Chapter 3
Georgia
If there was one thing the Sterling family excelled at, it was the art of the masquerade.
My father masqueraded as a philanthropist while cutting his children out of his will depending on his mood swings.
My mother masqueraded as a happy socialite right up until the day she packed her Pilates gear and moved to a holistic commune in Sedona.
And I? I was the master of them all. I was the Michelangelo of pretending everything was absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent fine.
Even when I was homeless. Even when I was sleeping in the guest room of a man who looked at me like I was a pestilence he wanted to fumigate. Even when I had seventeen dollars to my name and a blocked Amex Black card.
I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the guest bathroom of the penthouse, staring at my reflection.
"You are Georgia Sterling," I whispered to the glass. "You are the prize. You are not a victim."
I applied a layer of ruby-red lipstick—Armani, shade 400—with the precision of a surgeon. It was my war paint.
Tonight was the "Face-Off Gala," an unofficial, student-run mixer at The Vault, the most pretentious nightclub in Duluth.
It was the kickoff to the hockey season, the night where the social hierarchy of North Haven University was established for the semester.
If I didn't show up, the rumors would start.
Where is Georgia?
Did you hear her dad cut her off?
Is she poor now?
I couldn't let them smell blood in the water. In my world, weakness was a death sentence. I had to go. I had to be seen. I had to shine so brightly that no one would notice I was burning out.
But there was a problem. A six-foot-four, gray-eyed, brooding problem who was currently sitting in the living room, probably reading The Art of War or polishing his hockey stick while looking devastatingly handsome.
I hadn't seen Toby since the... incident... in the physio room this morning.
My face heated up just thinking about it.
The memory hit me like a physical slap—the hard, unyielding muscle of his thigh under my palms. The scent of him, sharp and masculine.
The way his breath had hitched. And the undeniable, terrifying reality of what I had seen—and felt—in his compression shorts.
He wanted me.
The realization was a giddy, terrifying hummingbird trapped in my ribcage. Toby Kincaid, the man who treated women like distractions and emotions like diseases, had reacted to me.
But then he had thrown me out. He had looked at me with that cold, shuttered expression and dismissed me like I was the hired help. Which, technically, I was.
"Asshole," I muttered, blotting my lips.
I smoothed down my dress. It was a black velvet mini-dress with long sleeves and a back that plunged dangerously low. It was modest from the front, scandalous from behind. A perfect metaphor for my life right now. It was one of the few clean things left in my trunks.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my empty clutch (filled with nothing but my ID and a lip gloss), and opened the bathroom door.
I walked down the hallway, my heels clicking on the hardwood. I adopted my signature walk—hips swaying, chin up, eyes bored. Fake it ‘til you make it.
I rounded the corner into the living room and stopped dead.
Toby was there.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the city lights.
He was wearing a charcoal grey button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were thick with muscle and roped with veins.
His black jeans fit him perfectly. He held a glass of water, looking like he was brooding over the fate of a small nation.
He turned as he heard my heels.
His eyes swept over me. From the tips of my Louboutins, up my bare legs, over the black velvet hugging my hips, to the plunge of the neckline, and finally to my red lips.
The air in the room instantly grew heavy. It was a tangible pressure, like the drop in barometric pressure before a tornado touches down.
He didn't speak. He just drank me in. His gaze felt heavy, like a physical touch. I felt my nipples peak against the velvet, treasonous little things.
"Going somewhere?" he asked. His voice was low, rougher than usual.
"The Vault," I said, keeping my voice light. "Face-Off Gala. You know, the event your team is hosting?"
"I know what it is," he said. He took a sip of water, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm the Captain. I have to make an appearance. You, however, are supposed to be hiding."
"I am hiding," I countered, walking over to the kitchen island to grab a glass of water, mostly so I had something to do with my hands. "I'm hiding in plain sight. If I don't show up, people will talk. If I show up and act like the Queen Bitch of the Universe, no one will suspect a thing."
He watched me move. He tracked me like a radar system. "And how are you getting there? You don't have money for an Uber."
I froze. Damn. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I was planning on walking the twelve blocks in four-inch heels, which was a recipe for hypothermia and orthopedic surgery.
"I have friends," I lied. "Lola is picking me up."
