7. GEORGIE
GEORGIE
The lecture hall empties in a chaotic rush of backpacks and conversation fragments. Students push toward the exits, eager to claim their Friday afternoon freedom. I'm stuffing my laptop into my bag when a shadow falls across my desk.
Craig.
He positions himself between me and the aisle, casual in the way predators pretend nonchalance. The last stragglers filter out, their laughter fading down the corridor until silence presses against my eardrums.
"Your boyfriend won't always be around to protect you."
The words land with practiced menace. He wants me scared. Wants me to shrink and apologize and maybe reconsider his generous offer of attending yet another party where he can corner me with alcohol on his breath.
Instead, something Gavin said last week surfaces. You're smarter than half the people in this city. Stop doubting yourself.
"Just stop it, Craig. You're being pathetic."
Red floods his face. Not embarrassment—fury. His jaw works like he's chewing glass, hands clenching at his sides. "Oh yeah? We'll see about that."
He storms past me, shoulder checking mine hard enough that I stumble against the desk. The door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges.
My heart hammers. Adrenaline makes my fingers shake as I finish packing up, but underneath the shock runs something steadier. Relief, maybe. Or vindication. Because I'm not the same girl he knew, the one who would've apologized just to smooth things over.
That girl died the night Gavin claimed me.
The next class drags. Professor Mitchell drones about supply chain management while my skin prickles with awareness. Craig sits three rows back, close enough that I can feel his stare boring into my skull. He wants me rattled. Wants me looking over my shoulder.
But Gavin's guards are everywhere, invisible threads of security woven throughout campus.
I've spotted them occasionally—the maintenance worker who lingers too long near the humanities building, the student whose textbooks never seem to match his supposed major.
They're ghosts, but knowing they exist makes Craig's posturing seem hollow.
Let him glare. Let him seethe.
Nothing touches me anymore.
The second Professor Mitchell dismisses class, I'm out the door. Gavin's car idles at the curb, sleek black paint reflecting the afternoon sun. He leans against the driver's side, arms crossed, radiating that particular brand of danger that makes smart people cross the street.
My pulse kicks up for entirely different reasons.
"How was class?" He opens the passenger door as I approach, one hand settling possessively on my lower back.
"Craig cornered me."
His expression goes glacial. "Where?"
"Lecture hall. Before class started." I slide into the leather seat, inhaling that mixture of expensive cologne and something uniquely him. "He said you won't always be around to protect me."
"That little shit." The words come out soft. Deadly. He closes my door with controlled precision, then rounds the hood to climb behind the wheel. "Want me to break his hands?"
"No." Though the offer sends illicit heat curling through my stomach. "I told him he was being pathetic."
That earns me a look—sharp gray eyes raking over my face before something that might be pride flickers across his features. "Good girl."
The praise lands exactly where it's supposed to. Lower. Warmer.
"Where are we going?" The engine purrs to life as he pulls into traffic.
"Shopping."
"Shopping?" I twist in my seat to face him properly. "For what?"
"For you." He says it like the answer should be obvious. "You need things."
"I have things."
"You have a dorm room's worth of things." His hand finds my thigh. "Now you live with me. That requires different things."
Different things, apparently, mean the kind of stores I've only window-shopped at before. The kind with intimidating white interiors and staff who size up your net worth before deciding whether to acknowledge your existence.
The bookstore comes first. Not a campus bookstore with its crammed aisles and fluorescent lighting, but an actual boutique that smells like leather and paper and money.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves showcase rare editions, first printings, books with gilt edges and covers that probably cost more than my monthly meal plan used to.
"Pick whatever you want." Gavin leans against a display table, watching me with that intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
"Anything?"
"Everything, if that's what you want."
I drift toward the classics section, fingers trailing over spines. Pride and Prejudice in a limited edition with hand-painted illustrations. Jane Eyre bound in emerald leather. An annotated Wuthering Heights that probably belongs in a museum.
"That one." Gavin appears behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back. He reaches past my shoulder to tap the Wuthering Heights. "You kept looking at it."
"It's probably expensive."
"I don't care." His breath stirs the hair near my ear. "If you want it, it's yours."
