Chapter 4
Imogen
The silence in Max Vane’s apartment was heavy enough to bruise.
I stared at the ceiling. It was concrete. Industrial chic. Or, as I liked to call it, "Prison Luxe."
My body felt heavy, weighted down by the memory of last night. The kitchen counter. The way Max had trapped me between his arms. The heat radiating off his chest. The way his eyes had dropped to my mouth, dark and starving, before he’d pulled back and slammed the door on the tension.
I don’t play games unless I intend to win.
I pulled the duvet over my head, groaning.
The problem wasn't that he was mean. I was used to mean. My father was mean. My mother was indifferent, which was a colder kind of cruelty. I knew how to handle hostility; you just threw glitter and sarcasm at it until it got annoyed and walked away.
But Max wasn't just hostile. He was... contained. He was a dam holding back a flood, and for one terrifying, exhilarating second in the kitchen, I had seen the cracks in the concrete.
And I wanted to stick my finger in them and pry them open.
Stop it, Imogen, I scolded myself. He’s the warden. You’re the inmate. This is a business transaction.
I threw off the covers and dragged myself out of bed. I needed coffee. I needed armor.
I dressed in my version of casual: black leggings, an oversized cashmere sweater that cost more than a Honda Civic, and fuzzy socks. I didn't bother with makeup. My face felt raw, stripped clean.
I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway.
The apartment was spotless. It smelled of lemon and aggressive sterilization.
"Good morning."
I jumped, nearly tripping over my own feet.
Max was sitting at the kitchen island. He was already dressed—jeans, a grey t-shirt that strained against his biceps, and that damn tactical watch. He had a textbook open in front of him, a highlight pen in one hand, and a mug of black coffee in the other.
He didn't look up.
"You're awake," he stated. "6:58 AM. Two minutes early."
"I was motivated by the fear of death," I muttered, shuffling toward the coffee machine. "Or whatever 'corner time' implies."
"Coffee is in the pot," he said, turning a page. "Don't spill."
I poured myself a mug, adding an obscene amount of creamer I had forced him to buy during a silent, angry trip to the bodega the night before. I took a sip. It was strong enough to fuel a rocket ship.
I leaned against the counter, watching him. He was completely absorbed in his work. Structural Engineering. I could see diagrams of bridges and load-bearing walls.
"Do you ever relax?" I asked. "Or is your resting heart rate just a flatline?"
Max capped his highlighter. He looked up, his slate eyes locking onto mine. There were dark circles under them, faint purple bruises against his pale skin.
He hadn't slept either.
The realization sent a weird flutter through my chest.
"I relax when the work is done," he said. "The work is never done."
"That sounds miserable," I said.
"It sounds like success," he countered. He gestured to the empty stool across from him. "Sit. We need to map out your schedule."
"I haven't even had breakfast," I protested.
"Eat a protein bar. They're in the pantry."
I sighed, grabbing a bar that tasted like chalk and sadness, and climbed onto the stool.
For the next hour, he dissected my life. He pulled up my syllabus for every class. He calculated study blocks. He scheduled breaks. He created a color-coded calendar on his laptop that looked like a battle plan for invading a small country.
"You have a History of Art exam on Friday," he said, tapping the screen. "You're failing the class."
I flinched. "I'm not failing. I'm... creatively interpreting the attendance policy."
"You have a D minus," he said flatly. "If you don't get at least a B on this exam, your GPA drops below the threshold for probation."
"I know the material," I lied, looking down at my hands. "I just... I don't like the professor. He thinks art is about dates and movements. He doesn't get the feeling."
Max closed the laptop. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"The professor doesn't care about your feelings, Imogen. He cares about the answers on the test. And right now, the only thing standing between you and expulsion is me."
He leaned forward. "So, you are going to study. You are going to memorize the dates. And you are going to pass."
"Or what?" I challenged, the brat rising to the surface to protect the soft underbelly of my insecurity. "You'll spank me?"
The air in the room changed instantly. It went thin, rarefied.
Max didn't blink. He didn't smirk. He looked at me with a terrifying, clinical focus.
"Keep asking," he said softly. "And you'll find out."
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
"I need to go to the library," I said abruptly, sliding off the stool. "I can't study here. It's too... quiet. It smells like bleach and repression."
Max checked his watch. "I have a conditioning session at the rink in twenty minutes. I'll drop you off."
