2. Chapter 1
RYAN
I slouched into my seat.
“I can assure you he won’t be a disturbance,” my father’s voice boomed in the office. He gave me a look, and I sat up straighter. “He just needs to finish his two semesters,” my father finished stiffly, eyes already drifting back to his phone as he fired off another text to his secretary.
I refrained from rolling my eyes at his stupid antics.
I could tell he was itching to get me off his hands and get his ass back in his private jet. To return to his little vacation with his barely legal secretary.
Sorry, I ruined it, Daddy.
Piece of Shit.
Men always cheat when given the opportunity. Always.
They lie, cheat, and drain people of every ounce of joy, and when they’ve wrung you dry, they move on to their next prey.
I should tell him off, curse him out publicly to humiliate him, even if it’s only in front of the dean.
The thought made me let out a low huff, but his mossy green eyes snapped to me, narrowing slightly.
I bit back a retort and forced my face into a neutral position. I know what happens when I speak out, and I won’t make that mistake again.
“It’s a late notice…” the dean began, “and his academic scores are not up to standard.”
“He’ll improve,” my father cuts in, leaning back. His tone sharpened. “Isn’t that right, Ryan?” I nodded automatically, like one of those bobbleheads.
“Yes, of course.” I straightened in the luxurious armchair, layering my voice with fake warmth and flashing my award-winning smile.
He gave me a pointed look, he knew it was a performance, but he wouldn’t call me out here. He had more sense than that, especially while trying to get me enrolled.
The dean’s chocolate-brown eyes flicked toward me. I ignored the subtle appraisal of my body, tightening my grip on the armrest.
He combed his stubby fingers through his greying hair and gave me a vacant stare. The office screamed ego: oversized, a chandelier above the desk, windows overlooking campus.
Narcissist.
“I understand that, I do —but Mr. Larson, this is a prestigious university,” the dean leans in, his voice audibly lower, “and given his incident with those men—”
“You mean those scum of the earth football players who took advantage of my son?” my father cut in sharply, his voice rising an octave. ‘Tell me, Gordan, if that was your daughter, would you want her to be treated like a passive participant?”
He looked furious, but his eyes told the truth: he was more disgusted than anything, not by what he implied but by me .
My skin prickled. A chill crawled down my spine, and I cracked my knuckles to distract myself.
I remember that day like it was yesterday, because it was. It was my mistake for getting drunk and horny, and I wanted it, I did. I mean—
I shake my head.
I shouldn’t have even attempted that shit in the dorm's bathroom. But twisting my experience into something murky for social sympathy, like he’d ever actually cared, what a joke.
Mr. Gordon swallowed. “No–I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
My father lifted a hand in a silent order to continue.
I hated being seen as a victim, so I opened my mouth to set the record straight.
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was—”
“Not now, Ryan.” His voice shut me down. I bit the inside of my cheek.
Calm down.
The Dean shifted, his expression caught between reality and his assumptions.
Whore or victim?
His face drooped with pity, his lips pressed in a tight line, but his eyes roamed.
“I don’t know if we can allow someone with his… academic history into our establishment.” His smile was thin, bleeding condescension. I could tell he was grasping for straws.
I gave a forced smile, but he wasn’t looking at me; he was staring at my father.
A silence passed.
My father cracked his knuckles, stood, and pulled a checkbook from his jacket along with a pen. His handwriting scratched against the paper before he tore the check free.
The dean dabbed at his glasses with a lonely handkerchief, then leaned forward. My heart pounded.
Is he bribing him?
Seriously?
The Dean stared at the check.
My father checked his phone, posture heavy with entitlement. “A contribution for the amenities. I’m an alumnus.”
The checkbook disappeared back into his pocket.
Please say no.
Stand your ground. I hate watching my father get away with everything by just waving a wad of cash and his influence around.
Instead, the Dean nodded, slid the check into a drawer, typed something, and sent the printer buzzing. He tore the page free and handed it to me.
“Welcome to KanderHill, Ryan. This is your schedule for the upcoming semester.”
Great.
I didn’t take it. My father did, shoving it into my hand before we left the office.
The paper burned in my palm, mocking me.
My father always told me that one could get anything they want with either a bribe or blackmail. I hate that he's always right.
***
In the parking lot, he turned to me. His tired green eyes narrowed as he hooked two fingers under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
I tried to look away, but his fingers tapped sharply against my jaw.
“You'd better get your act together. Do you have any idea how hard it was to hide your little sex scandal? Huh?”
His grip tightened, the pressure ghosting against my neck.
“You didn’t have to bribe him,” I croaked, my voice barely there.
His eyes hardened. “You wouldn’t understand. This is how you get what you want. The more you learn, the better. You have it too easy.”
I swallowed my retort.
He was right.
I was wrong.
Always wrong.
Finally, he let go of my chin and pushed my face away, just enough to leave a faint sting on my cheek.
The chauffeur pulled up beside him and opened the door.
My father reached into his pocket and handed me a black card.
I swallowed my spit. I knew what this was: a bribe. He probably had his secretary tracking every purchase again.
He was always stricter with me than with Sam.
I knew why, but it still annoyed me.
When I was younger, it used to crack something inside me, a deep resentment for Sam.
I used to think he stole the favoritism my father once had for me.
