Chapter 5
chapter five
The buzz of the intercom shatters the stillness, and I jab the button harder than necessary. "It's me," I say, my voice steady despite the jittery beat of my heart.
"Come up, fifth floor, apartment A." Alec's voice, detached as always, crackles through the speaker.
I steel myself as I enter the building. Instantly, I feel like a fish out of water. Everything is brand new, every surface polished. Every bit of decor screams money.
This building was only finished three years ago, and I’m just now realizing that it’s probably not a coincidence that it was finished just before Alec started his freshman year, and his father owns most of town. All the rich kids at school live here, if their mommy’s and daddy’s don’t have mansions near school. The elevator ride is a silent ascent, a cocoon that carries me closer to whatever the hell this meeting will unfold.
Floor numbers blink in succession—my pulse keeping time with them until the doors slide open with a soft ding.
I'm in front of his door before I realize it, my hand raised to knock. But before my knuckles touch wood, the door swings inward. Alec stands there, his blond hair like a halo under the hallway light, his body filling the doorway. He's all casual elegance, a stark contrast to the tight coil of nerves I've become.
"Winters." His nod is curt, eyes scanning me top to bottom, as if he’s trying to decipher what brings me here beyond our scheduled clash of the minds.
"Vanderholt." My response is just as clipped, the name tasting like copper on my tongue.
"Get in here," he says, stepping aside, the command wrapped in an invitation. “Give me a few minutes. I’m just wrapping something up.”
I step inside, and I can’t help but shake my head. His living room is larger than most of the apartments I lived in growing up. Everything is sleek modern lines and plush surfaces. I hardly want to breathe in here for fear of mussing up the polished floor… kitchen… tables. The entire place screams money.
I watch Alec disappear into a room just off the living area, leaving the door ajar. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the soft pad of my socked feet against the marble floors as I wander into his space.
The living room doesn’t look comfortable in the least with it’s modern furniture. The dining room is a glass table with stark black chairs. The kitchen looks like a chef’s wet dream. There’s a door leading back into the apartment, and something in my face feels hot when I see Alec’s king sized bed.
But I clear my throat as I wander toward the side door Alec disappeared into. As I step into the doorway, I realize it’s an office. My gaze sweeps over the room, a space that reeks of sophistication and power. I’d expect nothing less from the heir to Vanderholt Diamonds.
Alec is hunched over his desk, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a speed that matches the intensity in his eyes. The glow of the computer screen casts an ethereal light on his features, emphasizing the hard lines of his jaw and the furrow of concentration between his brows.
I linger by the door, taking in the sight of him in his element. I imagine this is the space he’s spent the last three plus years hard at work, giving me a run for my money at school. Three years now, we’ve been rivals. The only one at Westcroft who could take away that top spot from me.
There's something mesmerizing about seeing Alec so absorbed, so different from the aloof facade he usually wears like armor. A flicker of admiration stirs within me, but I shut that down just about as quick as I can.
“Is this the project you were being so cryptic about?” I dare to ask, knowing full well I’m poking the bear.
He makes an affirmative grunt, but continues to hammer away at his computer.
I turn back into the living room and shrug off my jacket, pretending being in Alec Vanderholt’s place doesn't set off a riot in my veins.
Walking into Alec’s apartment is like stepping into a showroom, one I could never afford on a hundred scholarships. Polished surfaces reflect my image back at me, dark hair, brown eyes—a deer caught in architectural lighting.
"Nice place," I say aloud, though it sounds more like an accusation than a compliment.
"It's alright." Alec reemerges from his office, his hands sliding into his pockets as he observes me in his space. Damn. Why does he looks so fucking hot leaning in the doorway? And why does he talk like he's discussing the weather, not the kind of luxury most people can only dream of?
"Alright for a king, maybe." My words are barbs, but they don't seem to pierce anything. "It’s so… cozy," I add, sarcasm lacing my tone as I scan the minimalist decor—nothing cozy about it. This place screams Alec Vanderholt, from the expensive tech adorning the entertainment unit to the abstract art that looks like someone's expensive tantrum on canvas.
"Make yourself at home," he says, but it's a taunt, not an invitation.
"Sure, I'll just kick off my shoes and curl up on your... What is that? A couch or a piece of modern art?" I quip, hands on my hips, taking in the monstrosity of black leather and chrome.
"Touché, Winters." He chuckles dryly, before nodding his head for me to come back to his office.
"I added a few things to the presentation,” I say as I step inside and let my bag slip to the floor. And I realize this might be a problem as I take in a breath, and I’m completely enveloped by the warm, crisp iconic scent of Alec. My eyes slide closed for a moment as the thought of running the tip of my nose up the length of his neck takes my brain hostage.
What. The. Fuck?
Where the hell did that thought come from, Salem?
“I emailed it to you,” I catch myself before my pause can get awkward and noticeable in length.
“Let’s see the damage,” he says flatly as he settles back in at his desk and opens up his email. I sit in the other chair in the corner, a modern thing that doesn’t look like it should be comfortable, but annoyingly is.
