Chapter 5
Isla
I don't let myself think about it until I'm back in my dorm room. Don't think about his hand in mine. Don't think about the way his voice changed when he talked about his father. Don't think about how he looked trying so hard to skate, vulnerable in a way I've never seen him.
I don't think about any of it.
Becca isn't here, thank god so I have the room to myself. I drop my skates by my bed and pull out my phone, checking the Instagram posts one more time.
The likes keep climbing. Comments multiply. People are eating this up. The scholarship girl and the legacy prince. It's a narrative they can't resist.
If only they knew the truth.
I'm about to put my phone away when it buzzes with a text from Ivy: Emergency girl talk. My room. Now. Bringing wine.
Wine. Which means she bought the cheapest bottle from the liquor store near campus. Which means she's serious.
I consider refusing. I'm tired. My feet hurt. My head hurts from trying not to analyze every second of that date.
But Ivy said emergency, and something about that makes me grab my keys and head down the hall.
When I knock, she opens the door immediately. There's another girl with her, Lennox, from my morning shifts at the café. Short dark hair, always wearing band t-shirts, perpetually exhausted but somehow still cheerful.
"Intervention time," Ivy announces, pulling me inside.
Her room is slightly bigger than mine but just as run-down. Posters cover the cracked walls. Her roommate's side is pristine; Ivy's is organized chaos. She gestures to her bed where she's set up an actual wine bottle and three mugs.
"We don't have proper glasses," she explains, pouring. "But alcohol is alcohol."
"I have class tomorrow morning," I protest weakly.
"You have Victorian Lit at ten. You'll be fine." Lennox hands me a mug. "Drink. Then talk."
I sit on the bed and take a sip. It's terrible wine. Sweet and burning at the same time.
Perfect.
"So," Ivy says, settling next to me. "Sebastian Thornhill."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Too bad. We saw the posts and now we need details." She pulls out her phone, showing me the Instagram photos I posted. "Because these? These look almost... not terrible?"
"They're fake. It's all fake. That's the point."
"But you're holding his hand," Lennox points out. "And in the second photo, you're smiling. Barely, but it's there."
I grab her phone to look closer. She's right. There's a tiny smile on my face in that photo. When did that happen? When was I smiling?
When he told me his father said Thornhills don't fail publicly. When I called it abuse and he didn't argue.
"It's for the camera," I insist. "For the contract. None of it's real."
"Okay, but how was it actually?" Ivy presses. "Did he treat you okay? Because if he was an asshole, we can, I don't know, slash his tires or something."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. "You're going to vandalize Sebastian Thornhill's Mercedes?"
"If necessary, yes." She's completely serious. "You're our friend, Isla. We've got your back."
Our friend. When did that happen? When did these casual acquaintances become people who'd commit crimes for me?
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest.
"He wasn't terrible," I admit quietly. "He was... almost human."
"Almost human," Lennox repeats. "That's a ringing endorsement."
"I mean, he can't ice skate. Like, at all. He was terrified and holding onto the boards like they were life rafts." The memory makes me smile despite myself. "I ended up teaching him."
"You taught him?" Ivy's eyes widen. "The guy who's been tormenting you for two years?"
"I wasn't going to let him fall on his face. That would've been..." I trail off. Mean? Cruel? Exactly what he deserves after two years of making my life hell?
"Human," Lennox supplies. "You weren't going to let him fall because you're a decent person. Unlike him."
"Except he told me about his father. About why he stopped skating as a kid." I take another sip of terrible wine. "His dad sounds awful. Like, genuinely awful. And for a second, I almost felt bad for him."
"Oh no," Ivy says. "You're humanizing him."
"I'm not—"
"You are. Next thing you know, you'll be defending him. Making excuses. Forgetting all the shit he's put you through."
"I won't forget." My voice hardens. "Two years of comments about my clothes, my jobs, my 'place' at Thornhill. Getting me bumped from that TA position. Making sure I'm excluded from study groups. He's been systematically cruel, and one ice skating date doesn't change that."
