Chapter 6
Michelle
Principles of Retail Finance. Midterm Examination.
My hand was shaking. Just a little. A tremor that started in my wrist and traveled up to my shoulder, vibrating against the cheap polyester of my blouse.
I wasn’t shaking because of the math.
I was shaking because every time I closed my eyes, I saw grey walls. I saw black sheets. I felt calloused fingers sliding inside me, claiming me, taking me apart until I was nothing but a mess of nerves and need.
Good girl.
The words echoed in my head, louder than the scratching of pens around me.
I squeezed my thighs together under the desk, a phantom heat flaring between my legs.
"Focus, Vane," I whispered to myself, sounding uncomfortably like him.
I looked down at Question 1.
Calculate the weighted average cost of capital (WACC) given the following debt-to-equity ratios.
I blinked. The numbers swam for a second, then snapped into focus.
Debt. Equity. Cost.
It wasn't hieroglyphics anymore. It was just logic. It was just inputs and outputs.
I picked up my pen. I started to write. And as the numbers flowed out of me—imperfectly, messy, but correctly—I realized something terrifying.
Greg Sterling hadn't just gotten into my pants. He had gotten into my brain. He had reorganized the furniture, thrown out the panic, and installed a shelving unit of discipline that I didn't know how to dismantle.
I finished the exam in fifty minutes.
I walked to the front of the room, my heels clicking loudly on the linoleum. The professor, a man who looked like he’d been mummified in tweed, looked up over his glasses.
"Giving up already, Ms. Vane?" he asked, his voice dripping with the assumption of my failure.
I slapped the packet onto his desk.
"Check the math," I said, flashing him a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "And have a nice weekend."
I walked out of the lecture hall and into the biting cold of the Friday afternoon.
I felt… light. Buoyant.
I pulled out my phone.
Outgoing Call: Chloe
"Did you vomit?" Chloe asked immediately.
"No vomit," I said, walking toward the campus center. The wind whipped my hair, but for once, I didn't care. "I think… I think I crushed it. Like, actually crushed it. I knew the amortization schedule. I knew the ratios."
"Shut up," Chloe said. I could hear the aggressive typing of her laptop in the background. "You actually studied? Who are you and what have you done with Michelle 'I'll just marry a Duke' Vane?"
"I had a tutor," I said, my voice dropping.
"The Hockey Hunk?"
"Don't call him that."
"Did he teach you with flashcards? Did he promise you a treat if you got the answers right?"
I stopped walking. My breath hitched.
A treat.
I thought about the way he had looked at me in the mirror. The way he had said You need to be taught a lesson.
"Something like that," I choked out.
The silence on the line was heavy. Chloe stopped typing.
"Michelle," she said, her tone shifting from sarcastic to surgical. "Your voice just did that thing."
"What thing?"
"The 'I did something reckless and I'm trying to hide it' thing. Did you sleep with him?"
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "I did not sleep with him."
Technically true. We hadn't slept. And we hadn't had intercourse. We had just engaged in acts that would probably get us banned from the Vatican.
"But you did something," Chloe pressed. "I can hear the guilt. Spill."
"I can't," I whispered, looking around to make sure no one was listening. The campus was crowded with students rushing to start their weekend. "He's… complicated, Chloe. He's my roommate. He's my tutor. And my dad is literally getting email updates about my behavior from him."
"Wait," Chloe said. "He's snitching on you?"
"No. He's… managing me. But he's not telling my dad everything. He's protecting me."
"Protecting you, or grooming you?" Chloe asked sharply. "Because there's a fine line, Michelle. The power dynamic there is messy. He's older, he's in charge of the house, he has a direct line to your father's wallet..."
"It's not like that," I argued, though a sliver of doubt pricked at my heart. "He's not using me. If anything, I forced him into it. I provoked him."
"Just be careful," Chloe sighed. "You have a habit of confusing intensity with intimacy. Just because a guy looks at you like he wants to eat you doesn't mean he wants to feed you, you know?"
"I know," I lied. "I'm fine. I'm focusing on the label. I'm focusing on school. The guy is just… a roommate with benefits. Tutoring benefits."
"Right. Keep telling yourself that. Call me when you crash."
She hung up.
I shoved the phone into my pocket.
Intensity vs. Intimacy.
I replayed last night. The way he had held me afterward. The way he had tucked my hair back. The way he had said Thank you.
That wasn't intensity. That was… softness. And softness was so much more dangerous than sex.
