Chapter 4
Sebastian
She looks like she's about to walk to her execution.
Isla stands in her dorm hallway clutching a pair of skates that have seen better days, probably better decades and staring at me like I'm a firing squad.
"Your chariot awaits," I say, aiming for light. Casual.
"My what?"
I gesture toward the stairs. "My car. Unless you'd prefer to walk? It's only twenty minutes in sub-freezing temperatures."
"Walking sounds great, actually."
Of course it does.
"Isla." I keep my voice even. "It's part of the date package. Transportation included and we need to document this on social media, which means we need to look like we're actually on a date. Not like I'm stalking you across campus."
Her jaw tightens, but she follows me down the stairs and out to the parking lot where my car, a black Mercedes my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday sits waiting.
She stops when she sees it.
"Of course you drive a Mercedes."
"Would you prefer I drove a Honda?"
"I'd prefer you didn't exist, but here we are."
I unlock the car. "After you."
She slides into the passenger seat with visible reluctance, placing her skates on the floor. I close her door and walk around to the driver's side, giving myself a moment to breathe.
This was a terrible idea.
Marcus was right. What the hell am I trying to accomplish here? Two weeks of forced proximity with someone who hates me. Someone who has every right to hate me?
I get in the car. The space immediately feels too small. Too intimate. Isla stares out the window, her entire body angled away from me.
"Seatbelt," I say.
She clicks it without looking at me.
I start the car. Classical music fills the silence, Chopin, because of course I'm that pretentious and I quickly turn it off.
"You can keep it on," she says. "I don't care."
"It's fine."
"No, really. Don't change anything on my account. Wouldn't want to disrupt your aesthetic."
There it is. The acid in her voice that I've earned and probably deserve.
The drive to the campus ice rink takes three minutes. Three of the longest minutes of my life. Every second feels weighted with things neither of us are saying.
When I park, she's out of the car before I can get her door. Independent to the point of stubbornness. I grab my own skates from the back and follow her to the rink entrance.
The campus rink is small but well-maintained another donation from a founding family, naturally. On Thursday afternoon, it's mostly empty except for a few couples and some figure skating club members practicing jumps.
We pay the minimal entrance fee. I try to pay for both of us, but Isla shoves cash at the attendant before I can.
"I can afford ice skating," she says coldly.
"I know. But I'm the one who bid on you, so—"
"So nothing. I pay my own way."
Fine. Let her have this small rebellion.
We sit on benches to change into our skates. Hers are old, the leather cracked, laces frayed. Mine are practically new because I've ice skated maybe twice in my life and I'm not even sure why I suggested this for her date package.
Except I do know why. There was a moment, watching her fill out that participation form last week, where I imagined holding her hand on the ice. Imagined her laughing instead of glaring at me.
Pathetic.
She laces up efficiently, clearly experienced. Meanwhile, I'm struggling with my third attempt at a knot that won't immediately come undone.
"You don't know how to skate," she observes.
"I know how to skate."
"Then why are you strangling your laces?"
"I'm not—" I stop. Try again. Fail again. "Fine. I'm not great at skating."
Something that might be satisfaction flickers across her face. "And yet you bid on a date package that includes ice skating."
"I'm adaptable."
"You're an idiot."
But there's less venom in it this time. More resignation. Maybe even the faintest hint of amusement.
She finishes her skates and stands, testing the fit. Then she pulls out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Required social media documentation." She holds up her phone. "Smile, Thornhill. Let's show everyone what a perfect fake date looks like."
She snaps a selfie of us on the bench, my skates half-tied, both of us looking miserable.
"That's not going to convince anyone," I say.
"Good. Because I'm not trying to convince anyone of anything except that we fulfilled the contract requirements."
She posts it before I can argue. I catch a glimpse of the caption: Date 1/5: Ice skating with my auction winner. #ThornhillGala #CharityDate #SendHelp
"Send help?" I raise an eyebrow.
"What? It's funny."
"It's going to start rumors."
"Good. Maybe someone will rescue me."
She heads toward the ice, moving with the kind of confidence that comes from years of experience. I follow more carefully, gripping the boards as I step onto the ice.
