Chapter 3
Camila
Waking up in Cameron Vance’s apartment was like waking up inside an Apple Store.
I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of the "guest room," which I was fairly certain was actually a panic room or a place where he stored bodies.
There was no art on the walls. No rug on the floor.
Just a bed, a lamp, and my neon pink Louis Vuitton trunk, which looked like a drag queen had exploded in a monastery.
Day One of the Occupation.
I sat up, my head throbbing with the phantom pain of yesterday’s humiliation. I checked my phone. 7:15 AM.
Why was I awake? Oh, right. Because at 6:00 AM, a sound like a muted cannon had gone off in the kitchen. A blender. The Wall was making his morning sludge.
I threw the duvet off. I was wearing one of his t-shirts—a black cotton thing that smelled like detergent and him—because my pajamas were buried at the bottom of the trunk under forty pounds of shoes.
It hung to my knees, which was arguably a look, but maybe not the one I wanted for my first morning as a squatter.
I dragged myself out of bed and padded down the hallway. My reflection in the hallway mirror was… humbling. My hair had achieved sentience during the night, expanding into a dark, curly cloud. My eyes were puffy. I looked like a raccoon that had been washed on the "Heavy Duty" cycle.
I turned the corner into the living room/kitchen area and stopped.
Cameron was there. Of course he was.
He was sitting at the marble island, reading something on a tablet. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a tight black long-sleeve Henley that hugged his shoulders in a way that should be illegal. His feet were bare.
It was unfair. How could someone look that put-together before the sun was fully up? He looked like a sculpture. A brooding, caffeinated sculpture.
"You're awake," he said without looking up. "You snore."
"I do not snore," I croaked, my morning voice sounding like I’d been gargling gravel. "I breathe with emphasis."
He finally looked up. His icy blue eyes swept over me—from the wild hair to the oversized shirt, down to my bare feet. His expression didn't change, but I saw a tiny muscle feather in his jaw.
"Coffee pot is on the counter," he said, gesturing with his chin. "Don't spill it. White marble stains if you even look at it wrong."
"I'll try to restrain my chaotic urges," I muttered, shuffling to the coffee maker. It was one of those complicated Italian machines that looked like it required a pilot's license to operate. I pressed a button and prayed.
Liquid gold dispensed into a mug. I took a sip and almost wept. It was good coffee. Expensive coffee.
"So," I said, turning to lean against the counter, trying to look casual despite the fact that I was homeless and wearing his clothes. "What's the plan, Warden? Do I get yard time? Or am I in solitary?"
Cameron set his tablet down. He spun his stool around to face me. The movement was smooth, controlled.
"The plan," he said, "is that you survive. But if you are going to stay here—and that is a massive 'if'—there are rules."
He slid a piece of paper across the island.
I stared at it. "You made a contract? I’ve been here twelve hours."
"I drafted it while you were sleeping," he said. "Read it."
I picked up the paper. It was printed. Printed. Who even owned a printer anymore?
The Tenant (Camila Sterling) agrees to the following terms set forth by the Landlord (Cameron Vance):
1. Curfew is 23:00 hours on weeknights. No exceptions.
2. The "Common Areas" must remain in a state of neutral cleanliness. No personal items left on surfaces.
3. Noise levels must be kept to a minimum during "Focus Hours" (18:00 - 21:00).
4. No guests. Absolutely no male guests.
5. In exchange for room and board, The Tenant will manage evening meal preparation (instructions provided).
I looked up at him, my eyebrow climbing into my hairline. "Meal preparation? You want me to cook? Cameron, I once burned water. I tried to make pasta and forgot the water part."
"You can read," he said simply. "I have recipes. Follow them. It’s chemistry, not magic."
"And rule number four?" I waved the paper. "No male guests? What if I want to have a study group?"
"Then go to the library," he said, his voice dropping a few degrees. "I don't want strangers in my space. And I certainly don't want whatever fraternity rejects you hang out with drooling on my furniture."
"You sound jealous," I teased, trying to find a chink in the armor.
He didn't blink. He stood up, towering over the counter. The air in the room seemed to get thinner.
"I'm not jealous, Mila. I'm territorial. There's a difference."
The word territorial hung in the air, heavy and loaded. My stomach did a traitorous little flip.
"Fine," I said, dropping the paper. "I'll sign your little manifesto. But I have a condition."