"Lola drives a Honda Civic that has been sitting in the guest lot with a flat tire for three days," Toby said dryly. "I see everything, Georgia."
I glared at him. "Stalker."
"Observant," he corrected. He set his glass down. "I'm driving."
My heart skipped a beat. "You're driving me?"
"I'm driving to the event. You can be in the car. But we don't arrive together. I drop you a block away. You walk in alone. We don't speak inside. We don't acknowledge each other."
"Fine by me," I sniffed. "I don't want to be seen with you anyway. You ruin my aesthetic."
He scoffed, a dark sound in his throat. He walked toward me, stopping just inches away to grab his car keys from the counter. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled like expensive soap and rain.
He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear. "Your aesthetic is 'desperate princess,' Georgia. And tonight, you look like trouble."
He pulled back, his gray eyes darkening. "Don't cause a scene. Don't get drunk. And for the love of God, don't let anyone know you're coming home with me."
The way he said coming home with me sent a shiver straight down my spine. It sounded domestic. It sounded possessive. It sounded like a promise.
"I can handle myself, Kincaid," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.
"We'll see," he said.
The Vault was a sensory assault.
The bass thumped so hard it vibrated in my teeth. The air was thick with the scent of designer perfume, sweat, and spilled vodka. The lighting was low, slashed with strobe lights that made everyone look like disjointed, jerky stop-motion figures.
I loved it.
I loved the noise because it drowned out the thoughts in my head. I loved the crowd because it made me feel less alone.
I had walked the last block, just as Toby ordered. My feet were already protesting, but I plastered a smile on my face and breezed past the bouncer, who knew me by name.
"Miss Sterling," he nodded, lifting the velvet rope. "vip section is open."
"Thanks, Marco."
I ascended the stairs to the mezzanine level, which overlooked the dance floor. This was the "Wolf Den," the area reserved for the hockey team and the campus elite.
I spotted Lola immediately. She was sitting on a plush leather sofa, wearing a mesh top and combat boots, looking bored out of her mind.
"Georgia!" She jumped up and hugged me. She smelled like clove cigarettes and hairspray. "Oh my god, where have you been? You haven't answered a text in twenty-four hours. I thought your dad shipped you off to a convent."
"Something like that," I shouted over the music. "I've been... detoxing. Digital detox. Very chic."
Lola narrowed her eyes, her dark eyeliner making her look like a suspicious raccoon. "You look amazing. But you also look like you’re about to have a panic attack. What’s going on?"
"Nothing," I lied smoothly, grabbing a drink from a passing waiter's tray. It was champagne. I took a sip, praying it was free. It was. Thank God for open bars at team events. "I'm just ready to party."
I turned to scan the room.
The Wolves were out in force. They were easy to spot—massive, broad-shouldered giants taking up too much space, wearing variations of button-downs and tight jeans. They moved in a pack, laughing loudly, confident in their status as the kings of campus.
And then I saw him.
Toby.
He was sitting in a booth in the corner, flanked by Jager and a few of the defensemen. He looked... bored. Utterly, devastatingly bored.
He held a tumbler of whiskey loosely in one hand. He wasn't looking at the girls dancing nearby, who were practically throwing themselves at him. He wasn't looking at his teammates.
He was looking straight at me.
Our eyes locked across the crowded VIP section.
The noise of the club seemed to fade into a dull roar. The strobe lights slowed down. It was just him and me, connected by an invisible, high-tension wire.
His gaze was heavy, possessive. It wasn't the look of a roommate. It wasn't the look of a landlord. It was the look of a man watching his property to make sure no one else touched it.
I felt a flush rise from my chest to my neck. I raised my chin, challenging him. I’m here. I’m behaving. Stop watching me.
He didn't blink. He just took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes darkening.
"Earth to Georgia," Lola waved a hand in front of my face.
I snapped back to reality. "What?"
"I said, look who’s coming over. It’s Brett."
My stomach turned. Brett "The Body" Hanson. The star quarterback of the football team. We had gone on three dates last semester. He was handsome, rich, and had the personality of a wet cardboard box.
"Georgia!" Brett boomed, sliding up next to me. He was wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped. Tragic. "I heard a rumor you were MIA. Glad to see the rumors are false."
He wrapped a heavy arm around my waist, pulling me into his side.
My skin crawled.