The rink is cold and bright, sunlight streaming through the glass roof. A few other skaters circle lazily. Romantic music plays over the speakers probably part of the Valentine's theme.
Isla glides away from me effortlessly, her movements smooth and practiced. She does a small spin, then looks back at me still clutching the boards like a lifeline.
"You really can't skate."
"I can skate. I'm just... cautious."
"You're terrified."
"I'm not—" My feet slide out from under me, and only my death grip on the boards keeps me upright. "Fine. Yes. I'm terrified. Happy?"
She skates back to me, and for the first time since the auction, something other than anger crosses her face. Curiosity, maybe. Or pity.
"When's the last time you skated?"
"Ten? Eleven? My father took me once. Said it was 'character building.' I fell, broke my wrist, and he never took me again because Thornhills don't break."
The words come out before I can stop them. Too honest. Too revealing.
Isla's expression shifts to something I can't read.
"So you suggested ice skating why, exactly?"
"It was on your list of date activities." I remind her.
"Because I actually know how to skate. You could have picked something else."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She studies me for a long moment. Then, incredibly, she holds out her hand. "Come on."
"What?"
"I'll teach you. Or at least keep you from face-planting in front of the figure skating club." She glances at where several girls are watching us with obvious interest. "Pretty sure that would go viral."
I look at her outstretched hand like it might be a trap.
"I don't need—"
"Sebastian." She says my name for maybe the second time ever, and hearing it from her does something strange to my chest. "Just take my hand. The sooner you can skate like a functional human, the sooner this date is over."
Logic I can't argue with.
I release the boards and take her hand.
Her fingers are cold from the ice, callused from work, smaller than mine. The moment our hands connect, something electric passes between us. I see her feel it too, the slight widening of her eyes, the quick inhale.
Then she's pulling me forward onto the ice.
"Bend your knees," she instructs. "Keep your weight centered. Don't fight the motion."
"Easy for you to say."
"I've been skating since I was six. My hometown has an outdoor rink. Free ice time was the only entertainment we could afford." She demonstrates the basic stride. "Push off with one foot, glide with the other. Like this."
She makes it look effortless. Graceful.
I try to copy her and nearly fall. Her grip on my hand tightens, steadying me.
"Less thinking. More feeling." She snaps at me.
"I don't do feelings."
"Clearly. Now try again."
We spend the next twenty minutes like that. Her teaching, me failing, both of us pretending the hand-holding is purely functional. I fall twice more, she catches me both times with surprising strength for someone so much smaller than me.
"You're overthinking it," she says after my third near-disaster. "It's just ice. It can't hurt you."
"It absolutely can hurt me. Ice is frozen water. Water is dangerous."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm practical."
But I'm also improving. Slowly. By the thirty-minute mark, I can make it halfway around the rink without clutching her like a lifeline.
"See?" She sounds almost pleased. "You're not completely hopeless."
"High praise from Isla Monroe."
"Don't get used to it." She replies quickly.
We skate together, her movements fluid beside my stilted ones and here's the thing I didn't expect, it's not completely terrible. Yes, I'm bad at this. Yes, she still hates me. But there's something almost peaceful about it. The rhythm of skating. The cold air. Her hand in mine.
"Why'd you stop?" she asks suddenly.
"Stop what?"
"Skating. After you broke your wrist. Most people would try again."
I consider lying. It would be easier. But something about this moment, the ice, the sunlight, the way she's looking at me with actual curiosity instead of hatred makes me tell the truth.
"My father said if I couldn't do it perfectly, I shouldn't do it at all. Thornhills don't show weakness. We don't fail publicly." I can still hear his voice in the hospital. Embarrassing. The Thornhill name means something, Sebastian. "So I stopped trying."
She's quiet for several rotations around the rink.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." She whispers.
"It's just reality."
"No. It's abuse disguised as standards." Now that was a quick reply from her.
The words hit harder than they should. No one's ever called it that before. My father's expectations are just how things are in my family. Legacy. Tradition. Excellence or nothing.
"I'm not looking for pity," I say, defensive now.
"Good. Because I'm not offering any. I'm just observing that your father sounds like an asshole."
Despite everything, I almost laugh.
"He is. Certified asshole. It's genetic, apparently."