He used to love telling me how I was a lot like him.
Used to.
He stood over me, scowl deepening, brows drawn together, jaw tight.
“So help me God, I mean it. No shenanigans, no drama, and no men. Understand?”
I nodded. He wasn’t the type of man I wanted to fight with.
He shook his head, like he couldn’t even bother with talking to me a minute longer, and had his phone out before I could even say goodbye.
I looked at my schedule and cursed.
Intermediate psychology. Again.
I thought a D was passing!
The black card burned in my pocket. Before I could talk myself out of it, I tossed it into the nearest recycling bin.
I don’t need him. I can get what I want my way, no matter what it takes.
***
Fuckity fuck.
I was so lost. I walked around the entire campus trying to find this psychology class.
Apparently, it was on the top floor of the fucking library.
Wasn't psychology a social science? Why was it above the library and not in the social science building?
Whatever.
It would be fine, really , if it didn't start pouring.
Fucking hell.
I made my way towards the library, which was on a slight hill, so not only was I soaking wet, but now out of breath too.
I finally rushed into the hallway, my shoes leaving damp marks on the carpet floor.
So far, the only silver lining of being at KanderHill was that I got a single dorm, so at least I didn’t have to share my living conditions, but I’m starting to regret not trying a bit harder in my last college.
I should have graduated by now.
I gripped the hoodie tighter around myself, the dampness clinging to my skin.
I rushed to the elevator and hit the highest button.
Five.
I checked my phone; 7:58 p.m.
Damnit! I was so late, hopefully the professor wasn't a hardass. Maybe it's someone who liked pretty things, and I could bat my eyelashes a few times.
At my old college, this would be easy; all the teachers were slimy and pervy.
Unfortunately, this new college is proving to be a real pain in my ass.
Still, who the hell schedules a class at 7:00 p.m.? Were psych majors all nocturnal?
I glanced at my schedule again. Professor Thorne. PSYCH 203.
I see the elevator doors start to close.
“Please—hold the elevator!” A voice echoes down the hall.
I glance up. Someone is jogging toward me, their face hidden under a dark blue umbrella, one of those people who actually checks the forecast.
I was already having a shitty day. A really shitty day.
So instead of holding it, I leaned forward and pressed the ‘close door’ button.
It was the first thing all day that made me smile. A vicious joy clawing at my chest.
Unfortunately, he reached it anyway, wedging his hands between the doors. The metal groaned as they slid open.
Stupid delay.
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered, snapping his umbrella shut.
I plastered on a smile, voice pitched light. “Sorry I didn’t—”
He turned, and his dark brown eyes met mine.
My mouth went dry. “I—sorry, didn’t hear you,” I stumbled, coughing like an idiot.
His smile was tight, unreadable, as he stepped inside. He folded his arms and leaned against the rail, but it felt deliberate, like he was taking up just enough space that I had to shift.
He was… very attractive. Too attractive for this party school.
Was he a student? Maybe working on his PhD?
I stole glances while pretending not to, his Oxford-white button-up crisp against his shoulders, black slacks hanging just right. He looked polished, sophisticated. Like he belonged somewhere else entirely.
His face, God . I’d let him wreck me in the sheets. Chiseled jaw, clean-shaven, with a mouth that begged to be kissed. He bit his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the elevator doors, shadows cutting across his cheekbones. Sinfully hot.
He stood close enough that I caught his scent. Pine. Woodsmoke. Something steady.
It made me hyper-aware of the rainwater and cheap Axe clinging to me.
His voice broke through my thoughts, smooth and warm, as he spoke into his phone.
“Yes, darling. I’ll be home soon.”
His voice was calm and silky, but I deflated anyway.
Taken.
Or straight.
Fuck, most likely both.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I gripped the railing.
Devon again. I suppressed a groan as his text flashed across my screen.
Devon:
If you only wanted to use me as a glorified dildo, just say that.
But Quinn? Leo? Jesus, Ry.
My stomach dropped. That sharp bite of indignation crawled under my skin.
Did he find out about…? How?
I tightened my grip on the phone, thinking of how to respond without showing exactly how much his little messages were ruining my mood.
Fuck Devon.
Fuck Quinn too. Did he tell Devon?
“Can you press the top button?” The man’s voice interrupted me.
“I already did,” I said, keeping my eyes on the screen as Devon’s typing bubble appeared.
Devon:
Real classy…I thought we were exclusive? Were you drunk?
Rage simmered low in my chest. My fingers moved faster than my thoughts.
“The button isn’t lit,” the man said. There was an edge to his voice. “So you didn’t press it.”
“Then press it your self ! What—are your fingers broken?” The words snapped out before I could stop them.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Fuck you, Devon. Making me lash out at strangers on my first day.
Especially sexy model ones.
The man muttered under his breath. “Wow.”
I wasn’t going to give him more. I wasn’t going to be baited twice in one day.
He reached past me and pressed the button. His scent momentarily evaded my senses. The light flashed red. The elevator moved.
Fuck, did I really not press it?
Heat crawled up my face. Definitely not the first impression I wanted to give.
When the doors opened, I stepped out without looking back. But I could feel his eyes on me.
I hope I never see him again.
What a waste of a hot stranger.
Fucking Devon.