"But?" Lennox prompts gently.
"But nothing. Four more dates, two more weeks, then this is over."
They exchange a look I don't like.
"What?"
"Nothing," Ivy says too quickly. "It's just... you're already thinking about him differently. I can see it."
"I'm not."
"You called him Sebastian. Not Thornhill. Not 'the asshole.' Sebastian."
Did I? I replay the conversation in my head. She's right. When did I start using his first name?
"It doesn't matter." I finish my wine in one long swallow. "This is a transaction. Nothing more."
"A transaction where you hold hands and smile at each other," Lennox points out.
"For the camera."
"Right. For the camera." But she doesn't sound convinced.
My phone buzzes. I check it reflexively.
Sebastian: Thank you for today. For teaching me. I know you didn't have to.
My stomach does something complicated.
"Who is it?" Ivy cranes her neck to see.
I lock my phone. "No one. What's the second date supposed to be?"
"Nice deflection." But Ivy lets it go. "What's on the package list?"
I pull up the contract on my phone. "Cooking class. There's one this Saturday afternoon that's part of the Valentine's events. Couples' baking."
"Couples' baking?" Lennox grins. "That's either going to be adorable or a disaster."
"Definitely a disaster. He probably doesn't know how to boil water."
"And you're going to teach him?" Ivy suggests.
"I'm going to survive it. There's a difference."
But even as I say it, I'm thinking about his text. Thank you for teaching me. I know you didn't have to.
He's never thanked me for anything. Never acknowledged that I've done him a kindness.
It's destabilizing.
"I should go," I say, standing. "Early shift tomorrow."
"Isla." Ivy catches my hand. "Just... be careful, okay? I know you're tough. I know you can handle yourself. But guys like Sebastian Thornhill? They're dangerous because they make you think they're different. That you're special. And then—"
"I know." I squeeze her hand. "I'm not falling for anything. I promise."
I leave before they can argue further, heading back to my room with Ivy's warning echoing in my head.
Guys like Sebastian Thornhill are dangerous.
She's not wrong. But not for the reasons she thinks.
He's dangerous because every time I see a crack in his armor, I want to look deeper. I want to understand what made him this way. I want to know if the person who wrote that text, grateful, almost vulnerable, is real.
And that wanting is the most dangerous thing of all.
Friday morning, I'm at the café by six for the opening shift. The coffee machine hates me, the first customer is rude, and I spill an entire pot of dark roast on myself before seven.
"Rough morning?" Lennox asks, appearing for her seven-thirty shift.
"Rough life." I'm trying to scrub coffee out of my shirt with a wet towel. It's not working. "I'm going to smell like espresso all day."
"Could be worse. You could smell like the dumpster I had to take out yesterday."
Fair point.
We work in comfortable silence for a while, the morning rush building. Students desperate for caffeine before their eight AMs. Professors who haven't learned that nothing good happens before nine. The occasional townie who wanders in looking confused by all the Thornhill merch.
At 8:15, the door opens and my entire body tenses.
Sebastian walks in.
He never comes to this café. Never. There are three coffee places on campus, and this is the furthest from his usual route. Which means he came here deliberately.
To see me.
He gets in line, and I try very hard to look busy with the espresso machine. But there are only two people ahead of him.
"Hi. Can I get a black coffee and—" He pauses, reading my name tag like he doesn't know who I am. "Isla. Didn't realize you worked here."
"Every morning. Six to ten." Why am I telling him this? Why am I engaging?
"Early start."
"Some of us have to work for a living."
The words come out sharper than I intend. A couple customers glance over. Lennox is watching from the register with undisguised interest.
Sebastian's jaw tightens, but his voice stays level. "Black coffee. Large. And whatever she wants."
He gestures at me.
"I don't want anything."
"The coffee's on me. Consider it payment for yesterday's skating lesson."