I turned the corner toward the athletic complex. I told myself I was going there to get a smoothie from the protein bar. The one with the peanut butter and banana that didn't taste like chalk.
I definitely wasn't going there because practice ended at 4:00 PM.
I walked into the lobby of the arena. It smelled of rubber, ice, and sweat. It was the scent of Greg.
And there he was.
He was standing near the trophy case, talking to Coach Miller. He was wearing a grey Blackwood Hockey tracksuit, his hands tucked into his pockets. His hair was wet from the post-practice shower, darker than usual, curling slightly at the ends.
He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.
My heart did a traitorous little flip in my chest.
He looked up.
His eyes locked onto mine across the lobby. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just went still.
Coach Miller followed his gaze. He saw me, waved vaguely, and clapped Greg on the shoulder before walking away toward the offices.
Greg stood there. Waiting.
I walked toward him. My boots squeaked on the polished floor. Every step felt like walking into a magnetic field. The closer I got, the harder it was to breathe.
I stopped three feet away. The safe zone.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he replied. His voice was gravel. Low, rough.
"I took the test," I blurted out.
"And?"
"And I didn't cry. I didn't panic. I think… I think I got a B. Maybe even an A minus if the professor is feeling generous."
Greg’s face didn't change, but his eyes softened. The hard, flat look of the Captain melted away, replaced by something warm and private.
"I knew you would," he said.
"You were very confident," I said, trying to keep it light. "Considering I didn't know what a debit was three days ago."
"I wasn't confident in the math," he said softly. "I was confident in you."
The air between us crackled. I looked at his hands—those large, scarred hands hanging by his sides. I remembered how they felt. I remembered the pressure, the rhythm.
I saw his gaze drop to my lips. He remembered too.
Students were walking past us. A group of girls from the volleyball team giggled as they eyed Greg. A couple of hockey freshmen walked by, nodding respectfully at their Captain.
We were in public. We were roommates. We were nothing.
But we were everything.
"Are you going back to the house?" I asked.
"Not yet," he said. "I have to watch film. Coach wants me to break down the power play from last week."
"Oh." I felt a pang of disappointment. "Okay. Well. I'll see you later."
"Michelle."
He stepped closer. Just an inch. It was enough to make my skin prickle.
"Yeah?"
"We need to talk," he said. "About last night."
Panic flared in my chest. "No, we don't. It was… stress relief. It was a study break. It’s fine. I’m fine."
His jaw tightened. "It wasn't a study break."
"Greg, stop," I whispered, looking around. "People are watching."
"Let them watch," he muttered, but he didn't move closer. He respected the line. "We can't just pretend it didn't happen."
"I'm really good at pretending," I said, lifting my chin. "It's my major."
He looked at me with frustration. "Stop running."
"I'm not running. I'm celebrating. I passed my test. I'm going to go home, order a pizza, and watch reality TV until my brain rots. You can go watch your tapes."
I turned to leave before he could argue. Before I could do something stupid like grab his hand or ask him to come with me.
"Michelle," he called after me.
I didn't stop. I walked out of the arena, into the cold, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Run, run, run.
It was what I did best.
The house was empty when I got back. It was Friday night. The boys were out. The silence in the Ice Box was heavy, amplifying the thoughts I was trying to outrun.
I went to my room. I changed out of my "exam armor" and into sweatpants and a tank top. I ordered the pizza.
Then I sat on my bed and stared at my phone.
The grades wouldn't be posted until Monday. But I needed to know. I needed validation.
I opened my email.
There was a notification from the student portal.
Grade Update: Finance 201 - Midterm Exam.
My heart stopped. The mummy professor graded fast. He must have scanned the scantrons immediately.
I clicked the link. My fingers trembled.
Score: 88%. Grade: B+.
I stared at the screen.
An 88.
I hadn't just passed. I had done well. I had done it. Me. The girl who everyone thought was just a pretty face and a bank account.
Joy, pure and incandescent, bubbled up in my chest. I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump on the bed.
I needed to tell someone.
I hesitated. I should tell Greg. He was the reason.
But before I could text him, my thumb hovered over another name.
Dad.
I took a screenshot of the grade. I opened a text message.
Me: Look! 88% on the Finance midterm. I actually understood it. The tutor helped. Staying on track.
I hit send.
I sat there, staring at the screen. Waiting.
My father lived on his phone. He responded to business deals in seconds.
One minute passed.
Three minutes.
Ten.
The joy began to curdle, turning into anxiety. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe he was flying.
My phone buzzed.