The casual certainty in his voice does things to me. Makes me want to test the boundaries of his generosity, see how far "anything" actually extends.
So I do. I select eight books. Novels I've always wanted to own in proper editions instead of beaten paperbacks from the library sale. Poetry collections and philosophical texts and one gorgeous annotated Shakespeare complete works that weighs approximately eight pounds.
The clerk doesn't blink when Gavin hands over his credit card. Just wraps everything in tissue paper and places each volume carefully in a branded shopping bag.
"Next stop." He takes the bag from me despite my protests, carrying it like it weighs nothing.
The shoe boutique is worse. Or better, depending on perspective. Rows of stilettos and boots and delicate sandals. A sales associate materializes, all practiced smiles and careful assessment.
Gavin points at a pair of black heels displayed on a pedestal. "Those. In her size."
"I can't walk in heels that high." The objection comes automatically, even as I'm already imagining how they'd look with the dress he gave me last night.
"Then I'll carry you." He says it like a threat and a promise. "Try them on."
Three pairs become six. Heels and ankle boots and these gorgeous nude pumps that make my legs look endless. Each time I model a pair, Gavin's gaze tracks the length of my calves, the arch of my foot, lingering in ways that make the sales associate suddenly find reasons to check the stockroom.
"We'll take all of them."
"Gavin—"
"Not a discussion, baby girl." His voice drops to that register that makes my thighs clench. "I like seeing you in heels. Like knowing I bought them. That you're wearing something I chose for you."
The possessiveness should probably bother me. Should trigger some feminist alarm about independence and agency. Instead, it makes me wet.
The jewelry section happens in a blur. Delicate necklaces and earrings that catch the light. He fastens a thin gold chain around my neck, fingers lingering at my nape.
"Perfect." His reflection meets mine in the mirror. "Matches your eyes."
By the time we leave with two more shopping bags, I've lost track of how much he's spent. Thousands, probably. Maybe more. The kind of money that used to keep me awake at night calculating meal plans and textbook rentals.
"Last stop." The trunk closes with a solid thunk. He guides me toward a boutique I recognize from magazine spreads and celebrity Instagram posts.
Louis Vuitton.
"Gavin, this is?—"
"What you deserve." He pushes open the door, hand firm against my lower back. "Stop arguing."
The interior smells like wealth and privilege. Soft lighting, gleaming display cases, purses that cost more than cars. My sneakers squeak slightly on the polished floor, still damp from the campus fountain I accidentally stepped in earlier.
A woman approaches, impeccably dressed, smile polite but cool until she spots Gavin. Then something shifts—recognition, maybe, or the instinctive understanding that money has just walked through her door.
"Mr. Gates." The warmth in her voice sounds genuine. "Wonderful to see you again."
"Sarah." He doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "She needs bags. Show us what you have."
What they have is overwhelming. Totes and crossbodies and structured handbags in every color imaginable. Sarah brings out piece after piece while Gavin watches me with that predatory focus, cataloging which ones make me pause, which ones I touch but don't pick up.
"This one." He indicates a classic monogram tote. "And that." A smaller crossbody in burgundy leather.
"I really only need one?—"
"Baby girl." The nickname stops me cold.
He doesn't usually use it in public, too careful about maintaining certain appearances.
But right now, surrounded by luxury goods and the sales associate who's suddenly very interested in rearranging a nearby display, he cups my jaw and tilts my face up.
"When are you going to understand? I want to give you everything.
Want to spoil you until you stop flinching every time I buy you something nice. "
"I'm not flinching."
"You are." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "You've been taking care of yourself for so long, you don't know how to let someone else do it."
The observation hits harder than it should. Lands somewhere vulnerable and makes my eyes sting with sudden emotion I can't quite name.
"I'm trying." The words come out smaller than intended.
"I know." He kisses my forehead, gentle in a way that contrasts sharply with his reputation. "We'll get you there."
We leave with the Louis Vuitton tote and crossbody, plus—because apparently I have zero self-control when he's looking at me like that—a Bottega Veneta hobo bag in butter-soft leather.
The trunk's packed with shopping bags by the time we finish. Evidence of an afternoon spent indulging every material whim I've had since moving into his house. Books and shoes and jewelry and bags that transform me from scholarship student to something else entirely.