Chapter 2 #2
He closed the file folder. "No. I'm done playing banker to your rebellion. Financial coercion clearly doesn't work because you simply find new ways to embarrass me for free."
He stood up and walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.
"I have arranged a new living situation for you."
I froze. "What? You're kicking me out of the dorms?"
"I am removing you from the environment that enables your behavior," he said. "Chloe is a bad influence. The sorority is a circus. You need structure. You need discipline. You need someone who will not tolerate your nonsense."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "You're sending me to rehab?"
"No," he turned around, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. "I'm sending you to a mentorship program. A sober companion, if you will. Someone whose scholarship depends on your success, and therefore, will ensure you graduate."
The door behind me clicked open.
I hadn't heard anyone knock.
"Right on time," my father said, looking over my shoulder.
I turned around.
And the air left the room.
Maxwell Vane was standing in the doorway.
He looked even bigger in the confines of the office than he had in the ballroom. He was wearing jeans and a black hoodie with the Kodiaks logo on the chest, looking casual and dangerous amidst the mahogany and suits. His hands were in his pockets. His face was a mask of indifference.
The scar through his eyebrow looked stark in the fluorescent light. He looked at my father, then shifted his gaze to me.
He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He just stared, his eyes dark and heavy.
"You're joking," I whispered, looking back at my father. "Him? The goalie? Dad, he's a student. He's... he's a meathead."
"Mr. Vane has a 4.0 GPA in Engineering," my father said dryly. "He is the most disciplined student athlete this university has seen in twenty years. And he has agreed to take you on as a... project."
"I'm not a project!" I stood up, my hands balling into fists. "I'm your daughter!"
"Then act like it," my father snapped. The veneer of calm cracked, his voice rising to a roar that made me flinch.
"You will live in Mr. Vane’s off-campus apartment for the remainder of the semester.
You will follow his rules. You will study when he tells you to study.
You will be home when he tells you to be home. "
I gaped at him. "You can't make me live with him. That's... that's weird! It's inappropriate!"
"It is a two-bedroom apartment," my father said. "And frankly, I trust Mr. Vane's self-control significantly more than I trust yours. If you refuse, Imogen, I will expel you. Today. I will cut off your funding entirely. You will be on the street."
The threat hung in the air, absolute and final. He meant it. This wasn't a bluff.
I looked at Max. He hadn't moved. He was leaning against the doorframe now, watching the exchange with that maddening stillness.
"You agreed to this?" I asked him, my voice trembling with betrayal. "Why? What did he promise you?"
Max finally spoke. His voice was a low rumble, deep enough to vibrate in the floorboards.
"A recommendation letter to the GM of the Montreal Canadiens," Max said simply. "And a full scholarship for my Master's degree."
He sold me out. For a letter.
"I'm just a job to you," I spat, tears of humiliation pricking at my eyes behind my sunglasses.
Max pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me. He moved with a predatory grace, silent and heavy. He stopped inches from me, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him.
He smelled like winter air and sandalwood soap. It was a clean, sharp scent that made my head spin.
"You're not a job, Imogen," he said softly, so only I could hear. "You're a liability. My job is to make sure you don't explode."
He looked at my father. "I have conditions, Dean Sterling."
"Name them," my father said.
"Total autonomy," Max said. "While she is under my roof, she follows my rules. You don't intervene. If I ground her, she stays grounded. If I take her phone, she loses the phone. You don't bail her out."
My father didn't even hesitate. "Agreed."
"And," Max continued, his eyes sliding back to me, dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. "I want it in writing that if she fails to comply, my scholarship is protected. I won't lose my future because she can't follow instructions."
"Done," my father said.
I felt like I was drowning. They were bartering over my freedom right in front of me. I was a pawn. A broken toy that needed to be put back in the box.
"Fine," I said, my voice shaking. "Fine. I'll do it."
I grabbed my bag, my knuckles turning white. "When do I move in?"
Max looked at his watch—a utilitarian, black tactical thing.
"Pack a bag," he said. "I have practice until four. I'll pick you up at the dorms at 4:30. Don't be late."
"Or what?" I challenged, desperate to claw back some scrap of power. "You'll leave me there?"
Max leaned in close. His breath ghosted over my ear, warm and intimate, sending a shockwave of electricity straight down my spine.
"No," he murmured. "If you're late, I'll come up and get you. And I won't be carrying you over my shoulder this time. I'll drag you."
He pulled back, his face stone cold.
"4:30, Imogen."
He turned and walked out of the office without looking back at the Dean.
I stood there, shaking, furious, and terrified.
But underneath the anger, underneath the humiliation, there was something else. A dark, treacherous thrum of excitement.
For the first time in my life, someone wasn't just throwing money at me to go away. Someone was watching. Someone was setting boundaries.
And God help me, I wanted to see what would happen if I crossed them.