew was creeping up my neck.
"It's the goalie, isn't it?" she asked calmly.
I choked on my latte. "What? No. Why would you say that?"
"Because you've been 'working late' at the arena every night this week," Mia said, ticking points off on her fingers.
"Because you sold your vintage Fendi baguette yesterday—which, by the way, is a crime against fashion—and you refused to tell me why.
And because right now, you have the frantic, wide-eyed look of a woman who has either committed a felony or had a sexual awakening. "
I stared at her. "I hate how smart you are."
"I'm expensive," she shrugged. "But I'm right. Did you hook up with Vanner?"
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "We didn't... hook up. Not technically."
Mia’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. "'Not technically'? Sofia, what does that mean? Did you or did you not see the goal line?"
"We were in the basement," I whispered, leaning in so the girl at the next table wouldn't hear. "He... helped me. And then he stopped. He stopped, Mia. He just... left me there."
Mia let out a low whistle. "Power move. That is a classic, Grade-A Dom move. He edged you and walked away? The man is dangerous."
"He's a menace," I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "He called me a 'Good Girl' and my brain just... short-circuited. I forgot my name. I forgot my GPA. I think I forgot how to do long division."
"Okay, first of all, you never knew how to do long division," Mia pointed out. "Second, this is huge. You, Sofia Thorne, the woman who micromanages her own birthday parties down to the ice cube shape, lost control? And liked it?"
I peeked through my fingers. "I didn't just like it. I needed it. It was like... for five minutes, I didn't have to be the Heiress. I didn't have to be perfect. I just had to... exist."
Mia’s expression softened. She reached out and patted my arm.
"That makes sense, Sof. Your whole life is a performance. It must be nice to have someone else direct the scene for once."
"It's not nice," I whispered. "It's terrifying. Because now... now I have to see him. I have to go to the Student Union and pretend I'm not thinking about his hands. I have to look at him and act like he didn't just rewire my entire sexuality in a dusty basement."
"So don't pretend," Mia said simply.
"What?"
"Don't pretend," she repeated. "Go find him. Look him in the eye. Let him see that you're rattled. If he's playing games, show him you know the rules. But don't hide. Hiding makes you look weak. And Thorne women are not weak."
She stood up, smoothing her blazer. "Now, fix your hair. You look like you got dragged through a hedge backward. And put on more eyeliner. If you're going to face the executioner, look sharp."
The Student Union at lunch hour was a sensory nightmare. The smell of greasy pizza and burnt coffee, the roar of a thousand conversations bouncing off the concrete walls, the humidity of too many bodies in winter coats.
Usually, I avoided it. I ate salads in quiet cafés or ordered delivery. But part of my "deal" with Liam was visibility. We had to be seen co-existing to legitimize my role as manager.
I walked in, clutching my tray like a shield. I had taken Mia’s advice. I was wearing a blood-red cashmere sweater, tight black jeans, and my combat boots. My eyeliner was sharp enough to cut glass.
I scanned the room.
The hockey table was in the back, claiming the prime real estate near the windows. It was loud. Jaxson was standing on a chair, reenacting a play. The other guys were laughing, throwing fries.
And in the center of the chaos, sitting like a stone monolith, was Liam.
He wasn't laughing. He was eating methodically, staring at his phone. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his stubble was heavier than usual.
As if he felt my gaze, his head snapped up.
Our eyes locked across fifty feet of crowded cafeteria.
The air left my lungs.
It wasn't a casual glance. It was a physical impact. The noise of the room faded into a dull buzz. I couldn't hear the music. I couldn't smell the pizza. All I could feel was the weight of his slate-gray eyes pinning me to the floor.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just looked at me with a dark, simmering intensity that made my skin prickle. It was a look of possession. I know what you look like when you come undone. I know what you sound like when you beg.
My face heated. I felt the blush rising, uncontrollable and telling.
He saw it. The corner of his mouth ticked up—not a smile, but a smirk of satisfaction. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.
I forced my legs to move. Don't hide. Do not hide.
I walked toward the table.
"Hey, Manager!" Jaxson yelled, spotting me. He jumped down from the chair. "Come settle a bet. Does Carter look like a golden retriever or a labradoodle?"
I reached the table, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stood directly across from Liam.
"Labradoodle," I said to Jaxson, not looking away from the Goalie. "High maintenance hair."
The table erupted in laughter. Carter threw a napkin at me.
"Sit with us," Jaxson commanded, kicking out an empty chair next to Liam. "Vanner is being a buzzkill. He's stressed about his paper."
I looked at the empty chair. It was inches from Liam. If I sat there, our thighs would touch.
"I can't," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. "I have a meeting with the venue coordinator for the Spring Game."
"Lame," Jaxson booed.
I looked at Liam. He hadn't spoken yet. He was just watching me, his hand resting on the table, clutching a bottle of water. I stared at his hand. Large. Veined. Capable.
The memory of that hand on my skin flashed through my mind, visceral and sharp. I saw his knuckles tighten around the plastic bottle. He was thinking about it too.
"Check your email," I said to him.
"Why?" His voice was a low rumble, deeper than I remembered. It vibrated in my chest.
"I sent you the bibliography," I said. "And the outline. It's done. You just have to write the filler."
He blinked. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face, softening the hard lines around his eyes.
"You finished it?"
"I told you I would," I said. "I don't break deals, Vanner."
He stared at me for a long beat. The sexual tension was still there, buzzing like a live wire, but something else joined it. Respect. Or maybe relief.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"Don't mention it," I said. "Literally."
I turned to leave, needing to escape the orbit of his gravity before I did something stupid, like climb into his lap in front of the entire defensive line.
"Sofia."
I stopped. He had spoken my name softly, under the noise of the table.
I looked back.
He wasn't looking at the team. He was looking at my sweater.
"Red looks good on you," he said.
It was a mundane comment. But the way he said it—low, intimate, referencing the heat between us—made it feel like a dirty secret.
"See you at practice," I whispered.
I walked away, feeling his gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades every step of the way.
The library at 9:00 PM on a Friday was a tomb.
Most of the student body was at the bars or house parties. The only people here were the premed students, the architecture majors, and apparently, the fake couple of the century.