Chapter 14
Michelle
There is a specific kind of arrogance that comes with being in love. It’s not the loud, bragging kind. It’s quieter. It’s the subconscious belief that because you feel invincible, you are invincible. That because the universe aligned to bring you together, it wouldn’t dare tear you apart.
I was currently drowning in that arrogance.
I sat in the front row of the "Blackwood Entrepreneurship Showcase," my legs crossed, my notebook open. I was wearing a new design—a structured blazer made from the blue silk I had bought in Portland, paired with vintage Levi’s and my combat boots.
I looked professional. I looked sharp.
And I felt like I was glowing.
It had been three days since I came back from Italy. Three days of living in a blissful, terrifying limbo.
My father hadn't called. The credit cards were dead—I checked when I tried to buy a latte yesterday—but the sky hadn't fallen. I was still enrolled. I still had my key to the Ice Box.
And I had Greg.
God, did I have Greg.
We had stopped pretending in the house. The boys knew.
Beef had walked in on us making out in the kitchen on Sunday morning (Greg had lifted me onto the counter; it was very cliché and very hot) and had just sighed, grabbed a banana, and said, "At least put a sock on the door handle next time, Cap. "
So inside the house, we were safe.
Outside? We were spies.
But we were getting cocky.
I looked across the auditorium. Greg was there. He had come to watch my presentation.
He was sitting in the back row, trying to look inconspicuous in a baseball cap and a grey hoodie. But he was Greg Sterling. He took up space.
He caught my eye. He winked.
A warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the room temperature.
"Next up," the professor announced, "Michelle Vane, presenting 'Vane & Valor: A Modern Armor'."
I stood up. I walked to the podium.
Usually, public speaking made me want to vomit. Today? I felt like I could command an army.
I plugged in my laptop. My slides appeared on the massive screen. Sketches. Mood boards. The business plan I had agonized over.
"Fashion is often dismissed as frivolous," I began, my voice steady. "But clothes are the first thing we say to the world before we open our mouths. For women, especially, clothes are armor. We dress to protect ourselves. To project power. To hide vulnerability."
I clicked the remote. A sketch of the blue silk blazer appeared.
"My collection isn't about hiding," I continued, looking directly at Greg in the back row.
"It's about integration. It's about taking the hard parts—the leather, the structure—and blending them with the soft parts—the silk, the lace.
It's about admitting that we are both the wall and the thing behind it. "
I spoke for twenty minutes. I didn't stumble. I didn't use filler words. I was passionate. I was real.
When I finished, there was a moment of silence.
Then, applause. Loud, genuine applause.
The professor was nodding. My classmates looked impressed.
But I only cared about one reaction.
I looked at the back row.
Greg wasn't clapping. He was staring at me with a look of such intense pride it almost knocked me over. He tapped his chest. I see you.
I beamed.
As the class dispersed, students came up to congratulate me.
"That was amazing, Michelle."
"I want that blazer. Seriously, take my money."
I handled the praise with a grace I didn't know I possessed.
Finally, the room cleared out.
Greg was waiting by the door.
I walked over to him.
"So?" I asked, fishing for compliments.
"Vane & Valor," he mused, pushing off the wall. "Catchy."
"Do you like it?"
"I love it," he said. He reached out and tugged on the lapel of my blazer. His knuckles brushed my breast. A jolt of electricity zapped through me. "It suits you. Tough and soft."
"Careful," I whispered, looking into the empty hallway. "We're in public."
"Hallway's empty," he murmured.
He leaned in.
We shouldn't. We absolutely shouldn't. We were in the academic building, in the middle of the day.
But I was high on success. He was high on… well, me.
I met him halfway.
He kissed me. It wasn't a quick peck. It was a lingering, possessive press of lips. His hand came up to cup my jaw. My hand rested on his chest.
For five seconds, we forgot the rules.
"Ahem."
We sprang apart.
Standing ten feet away, holding a stack of flyers, was Carter Thorne.
Of course. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
Thorne was wearing his Harvard jacket, looking smug and slippery as always. Why was he even here? Oh right. His father was on the board. He practically lived on our campus to torment us.
"Well, well," Thorne drawled, walking closer. "The plot thickens. Or should I say, the contract breaches?"
Greg stepped in front of me instinctively. The Wall.
"What do you want, Thorne?" Greg asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"Nothing," Thorne smiled, revealing perfect, expensive teeth. "Just passing through. Enjoying the show. You two really are terrible at hiding, you know. I saw you at the arena last week. I saw the hand on the glass. Very Romeo and Juliet."
"If you have something to say, say it," Greg said.
