Chapter 14
Imogen
Happiness, I had discovered, was a powerful narcotic.
It made colors brighter. It made coffee taste less bitter. And, dangerously, it made you believe you were bulletproof.
I walked through the Quad on a Tuesday morning in November, my breath puffing in the crisp air. The campus was grey and brown, the trees stripped bare by the coming winter, but to me, it looked like a postcard.
I was humming. Actually humming.
I shifted my tote bag on my shoulder—the heavy one filled with charcoal and sketchpads, not textbooks—and checked my phone.
Warden: Good luck with the critique. Don't intimidate the professor.
Imogen: I intimidate everyone. It’s my brand.
Warden: It’s hot. See you at home. I’m making pasta.
I smiled down at the screen, a goofy, giddy expression that I knew looked ridiculous.
Home.
He called the apartment "home" now. Not "The Cage." Not "The Apartment." Home.
It had been three weeks since the storage unit. Three weeks of living in a blissful, terrifying bubble. We were careful—obsessively so. We arrived at events separately. We left separately. We sat apart in the cafeteria.
But in the quiet moments... in the elevator ride up to the penthouse, or the stolen minutes in his truck... we were magnetic.
I walked into the Fine Arts building feeling like I could conquer Rome.
Today was the Senior Portfolio Critique. The first major hurdle for graduation. My father thought I was presenting a series of architectural drafts for a hypothetical library.
I wasn't.
I was presenting "The Anatomy of Restraint."
It was a series of twelve large-scale charcoal drawings. All of them focused on hands. Hands gripping a steering wheel. Hands taping a hockey stick. Hands holding a delicate wine glass. Hands bruised and battered.
They were studies of power. Of control. Of Max.
I hadn't told anyone who the model was. The hands were anonymous enough... mostly. I had been careful not to include the tattoo or the watch.
I entered the studio. It smelled of turpentine and nervous sweat.
"Sterling," Professor Halloway nodded at me. He was a man who wore tweed ironically and smelled like pipe tobacco. "Ready to show us what the Dean’s daughter does with her spare time?"
"Born ready," I said, setting up my easel.
I unveiled the drawings.
The room went quiet.
Usually, critiques were a bloodbath. Students tore each other apart over composition and lighting.
But today, silence.
Halloway walked up to the first drawing—a stark, high-contrast image of a hand gripping a bedsheet. The tension in the tendons was palpable. It looked violent and tender at the same time.
"This is..." Halloway adjusted his glasses. "This is not architecture, Ms. Sterling."
"No," I agreed. "It’s structure. Just... human structure."
"It’s remarkable," he murmured. "The energy. The suppression. You can feel the subject holding back. Who is the model?"
"Just a friend," I lied smoothly. "He has good hands."
"He has dangerous hands," a girl in the back whispered.
I suppressed a shiver. You have no idea.
"A," Halloway said, turning to me. "This is A-level work. If you keep this up for the final show, the galleries in New York will be calling."
I beamed.
I walked out of that class floating. I got an A. On my own merit. With my own art.
I needed to tell Max.
I pulled out my phone to text him, but stopped.
No. Texting was risky. Screens could be read.
I checked the time. 11:30 AM. He had a break between classes. He usually spent it in the Engineering lounge, working on his capstone project.
I shouldn't go there. It was public. It was risky.
But I got an A, the devil on my shoulder whispered. We’re invincible. Just a quick high-five. A secret smile.
I turned my boots toward the Engineering building.
Hubris. It’s always the hubris that gets you.
The Engineering lounge was the antithesis of the Art studio. It was bright, sterile, and silent. Students sat hunched over laptops, typing furiously.
I spotted Max immediately.
He was at a corner table, surrounded by blueprints. He was wearing a grey Henley that fit him like a second skin. He had a pencil behind his ear and was chewing on his lower lip in concentration.
My heart did that traitorous double-flip.
I walked over. I kept my face neutral. The Brat mask.
"Vane," I said loudly enough for the table next to him to hear. "My dad wanted me to give you this schedule for next week. Something about a donor dinner."
I slapped a piece of blank paper onto his table.
Max looked up. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me, then narrowed in warning.
"You could have emailed it," he said, playing along perfectly. The annoyance in his voice was Oscar-worthy.
"I was in the neighborhood," I shrugged. "And unlike you, I don't live on email."
I leaned in, pretending to point at something on the blank paper.
"I got an A," I whispered, so low only he could hear. "Halloway loved it. He said New York galleries."
Max’s face didn't change, but his eyes lit up. The slate grey warmed to a molten silver.