"Apparently."
But there's less edge to her voice now. We skate in silence for a few more minutes. I'm actually getting the hang of this. Can almost keep up with her.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture.
"You're going to anyway."
"Why do you work so hard? Two jobs, perfect grades, never taking a break. You're going to burn out."
Her hand tenses in mine. For a second, I think she's going to pull away. Skate off and leave me stranded, but she doesn't.
"Because I have to," she says finally. "My mom's a single parent. My sister has medical bills. Every dollar I make, every scholarship I keep, every opportunity I earn, it matters. It's not about me. It's about them. About proving that getting out is possible."
"Getting out of what?"
"Poverty. The cycle. The idea that where you start is where you end." She looks at me then, really looks at me. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"Why? So you can mock me for it? Add it to your collection of ways to torture me?"
"No. Because I actually want to know."
The music changes. Something slow and romantic. Other couples skate closer together. Isla notices, stiffens.
"We should do another lap for photos," she says, pulling out her phone with her free hand. "Contract requirements."
"Isla—"
"Smile, Sebastian."
She holds up her phone and captures us mid-skate, her face carefully neutral, mine probably showing too much.
She posts it immediately. Caption: He can't skate. I'm basically a professional now. #ThornhillGala #DateOne #IceQueen
"Ice Queen?" I read over her shoulder.
"It's funny because it's a pun. Ice skating. Cold personality. You're supposed to laugh." She says while laughing.
"I'm laughing internally."
"Sure you are."
But I can see the tiniest smile tugging at her lips. Genuine. Unguarded. It disappears the moment she realizes I'm looking.
"One more lap," she says. "Then we're done."
"We've barely been here an hour."
"Contract says we need to complete the date. Doesn't specify duration. One hour is perfectly reasonable."
"You've really studied that contract."
"Of course I did. Never sign anything without reading the fine print." She glances at me. "Apparently you don't have that problem. You just throw money at things."
The accusation stings more than it should.
"Is that what you think? That I bought you to humiliate you?"
"Didn't you?" She asks.
"No."
The word comes out harder than I intend. We've stopped skating now, just standing in the middle of the rink while other people flow around us.
"Then why?" she demands. "Why bid on me specifically? Why one thousand dollars? Why any of this?"
Because I can't stop thinking about you.
Because two years ago, you saw right through me and I've never recovered.
Because I don't know how to fix what I broke.
But I can't say any of that. So I say nothing.
Isla pulls her hand from mine. The loss of contact feels colder than the ice.
"That's what I thought." She skates toward the exit. "I'm done. Date one complete. See you for date two."
"Isla, wait—"
But she's already off the ice, unlacing her skates with quick, angry movements. I follow more slowly, my ankles aching from the unfamiliar exercise.
By the time I get my skates off, she's putting on her shoes.
"Let me drive you back," I try.
"I'll walk."
"It's freezing."
"I'm used to the cold." She stands, grabs her skates. "Thanks for the skating lesson, Thornhill. Next date, try picking something you're actually good at. If such a thing exists."
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me on a bench surrounded by other couples who actually look happy to be together.
I pull out my phone and check her Instagram post. It already has dozens of likes and comments.
Cutest couple!!
Sebastian Thornhill is dating someone??
She's teaching him to skate omg adorable
I scroll to her first post. The one with the Send Help caption. Different comments there.
Isla are you okay?
Did he actually bid 1k?
This is either the best love story or the worst. No in between.
No in between. They're not wrong.
I sit there for another ten minutes, watching the ice, thinking about her hand in mine. How she could have let me fall. Could have made me look ridiculous in front of everyone.
Instead, she taught me to skate.
Why?
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus: How'd it go?
I type back: Unclear. She either hates me slightly less or is planning my murder. 50/50 shot.
I pocket my phone and head back to my car. I drive back to the Legacy House alone, my hand still tingling from holding hers.
Four more dates.
Two more weeks.
Either I'm going to figure out what I'm doing, or I'm going to destroy whatever microscopic chance I have left at proving I'm not the person she thinks I am.
Right now, the odds aren't looking great.
But I've never been good at quitting when the odds are bad.
It's probably the one thing my father taught me that's actually worth knowing.