"I don't need to say anything," Thorne shrugged. "I'm sure Victor Vane will have plenty to say when he finds out his 'investment' is depreciating."
"Leave her out of this," Greg warned.
"Oh, she's very much in it, Captain. She's the center of it." Thorne looked at me over Greg's shoulder. "Nice presentation, Shelly. 'Armor.' Ironic. You're going to need it."
He winked at me, then turned and walked away, whistling.
Greg took a step as if to follow him.
I grabbed his arm.
"Don't," I whispered. "He's baiting you. If you hit him, you get suspended for the Finals."
Greg stopped. His muscles were coiled tight under his hoodie. He stared at Thorne's retreating back.
"He knows," Greg muttered.
"He's guessing," I said, trying to sound confident. "He doesn't have proof. He's just trying to get in your head before the championship game."
"He saw us kissing, Michelle."
"He saw us... talking close," I lied. "We pulled apart fast."
Greg looked down at me. His eyes were dark with worry.
"We need to be more careful," he said. "No more public displays. Zero."
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry. I just... I was excited."
He softened. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, then quickly pulled his hand back as a janitor walked by.
"I know," he said softly. "You were great in there. Really great."
"Thanks."
"Go home," he said. "I have practice. I'll take the long way. Don't wait for me."
"Okay."
I watched him walk away. He walked with his head down, shoulders hunched. The weight of the roof was back.
I felt a prickle of unease on the back of my neck.
Thorne's smile. The way he said depreciating.
I shook it off. Thorne was a jerk, but he was just a college kid. What could he actually do?
I walked out of the building, telling myself that we were fine. We were invincible.
I spent the afternoon at the library, actually studying for my other classes.
I tried to focus on Art History, but my mind kept drifting back to Thorne.
You're going to need it.
I pulled out my phone. I checked my bank account.
$4,800.
Enough for a few months of rent if I moved out of the Ice Box. Enough for food.
But not enough for tuition next semester.
If my dad really cut me off... if this was permanent... I needed a plan B.
I opened a new tab. Student Loans. Scholarships for Disowned Heiresses. (Okay, not that one, but close).
My phone buzzed.
Text from Chloe: Hey. Weird question. Did you give anyone access to your Cloud drive?
I frowned.
Me: No. Why?
Chloe: Because I was looking for that file you sent me last week—the lease agreement—and I saw a 'Login Alert' in the shared folder history. From an IP address in Cambridge.
Cambridge.
Harvard.
Thorne.
My stomach dropped to the floor.
Me: What folders?
Chloe: Just the shared docs. But... didn't you dump all your photos from your phone to the cloud when you got that new iPhone last month?
Oh God.
The photos.
Selfies of me and Greg in the kitchen. A video of him cooking pancakes shirtless. A photo of us in the truck, his hand on my thigh.
Nothing explicit. We weren't stupid enough to take nudes. But intimate. Undeniable.
Proof.
I typed furiously.
Me: Lock it out. Change the password. Now.
Chloe: On it. But Michelle... if someone downloaded them...
She didn't have to finish the sentence.
If Thorne had those photos, he had the nuke.
I packed my bag, my hands shaking so hard I could barely zip the zipper.
I had to tell Greg.
I ran out of the library.
I ran all the way to the arena.
Practice was just ending.
I waited by the players' exit, hidden in the shadows of a pillar.
Greg came out ten minutes later. He was with Beef and Johnson. They were laughing. Greg looked relaxed.
I couldn't do it.
I couldn't walk up to him, right before the biggest game of his life, and tell him that my carelessness might have just ruined his career.
If I told him, he would panic. He would go find Thorne. He would do something stupid, like punch him, and get suspended.
I had to fix this myself.
I shrank back into the shadows. I watched him get into his truck and drive away.
Then, I pulled out my phone.
I found Carter Thorne's number. (It was in the student directory).
I texted him.
Me: I know what you have. What do you want?
The reply came ten seconds later.
Thorne: Meet me. The Boathouse Bar. 8 PM. Come alone. Or the photos go to Vane and the NCAA.
I stared at the screen.
This was blackmail. Pure and simple.
I should tell Greg. I should tell Chloe.
But Greg had the championship on Friday. He needed to focus. Be the wall.
If I told him, the wall would crumble.
I had to be his shield this time.
Me: I'll be there.
The Boathouse Bar was a Harvard hang-out. It was on the river, dark, wood-paneled, and smelled of old money and entitlement.
I walked in at 8:00 PM exactly.
I was wearing my armor again. Leather jacket. Boots. Dark lipstick.
Thorne was sitting in a booth in the back. He had a laptop open.