"Good girl," he mouthed.
The praise hit me right in the center of my chest. My knees went weak.
"I'm making pasta tonight," he said in a normal voice, pointing at a random line on his blueprint. "Don't be late. I hate cold food."
"I'm never late," I said. "I make an entrance."
I straightened up. I should have walked away then. I should have turned on my heel and left.
But I was high on success. I was high on him.
"Oh, and Vane?" I said, a playful smirk touching my lips. "Fix your collar. It’s crooked."
I reached out.
It was a mistake.
I intended to just flick his collar. A casual, dismissive gesture.
But as my hand neared his neck, my body betrayed me. Instead of a flick, my fingers lingered. I brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder. My hand rested there for a split second too long. My thumb grazed the pulse point on his neck.
It wasn't a "roommate" touch. It was a lover's touch. It was familiar. It was possessive.
Max froze. He felt it too. The electricity arced between us, visible and undeniable.
I snatched my hand back as if burned.
"Right," I said, my voice a little breathless. "See you later."
I turned and walked away fast.
I didn't look back. If I had, I might have seen the two girls sitting three tables away.
The volleyball players. Sarah and... Jenna?
They were watching. They weren't looking at their laptops. They were looking at Max, touching his neck where my hand had been. Then they looked at each other.
Jenna pulled out her phone.
By the time I got back to the apartment that evening, the high had started to fade into a comfortable buzz.
The apartment smelled of garlic and oregano.
Max was at the stove, stirring a pot of sauce. He was wearing sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt. He looked domestic and devastating.
"Smells good," I said, dropping my bag and kicking off my boots.
"Carbonara," he said without turning around. "Real carbonara. No cream. Just eggs and cheese and timing."
"Sounds complicated."
"It requires precision," he turned, a wooden spoon in hand. "How was the critique? Tell me everything."
I hopped onto the counter—my spot.
"He said it was visceral," I said, swinging my legs. "He said the tension was palpable. He asked about the model."
Max raised an eyebrow, walking over to stand between my knees. "And what did you say?"
"I said he was just a friend with good hands."
Max smirked. He reached out and gripped my thigh. His hand was large, warm, and heavy.
"Just good?" he teased. "I thought they were excellent."
"They're passable," I said, leaning forward to wrap my arms around his neck. "When they aren't covered in pasta sauce."
He kissed me. It was deep and hungry, tasting of the wine he had been drinking while he cooked.
"I'm proud of you," he murmured against my lips. "New York galleries, huh? I'll have to buy a tuxedo for the openings."
"You in a tux," I sighed. "That’s the dream."
"Dinner first," he said, pulling back and swatting my ass. "Then dessert."
We ate on the couch, watching a terrible reality show and critiquing the contestants' life choices. It was perfect. It was normal.
Then, my phone buzzed.
Chloe: Im. Are you with him?
I frowned.
Imogen: Yeah. We're "studying." Why?
Chloe: Check YikYak. Now.
My stomach dropped. That feeling of bulletproof happiness shattered like cheap glass.
"What?" Max asked, noticing the shift in my mood. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just Chloe being dramatic about chemistry."
I opened the app.
YikYak was an anonymous message board for campus. It was usually full of complaints about the dining hall or jokes about professors.
Today, the top post was trending.
Top Post: Looks like the Warden has a new inmate. Saw the Dean's daughter practically petting him in the Engineering lounge. Thought they hated each other? #EnemiesWithBenefits #DeanWillBePissed
There was a photo.
It was grainy, taken from a distance. But it was unmistakable.
Me standing over Max’s table. My hand on his shoulder. And the look on our faces.
It wasn't the look of roommates. It wasn't the look of enemies.
We were looking at each other like we were the only two people in the universe.
My blood ran cold.
"Imogen?" Max set his bowl down. "You went pale. What is it?"
I locked the phone.
I couldn't show him. If he saw it, he would panic. He would think the scholarship was gone. He would pull away. He would go back to being the Warden.
I needed to fix this. I needed to bury it.
"It's nothing," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just... my dad emailed. He wants to have lunch tomorrow."
Max watched me. He had become an expert at reading my micro-expressions. He saw the fear in my eyes.
" Lunch?" he asked. "Is that all?"
"Yeah," I stood up, grabbing our empty bowls. "Just lunch. Probably wants to lecture me about the gala again. He loves a re-run."
I walked to the kitchen, my hands shaking.
I could feel Max’s eyes on my back. He knew I was lying.
But he didn't push.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Just... be careful with him. He's been quiet lately. That makes me nervous."
"Me too," I whispered into the sink.