Chapter 7 – Tessa
Chapter Seven
Tessa
Waffles pees on the side of the admissions building with his head held high and zero remorse.
His pride is almost impressive.
If peeing on university property weren’t also very much against the rules.
I scan the sidewalk for witnesses and find none. Campus is mostly empty this early. Thank heavens for pre-finals burnout and my roommate’s ongoing sleepover at her boyfriend’s apartment. Three blissful days of silence with no threats about unauthorized pets in our apartment agreement.
Just me, a hoodie stuffed with 70 percent terrier.
“Come on,” I whisper, nudging Waffles toward the side door.
He huffs, offended but cooperative, nonetheless.
We slip inside unnoticed, moving quickly up the stairs and down the long hall. I don’t breathe until we’re locked in my room and Waffles is curled up in a stolen laundry basket I should have given back to my last roommate.
I collapse onto the bed, hoodie still half-zipped, heart pounding.
I can’t keep this up forever.
Eventually, Tiffany will come home, and Waffles will bark at the wrong time.
Then what?
I’ll lose my apartment, my spot at Havemeyer, and whatever’s left of my already-questionable reputation.
It’s not just the dog. It’s everything.
The secrets. The IOU.
The way my arm still aches beneath the bandage, reminding me who cleaned the blood and whispered orders in the same breath.
I press my palms into my eyes.
This time at Havemeyer was supposed to be a second chance.
One semester of surviving quietly, graduating with enough dignity to move on and forget the mess I made.
But now, I’m sneaking contraband dogs into my apartment, breaking into my place of employment, and getting cornered by a man whom I now owe an ominous favor.
My phone buzzes.
Rowan King: Lunch. 1:00 p.m. Lincoln & Fifth.
I stare at the screen. Then roll my eyes so hard I give myself a tension headache.
No greeting.
Just orders.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I could say no.
I could block his number.
But we both know I won’t. Because underneath all my righteous anger is the cold truth: I can’t create more waves and risk getting kicked out of school again.
I need Rowan to go away.
Yet, my pride gets the better of me, and I type back: Make me.
I hit send before I can think better of it, then toss my phone onto the comforter.
My phone doesn’t buzz for the next twenty minutes, which should be a win.
Except now I’m pacing.
I brush my teeth. Re-brush them. Change shirts three times and land on the first one anyway. Tie my hair back, then pull it down, then remember I don’t care what I look like for Rowan King, and I definitely don’t pause to check my reflection on the way out.
Except I never make it out.
Because there’s a knock on the door.
Not a polite one.
A Rowan one.
I freeze. Waffles growls.
The knock comes again, louder.
I crack the door open two inches and find him already turned away, hands in the pockets of that dark wool coat he wears.
“You’re serious,” I say, deadpan.
He glances back. “You said make you.”
“That was rhetorical.”
“So was the text. Congratulations, we’re both disappointed.”
I step into the hallway, crossing my arms over my chest. The gesture feels defensive even to me. “You came to my apartment?”
He shrugs. “I gave you an hour.”
“It’s been twenty minutes.”
“I round up.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already holding something out between two fingers.
A card.
Just three letters in bold black ink:
IOU.
I blink. “You’re giving me another one?”
“You made me come get you.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is now.”
I snatch the card, toss it over my shoulder. “Unbelievable.”
“Be quiet,” he says, already turning toward the stairs. “And walk.”
We descend in silence, his pace annoyingly efficient. Mine slightly uneven because I’m still trying to shove my phone into my back pocket without looking like I care that Rowan’s ass looks tighter than it used to.
He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
And somehow, that silence is louder than anything he could’ve said.
Because I know Rowan King.
If he’s not talking, he’s thinking.
If he’s thinking, he’s planning.
And if he’s planning... I should be scared.
* * *
The restaurant is one of those too-polished cafés that serve things like eighteen-dollar avocado toast and sparkling water.
Of course, Rowan picked it.
The hostess recognizes him instantly. Rowan King is a reservation you memorize on instinct. She leads us to a table in the back, near the windows, where natural light hits just right and no one’s close enough to eavesdrop.
He doesn’t wait for me to sit.
He pulls out his own chair, shrugs out of his coat, and starts scanning the menu.
I slide into the seat across from him and immediately regret coming.
The silence stretches.
I fidget with my napkin.
“So...” I start, then stop. “This is weird, right?”