"I can walk," I said. "It's a ten-minute walk. I need the fresh air."
He studied me for a long moment, searching for the lie. He looked at my fidgeting hands, my averted gaze.
"Fine," he said. "Be at the library. I'll check your location on your phone in an hour. If you aren't there..."
"I know, I know," I waved a hand. "Doom and gloom. Goodbye, Warden."
I grabbed my bag—not my book bag, but the oversized tote I kept hidden under the bed—and bolted out the door before he could ask to see my textbooks.
I didn't go to the library.
I walked the ten minutes across campus, head down against the biting wind, ignoring the whispers. People were staring. The girl who fell off the ice sculpture. The Dean's daughter who lived with the goalie. I could feel their eyes like bug bites.
I turned off the main path, slipping through a gap in the hedgerow that bordered the old Agriculture campus.
Most people didn't know the Conservatory existed.
It was a relic from the 1920s, a massive Victorian glasshouse that had been condemned three years ago due to "structural instability.
" The university had boarded it up and forgotten about it, planning to bulldoze it eventually to build a new parking lot.
To me, it was the only holy place in Cold’s Creek.
I shimmied through the loose board at the back entrance, scraping my coat, and stepped inside.
The silence here was different from Max’s apartment. Max’s silence was empty. This silence was full.
The air was freezing, colder than outside because the glass trapped the chill, but it smelled of damp earth, decaying leaves, and old magic.
Vines that had long since died hung from the rusted iron rafters like lace.
Snow pressed against the dirty glass panes, creating a diffused, white light that was perfect for sketching.
I walked to the center of the room, where an old stone fountain sat dry and cracked. I dropped my tote bag and pulled out my supplies.
Not textbooks.
Charcoal sticks. Heavy, textured paper. A kneaded eraser that was grey with use.
I didn't draw pretty things. I didn't draw bowls of fruit or landscapes.
I drew tension.
I set up my board against the fountain. I took a stick of charcoal, feeling the grit against my fingertips. I closed my eyes for a second, breathing in the smell of the dust.
My father called this a "waste of time." My mother called it "messy."
But when I drew, the noise in my head stopped. The need to scream, to drink, to dance on tables—it all funneled down into the movement of my hand.
I started to sketch. Broad, aggressive strokes.
I was drawing a hand. A large, masculine hand, gripping a wrist. The tension in the tendons. The veins. The sheer power of the restraint.
I lost time. I didn't feel the cold. I didn't feel the hunger. I was in the zone, rubbing the charcoal with my thumb to create shadows, smudging the lines to create movement. I was covered in soot—my hands, my face, my expensive sweater.
I was real.
"So this is where you go."
The voice shattered the world.
I gasped, spinning around, dropping the charcoal. It hit the stone floor and shattered.
Max stood in the entrance of the conservatory.
He was wearing his workout gear now—black joggers, a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. He looked like a shadow that had detached itself from the wall.
Panic, hot and acidic, flooded my throat.
"Get out!" I screamed, stepping in front of the drawing, trying to shield it with my body. "You can't be here! You followed me? You stalker!"
Max didn't flinch at the shouting. He walked toward me, his boots crunching on the dead leaves. He looked around the dilapidated glasshouse, taking in the broken panes, the dead vines, and the scattering of sketches I had taped to the crumbling walls over the last few months.
"You weren't at the library," he said calmly. "Your GPS dot was in the middle of a condemned building. I thought you were buying drugs."
"I'm not buying drugs!" I snapped, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would crack a rib. "I'm... I'm thinking. I'm meditating."
"You're covered in soot," he observed.
He stopped three feet away from me. He was too big for this space. He consumed the air.
"Move, Imogen," he said.
"No." I spread my arms. "It's private. Go away. Report me to my dad. Tell him I cut class. Just leave."
"I'm not going to report you," he said. He took another step. "Move."
He didn't raise his voice. He just projected that inevitable, unstoppable authority.
I trembled. Part of me wanted to fight him. But a bigger, traitorous part of me wanted him to see. I had spent my whole life hiding this, hiding the one thing I was actually good at because I was told it was worthless.
I stepped aside.
Max looked at the drawing.
I held my breath. I waited for the sneer. I waited for him to tell me it was cute, or a nice hobby, or that I should focus on something that made money.
He stared at the sketch for a long time. The silence stretched, agonizing and thin.
He leaned in closer, studying the shading on the wrist, the tension I had captured in the fingers.