Chapter 1 #2
I grabbed her wrist.
My grip was hard. Probably too hard. I felt the delicate bones shift under my fingers, the rapid-fire pulse hammering against her skin like a trapped bird.
I froze her movement, holding her hand inches from my crotch.
"I said," I lowered my voice until it was a whisper that only she could hear, a sound vibrating with suppressed violence, "don't."
She looked up at me, trapped. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the green. Her breath hitched, blowing a stray curl of copper hair out of her face. She was trembling. Not just her hands—her whole body was vibrating.
"I... I didn't mean to..." she whispered. "I tripped. He bumped me. I..."
"Stop talking," I commanded.
She snapped her mouth shut. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, turning the flesh white.
I looked at her. I really looked at her. Up close, the chaos was even more overwhelming. She had freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose, imperfect and scattered like constellations. There was a smudge of ink on her collarbone. She was a mess. She was a walking entropy machine.
And for a terrifying, irrational second, I wanted to drag her out of this hall, throw her into the back of my car, and demand she explain why she felt she had the right to touch me. I wanted to taste the panic on her tongue.
The thought was so foreign, so dark, that it snapped my control back into place. The steel doors of my mind slammed shut.
I released her wrist as if she were contagious.
I stepped back, putting two feet of distance between us. I brushed the front of my jacket, a futile, mocking gesture.
"You're fired," I said.
The words rang out in the quiet hall.
She flinched as if I’d slapped her. "What?"
"You're fired," I repeated, my tone bored. "Leave."
"You... you can't fire me," she stammered, a spark of that earlier fire returning to her eyes. "You don't work for the catering company. You're just a student."
"I am a Vance," I said simply. "And my family paid for this building, the wine you just spilled, and the scholarship fund that I assume is the only reason you’re allowed on this campus. So yes. I can fire you."
I turned my head to the side, locking eyes with the catering manager, a frantic little man named Steven who was currently hyperventilating near the shrimp tower.
"Steven," I said, not raising my voice. He scrambled over immediately.
"Mr. Vance, I am so sorry, I don't know how—"
"Get her out of here," I cut him off. "And ensure she is never booked for a university event again. If I see her face at a function, I pull the athletic department's contract with your firm."
Steven went pale. "Understood. Immediately. Get your things, Jess. Go. Now."
Jess.
The name landed in my mind like a heavy stone. It was short. punchy. Unrefined.
She stared at me. Her chest was heaving, her hands balled into fists at her sides. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry. I expected tears. Women usually cried when I used this tone on them. It was a manipulation tactic I was immune to.
But she didn't cry.
Her chin went up. The tremble in her lip stopped. Her eyes hardened into emerald shards of glass.
"You're an asshole," she said.
The crowd gasped. Someone dropped a fork.
I felt a dark, twisted smile threaten to break the surface of my mask. I kept it down, but the amusement curled in my gut, hot and heavy.
"I'm a man wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit soaked in cheap wine," I corrected her. "And you are unemployed. I think we know who lost this exchange."
I pointed to the double doors. "Go."
She glared at me for one last second, searing my face into her memory.
Then she spun on her heel, her sneakers squeaking on the polished marble, and marched out of the hall.
She didn't look back. She didn't run. She walked with a stiff, angry dignity that was entirely at odds with the wine stains splattered across her apron.
I watched her until the heavy doors swung shut behind her, cutting off the view of the copper hair.
Only then did I let out a breath.
"Show's over," I said to the room at large. "Drink your wine. Try not to wear it."
The chatter resumed, hesitant at first, then rising back to a roar as the gossip took hold. Did you see? The Vance boy. Ruthless. Just like his father.
I turned and walked toward the restrooms, my stride even, my face blank.
Inside the executive washroom, it was silent. The marble was black, the fixtures gold. I locked the door behind me and walked to the sink.
I stripped off the jacket and threw it into the trash can. It was ruined. I would never wear it again. I unbuttoned the stained shirt, peeling the wet fabric away from my skin. My chest was stained pink, the wine seeping into the pores, marking me.
I gripped the edge of the sink, the porcelain cool under my palms. I looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were grey. Flat. Empty.
But my pulse was hammering in my neck.
I looked down at the trash can, where the white jacket lay crumpled. I could still feel the phantom pressure of her small, rough hands on my stomach. The heat of her palm near my hip. The way she had looked at me—not with adoration, not with fear, but with hatred.
Real, visceral emotion.
I hated her. I hated the mess. I hated the stain on my skin. I hated that my control had slipped, even for a nanosecond.