He doesn’t look up. “Only if you insist on making it that way.”
Ugh, I hate him.
A waiter appears before I can decide whether to slap him or stab him with my butter knife.
“Still or sparkling?” the waiter asks.
“Still,” Rowan answers. Then, with a glance at me, he says, “She’ll have the same.”
“I can order my own water.”
Rowan doesn’t respond. Just picks up the menu again.
“Do you know what you’d like?” the waiter asks, all fake cheer and hair spray.
“I’ll take the kale Caesar,” Rowan says. “No croutons.”
I blink. “You eat kale?”
He levels me with a dry look. “I eat things that keep me alive. Your turn.”
“I’ll have...” I glance at the menu and panic. Everything is either raw, fermented, or too difficult to pronounce. “Uh. The quiche.”
The waiter nods and vanishes.
“So,” I say again, and this time it’s a challenge. “Want to tell me why you summoned me to a restaurant I can’t afford, on a weekday I didn’t agree to?”
His eyes flick toward the window. Then back to me.
“The Hale & Brooks retreat is next weekend,” he says. “Hamptons. Three days.”
My jaw drops.
The retreat. I’ve heard whispers about it. It’s the final gauntlet for associates. Where careers are made or buried over champagne and small talk.
“You said lunch,” I snap. “Not career blackmail.”
He doesn’t flinch. “This is lunch.”
“I thought you were going to talk about the IOU. Or maybe apologize for storming into my apartment with all the subtlety of a federal raid.”
He folds his hands on the table. Those hands that once traced gentle patterns on my skin now rest perfectly still.
“I’m calling it in.”
I blink. “The IOU?”
He nods once.
“You want me to go on a work trip with you?”
“It’s not a work trip,” he says calmly. “It’s an audition. And I need a partner.”
“You need a prop is what you need.”
“No, I need someone who can lie convincingly while wearing pearls,” he says. “And unfortunately, you’re excellent at that.”
I nearly launch my water glass across the table. “You are unbelievable.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “And yet, here you are.”
The food hasn’t even arrived, and I’m already nauseous. My chest feels tight. This isn’t just about the retreat. This is about him wanting to parade me around in front of people who matter, dress me up in clothes I can’t afford, and watch me pretend I belong in his world.
I sit back in my chair, arms crossed so tight I might fold in half.
And Rowan?
He just lifts his glass, takes a sip, and watches me over the rim. I’m the most fascinating disaster he’s ever orchestrated.
I don’t touch my water again.
Mostly because if I do, I’ll throw it.
“You want me to fake-date you at a law firm retreat,” I say slowly, “in front of senior partners who could literally decide your future. And mine.”
He doesn’t blink. “Correct.”
I blink enough for both of us. “Are you insane?”
“It’s three days.”
“In the Hamptons.”
“You’ll need appropriate clothing.”
I gape at him. “Rowan, I own exactly one pair of shoes that don’t squeak when I walk and a dress from Target I bought for a funeral.”
He nods. “I’ll handle it.”
I laugh, and it’s not a nice sound. “Great. Nothing says female empowerment like being fully sponsored by my least favorite sociopath.
“This is not my scene,” I add, leaning in now, anger finally catching up.
“I don’t do networking brunches and curated couple photos and whatever version of law school you live in where I’m supposed to play the supportive girlfriend who knows the firm’s founding values and casually laughs at the partners’ jokes about market trends. ”
“You’re overthinking it.”
“No,” I bite, “you’re underestimating what it’s like to be the punchline in every room.”
Something flickers across his face. It’s brief an d almost too fast to catch. But I see it—a crack in the mask, a flash of something that might be regret.
Then it’s gone.
Rowan sighs through his nose like I’m the one complicating things by having an actual emotional response to being pimped out for professional optics.
“I’m not asking you to like it, Tessa.”
“No, you’re not asking anything. You’re ordering. You texted me without context. You showed up at my apartment uninvited. And now you want me to go play dress-up in the Hamptons and pretend this isn’t humiliating.”
“You want to pay me back or not?”
He doesn’t smile.
He simply watches me as if this was always going to happen and I was always going to say yes.
And the worst part?
He’s right.
Because I can’t afford to owe him forever. I can’t keep jumping at shadows, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not when some traitorous part of me is curious what it would feel like to stand beside him again, even if it’s all pretend.
I swallow hard. “What’s the cover story?”
He picks up his water again, and this time, he smiles.