Chapter 2 #2
I stared through the windshield, the wipers slapping back and forth. Thwack-hiss. Thwack-hiss.
It couldn't be her. It made no sense. I had dropped her off right there.
The figure lifted its head.
Even from twenty yards away, through a snowstorm and a tinted windshield, I knew those eyes.
Camila.
She wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, staring at the ground, while the snow piled up on her shoulders. She looked... defeated. Not bratty. Not defiant. Just done.
A string of curses exploded in my head, vivid and violent.
I slammed the car into park and threw the door open. The wind tried to rip it out of my hand, but I shoved it back.
I marched across the grass, my boots crunching through the frozen crust.
She didn't hear me approach. The wind was too loud, or she was too far gone.
"Sterling," I barked.
She flinched so hard she almost fell off the bench. She scrambled back, her eyes wide and terrified, her hands coming up as if to ward off a blow.
When she saw it was me, the terror didn't leave her eyes, but it shifted into something else. Shame.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible over the wind. Her lips were blue. Actually blue.
"I could ask you the same thing," I said, my voice harsh with a mixture of anger and panic. "I dropped you off. Last night. At the house."
She looked at the Gamma Phi house across the street. It was glowing with warm, golden light. I could see silhouettes moving in the windows.
"My key didn't work," she said simply. "They changed the codes. Madison... the President... she said I can't come in until I pay the dues. And I can't pay the dues."
"So you slept here?" The thought made my stomach turn over. It was five degrees last night.
"No," she hugged the oversized denim jacket tighter. "I slept in the 24-hour study hall in the library. But they kicked me out for cleaning an hour ago."
"And the luggage?" I gestured to the pink monstrosity.
"It was in my car," she said, a tear leaking out and freezing on her cheek. "But they towed my car this morning. Outstanding parking tickets. I managed to get the trunk out before they took it."
She looked up at me, and the mask was completely gone. There was no "Princess" left. Just a girl who had been stripped of every layer of protection she had ever known.
"I'm waiting for Sloane," she said, her voice trembling. "My friend. She gets off work at the library at six. She said I can crash on her floor."
I looked at my watch. It was 2:15.
"You're going to sit here for four hours?" I asked incredulously. "In a blizzard?"
"I don't have anywhere else to go, Cameron!
" she snapped, a flash of her old fire returning, though it was weak.
"Starbucks won't let me sit there without buying anything, and I have zero dollars.
Literally zero. So unless you're here to yell at me some more about being a stain on your existence, just leave me alone. "
She turned her face away, tucking her chin into the collar of the dirty denim jacket.
I stood there, the snow melting on my eyelashes.
This was the moment. The exit ramp. I could get back in my car. I could drive away. I could let Sloane pick her up in four hours. It wasn't my responsibility. She was a grown woman. She was the enemy.
But then I looked at her hands. She wasn't wearing gloves. Her knuckles were raw, red, and cracking.
I remembered my mother’s hands. I remembered coming home from school to find my mother sitting on the front step in the rain because she had lost her keys again, shivering, high, and helpless.
I remembered the vow I made to myself when I was ten years old: I will never be helpless.
And I will never let anyone in my circle be helpless.
The problem was, I didn't want Camila Sterling in my circle.
But looking at those blue lips, I realized I didn't have a choice. My conscience, that annoying, rigid moral compass that made me the captain of the team, wouldn't let me leave her here.
"Get up," I said.
She didn't move. "Go away."
I didn't argue. I didn't have the patience for negotiation. I stepped forward, bent down, and grabbed the handle of the pink trunk. It was heavy—filled with what, rocks? Shoes?
"Hey!" she protested as I hauled it off the bench. "That's my life!"
"It's going in my car," I said, turning to walk away. "And so are you."
"I'm not going with you!" she shouted, stumbling up to follow me. "I'm waiting for Sloane!"
I spun around. She almost ran into my chest.
"Sloane lives in the freshman dorms," I said. "Double occupancy. Ten by twelve room. Where are you going to sleep, Sterling? Under the bed? And where is this trunk going to go?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She knew I was right.
"I have a guest room," I lied. I didn't have a guest room. I had a second bedroom that I used for storage and meditation, currently empty except for a yoga mat and a stack of boxes. "It has a lock. It has heat. And it is not a park bench."
She hesitated, her eyes darting between me and the warm glow of the sorority house that had rejected her.
"Why?" she asked suspiciously. "You hate me."
"I do," I confirmed. "But I hate paperwork more. And if the Commissioner's daughter freezes to death on campus, the police investigation will interrupt my practice schedule."
It was a lie. A cold, pragmatic lie to cover up the fact that I was terrified for her.
"One night," she whispered. "Just until I can figure something out."
"Get in the car," I repeated.
She didn't fight me this time. She walked to the Range Rover, her head ducked low.
I threw the pink trunk into the back, the bright color clashing violently with my pristine black interior. It looked like a graffiti tag on a church.
I got into the driver's seat. She was already buckling her seatbelt, her hands shaking so badly she missed the clasp twice.
I reached over. My hand brushed hers—ice cold against my warmth. I clicked the buckle into place.
For a second, we were inches apart. The smell of her—vanilla and cold air—filled the cabin, overpowering the leather. Her eyes met mine, wide and searching.
"Thank you," she breathed.
"Don't thank me yet," I said, putting the car in gear. "My house has rules. And you, Princess, are going to hate every single one of them."
I pulled away from the curb, driving toward the penthouse.
I had just invited chaos into the hive. I had just violated every protocol I had established for my own survival.
As we drove through the snow, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.
Strike one, Vance. Strike one.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent. The kind of silence that has weight.
I watched the numbers climb. 10... 11... 12.
Camila was leaning against the back wall of the elevator car, hugging herself. She looked small. Defeated. But as the numbers climbed, I saw her eyes darting around, taking in the mirrored walls, the brushed steel. She was assessing.
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
I stepped out into my foyer. "Shoes off," I said automatically. "To the left."
I didn't look back to see if she obeyed. I walked into the main living area.