“I like what you did on slide three,” Alec notes as he scans everything. “What if we went deeper into the cost structure and added another slide?”
Back and forth. The tension crackles between us like static electricity as he pushes and I pull, he questions, and I ask even more. We dive in, each focused and determined in our own ways. Alec's ever surprising creativity complements my methodical nature, blending together seamlessly despite our clashing personalities.
As Alec busies himself at the computer, engrossed in wrapping up a segment of our work, I seize the opportunity to study his office. My eyes roam over the sleek furniture, the expensive gadgets adorning his desk, the stark artwork on the walls. It all fits him quite well. My eyes scan his bookshelf, hoping to glean anything interesting about Alec Vanderholt. The vast majority of it all is school books. There are a few knickknacks. There’s an entire set of Frank Herbert books, but none of them look like they’ve actually been read. A globe sits on a shelf, shiny and gold.
Something perched high catches my eye. I can only see the edge of it, as if it was placed there to be out of view. It’s white, that’s all I can gleam from it.
“I’ll be right back,” Alec says as he stands. “I’ve got to use the bathroom.”
“‘K,” I mutter, turning my attention back to my notes.
He slips out of the office and I listen to his footsteps as they retreat down the hall.
Who could resist? An opportunity to snoop around Alec Vanderholt’s space unmonitored?
I stand and reach for that top shelf, my fingers gripping what he’s tried to hide.
My blood goes cold for two seconds before ripping molten hot. My jaw drops and my fingers tighten around the object in my hand.
It’s a mask. A distinctive skull mask. It’s of ridiculous high quality. It’s done in the painted skull mask type, so seamless I’d almost think I was holding a face painting in 3D form.
As I turn it over, I find smears of black paint on the inside of it, the side that would be pressed up against a face.
A shiver runs down my spine as my fingers tighten around it. Recognition sparks in my brain with the force of an Independence Day show.
Looking toward the door for any signs of Alec’s return, I quickly put the mask back on the top shelf, careful to place it exactly as it was before. Poking my head out the door and finding the coast still clear, I sink into my seat and pull out my phone. Navigating with a few quick taps, my eyes go wide as I pull up the latest video.
There, on the screen is the drop-dead gorgeous body owned by a man in a skull mask.
The exact mask sitting on Alec Vanderholt’s top shelf.
And I see it now. His hair in the videos is wild in the sexiest way. It falls over the edges of his mask, it sticks in every direction. But it’s that same blond shade. It just looks different from the old money way he styles it in real life. And I’ve never seen Alec Vanderholt shirtless IRL, but the shape fits. Alec is fit. Built. I can see it in the way he wears all of his perfectly fitted clothes.
Is Alec?—
“What are you watching?”
My head snaps up and I probably couldn’t look more guilty if I tried.
Alec stands in the doorway of his office, a wary look of trepidation he’s trying to hide, but fails to accomplish.
“I—” the words disappear.
“Salem,” he says in warning as he takes one step inside.
"Are you Vice?" The words tumble out of my mouth before I can even process them, the weight of the accusation heavy in the air.
Alec's features tighten, his eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher my intentions. "What the hell are you talking about?" His voice is low, laced with a dangerous edge that’s darker than any other words he’s spoken to me before.
I swallow hard, suddenly feeling like I've crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. "You’re…” I stutter in little more than a whisper. And heat ignites in my skin. “Holy shit, you’re him."
His gaze flickers to the bookcase, and for a split second, something unreadable flashes across his face before it's masked by a cold demeanor. "Get out," he commands, his tone sharp and final.
Confusion mingles with hurt in my chest, the tension crackling between us like electricity. "Alec, I just?—"
“I said get the fuck out,” he snaps, each word as sharp as a blade. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And no one would ever believe the ridiculous bullshit coming out of your mouth. Leave, Salem.”
“Alec, I?—”
He yanks my things from his desk and shoves them harshly into my chest. With ice in those blue eyes, he stares at me. “Leave.”
My hands shake. My blood feels as if it’s made of lead. My tongue thick with shock and maybe a little bit of fear, I swallow once. And then I’m a whirlwind of movement as I gather the rest of my things, shove them into my backpack, and rush for the door. It slams closed behind me with a heavy thud.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Alec Vanderholt, heir of a multi-billion-dollar company, cold, arrogant asshole, is Vice. A man who wears a mask and posts incredibly edited thirst traps online. And he’s got… I whip out my phone as I ride the elevator down… two and a half million followers. Each of his videos gets nearly, if not, a million views, hundreds of thousands of likes, thousands of comments. Every woman and their mom knows who Vice is.
And it’s Alec fucking Vanderholt.
I gape as I step out of the elevator and practically stumble out the door onto the sidewalk, but it’s not the pavement I’m seeing.
Alec was cruel before. Cold. My academic nemesis. And I’ve just discovered his secret online identity.
Shit, Salem , I think to myself as my feet move quicker. You’ve just made your enemy hate you even more.
Better watch your fucking back.