"I don't need—"
"Isla." He says my name quietly, and there's something in his expression that stops my protest. "Please. Let me buy you coffee."
It's the please that does it. Sebastian Thornhill doesn't say please. Doesn't ask for anything. He demands, expects, takes.
"Fine. Small latte." I'm already regretting this.
Lennox rings him up, her eyes darting between us like she's watching a tennis match. Sebastian pays, probably leaves a ridiculous tip knowing him and steps aside to wait.
I make his coffee first. Plain black, no sugar. Simple. Controlled. Probably how he takes everything in life.
Then I start on my latte. The espresso machine chooses this moment to malfunction, sputtering and hissing. Of course.
"Problem?" Sebastian asks.
"It's temperamental. Give me a second."
I fiddle with the pressure valve. The machine makes a sound like a dying whale, then cooperates. I pull the shot, steam the milk, pour.
When I hand him his coffee, our fingers brush. That same electric feeling from yesterday.
I pull back quickly.
"Thanks," he says.
"You're welcome. Enjoy your overpriced coffee."
"I will. See you tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. Right. The cooking class.
"Two o'clock. Don't be late."
"I wouldn't dream of it." He takes his coffee and heads for the door, then pauses. Turns back. "And Isla? You might want to change your shirt. The coffee stain looks like—"
"I know what it looks like. Thank you for that observation."
He almost smiles. Actually, I almost smile. Then he's gone, leaving me standing behind the counter with a latte I don't have time to drink and Lennox staring at me with way too much interest.
"That," she says slowly, "was interesting."
"That was nothing."
"He came here specifically to see you."
"He came here for coffee."
"There are three coffee places on this campus, and this is the only one where you work. He knows your schedule now, by the way. Six to ten every morning."
Shit. She's right. Why did I tell him that?
"It doesn't matter."
"Isla." Lennox leans across the counter. "I'm not trying to be annoying. But I saw how he looked at you and how you looked at him. And I just…I want you to be careful."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because everyone can see what you're trying not to see," She tells me.
"Which is?"
"That maybe this isn't as fake as you're pretending it is." She says and before I can respond, another customer arrives, and we're pulled back into the rush. But Lennox's words stick with me through the rest of my shift.
Maybe this isn't as fake as you're pretending it is.
No. It is fake. It has to be fake. Because the alternative, that something real might be developing between me and Sebastian Thornhill is impossible.
Impossible and terrifying and absolutely not happening.
I spend Friday afternoon and evening trying not to think about tomorrow's cooking class.
Trying not to think about Sebastian at all.
I fail spectacularly.
By Friday night, I'm lying in bed, staring at my phone, reading and rereading his text from Thursday.
Thank you for teaching me. I know you didn't have to.
Why did he send that? What does he want from me? Is this all part of some elaborate game? Some new way to hurt me?
Or is it possible, even remotely possible, that he's being genuine?
My phone buzzes with a new text.
Sebastian: Quick question about tomorrow. Do I need to bring anything? Ingredients? A fire extinguisher?
Despite myself, I smile.
Me: Just yourself. And maybe lower your expectations. I'm not great at baking either.
Sebastian: So we'll burn things together. Sounds romantic.
Me: Nothing about this is romantic.
Sebastian: Not yet.
I stare at those two words for a full minute.
Not yet.
What the hell does that mean?
Before I can overthink it or respond another text comes through.
Sebastian: Kidding. Mostly. See you tomorrow, Monroe.
I throw my phone across the bed and pull my pillow over my face.
Four more dates.
I can survive four more dates.
I survived two years of his cruelty. I can survive two weeks of whatever this is.
Even if "whatever this is" is starting to feel like something I can't define. Something that doesn't fit into the neat boxes I've built around Sebastian Thornhill.
Something that, against all logic and self-preservation, feels almost like possibility.
And that might be the scariest thing I've faced since the day I arrived at Thornhill University and realized I didn't belong.
The difference is, I'm not sure I want to run away from this.
Not yet.