He crossed his arms, his biceps straining the black fabric. "You are in no position to negotiate. You have eight dollars and a suitcase full of heels."
"I need a ride tonight," I said, lifting my chin. "To the Blue Line Gala."
Cameron went still. His eyes narrowed. "The Athletic Department fundraiser? You want to go to a black-tie event? You were crying on a park bench yesterday."
"Exactly," I said, stepping forward. "Yesterday I was a victim.
Today, I have to be Camila Sterling again.
If I don't show my face, the rumors will petrify. Everyone will know I’m out.
If I show up, look fabulous, and smile, I buy myself time.
Maybe I can convince a donor to give me an 'internship' that pays. "
"It's a meat market," Cameron said, disgust dripping from his tone. "Rich alumni bidding on signed jerseys and ogling the cheerleaders."
"I know," I said softly. "It used to be my playground. Now... it's my job interview."
He stared at me for a long moment. He was dissecting me again, looking for the lie. He wouldn't find one. I was desperate.
"I'm going," he said finally. "As Captain, attendance is mandatory."
"Great," I smiled, though it felt brittle. "Then we can carpool. Save the environment."
"You don't have a ticket," he pointed out. "They're five hundred dollars a plate."
"I'm Camila Sterling," I said, channeling a confidence I didn't feel. "I don't need a ticket. I am the event."
He scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "Fine. Be ready at 18:30. But if you embarrass me, Sterling—if you get drunk, or cause a scene, or spill anything blue on me—you're sleeping in the snow. Contract or no contract."
"Deal," I said.
He grabbed his gym bag from the floor. "I have practice. Don't touch the thermostat."
He walked out. The door clicked shut, the lock engaging with a heavy thud.
I was alone.
I looked at the contract on the counter. I looked at the pristine, empty apartment.
I let out a breath I had been holding for twenty minutes. My hands were shaking.
"Fake it 'til you make it," I whispered to the empty room.
Then I turned and marched to my pink trunk. It was time to go to war. And I needed armor.
The Blue Line Gala
The grand ballroom of the Wickfield Hotel smelled like lilies, roast beef, and desperate ambition.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the crowd below. It was a sea of black tuxedos and jewel-toned gowns. A string quartet was murdering Mozart in the corner, but no one was listening. They were too busy networking, drinking expensive champagne, and pretending their lives were perfect.
I stood at the top of the staircase, my hand resting lightly on the velvet rope.
I was wearing the "Revenge Dress." It was a vintage slip dress made of liquid gold silk that I had stolen from my mother’s closet three years ago.
It had a cowl neck that dipped dangerously low and a back that didn't exist. It skimmed my curves like water, clinging to hips that usually got me in trouble.
I had spent two hours on my hair, wrestling the curls into a sleek, glossy wave that cascaded over one shoulder. My makeup was sharp enough to cut—winged liner, blood-red lips.
I looked like a million dollars. I felt like a fraud.
I took a deep breath, pinned the smile to my face, and descended the stairs.
Shoulders back. Chin up. Walk like you own the building.
I made it to the floor and was immediately assaulted by the noise. The hum of hundreds of conversations, the clink of glass, the laughter that sounded too loud.
"Camila!"
I turned to see Madison, the sorority president who had evicted me, holding a flute of champagne. She was wearing a pink taffeta dress that made her look like a hostile cupcake.
"I didn't think we'd see you tonight," Madison smiled, her eyes scanning me for cracks. "I heard about the... situation with your cards. So tragic."
"Glitches in the banking system are so tiresome," I breezed, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter just to have something to hold. I didn't drink it. "But Daddy is sorting it out. You know how banks are with international transfers."
"Right," Madison said, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Well, you look... healthy. Is that dress vintage? It looks a little... worn."
"It's archival," I corrected, my smile tightening. "But I wouldn't expect you to know the difference between vintage and last season's Zara."
Madison’s mouth snapped shut. Point to Sterling.
I turned away before she could reply, weaving through the crowd. My heart was hammering against my ribs. The lie tasted like ash. Everyone was looking at me. I could feel their eyes. Is it true? Is she broke? Is she out?
I needed to find Cameron. Not because I liked him, but because he was the only person in this room who knew the truth and hadn't eaten me alive yet.
I scanned the room. It wasn't hard to find him.
He was standing near the silent auction tables, surrounded by a group of wealthy alumni. Even in a room full of men in tuxedos, Cameron Vance stood out like a wolf in a pen of sheep.