Chapter 4
Amara
Waking up in Leo’s apartment was like waking up in the aftermath of a frat party explosion that had occurred inside a dumpster.
The first thing I registered was the smell. It was a complex bouquet of stale pepperoni, damp hockey equipment, Axe body spray, and the distinct, dusty odor of a bachelor who believed that "cleaning" meant kicking everything under the sofa.
I groaned, rolling over on the lumpy sectional couch. A spring dug into my hip, a sharp reminder that I was no longer in the sprawling, temperature-controlled sanctuary of the Sterling Penthouse.
I opened one eye. A half-eaten slice of pizza sat on the coffee table, congealing on a paper plate next to a PlayStation controller.
A pair of size-thirteen sneakers lay abandoned in the middle of the floor.
Sunlight streamed through the smudged windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like mocking little fairies.
“Ugh,” I whispered, pulling the scratchy throw blanket over my head.
For three days, I had lived in a world of silence, order, and high-thread-count sheets. I had lived in a world where the coffee machine cost more than a Honda Civic and the air smelled like expensive sandalwood. I had lived in Ezra’s world.
And God help me, I missed it.
I missed the terrifying precision of it. I missed the way the apartment seemed to breathe in sync with him. I missed the Rules.
Rule Number One: Obedience.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty window.
“You’re awake,” a voice boomed from the kitchen.
I flinched, pulling the blanket down. Leo was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, drinking milk straight from the carton. His hair was a bird’s nest of brown curls, and he looked annoyingly cheerful for someone who lived in a hazmat zone.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sleep okay? That couch is practically orthopedic. Found it on the sidewalk sophomore year.”
I sat up, pushing my hair out of my face. My neck was stiff. My back ached. My soul felt tired.
“It’s charming,” I lied, my voice raspy. “Very… rustic. The pizza crust adds a nice textural element to the decor.”
Leo laughed, a loud, barking sound. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I gotta hit the gym. Coach is running a conditioning evaluation at ten. You good here? Or do you need a ride to your place?”
My place.
The townhouse I couldn't pay for. The landlord who was probably currently drafting an eviction notice.
Panic flared in my chest, hot and bright. I couldn't go back there. I couldn't face the stack of mail waiting on the counter.
“I… I have class,” I said quickly. “I’ll just walk. It’s not far.”
Leo frowned, lowering the milk carton. “You sure? You looked weird last night, Mara. Like you saw a ghost. Or like Ezra Sterling was actually talking to you.”
He walked over to the couch, his expression darkening.
“Seriously, what was he saying to you in the mudroom? If he was giving you shit about the team, or Dad, or—”
“He wasn’t,” I interrupted. I couldn't look Leo in the eye. Lying to him used to be easy—a survival mechanism in the Vane household. Now, it felt heavy. “He was just… asking about the Design program. He said he saw my showcase last year.”
It was a stupid lie. Ezra Sterling wouldn't be caught dead at a fashion showcase.
Leo snorted. “Sterling? Caring about fashion? The guy wears the same three black t-shirts on rotation. He’s a robot, Mara. Don’t let him get in your head. He plays mind games. That’s his thing.”
He plays mind games.
I thought about the way Ezra’s thumb had rested against the pulse of my throat. I thought about the way he had looked at me when he said Good girl.
That wasn't a game. That was gravity.
“I know,” I said softly. “I know he’s the enemy, Leo. Go to practice. Beat him up or whatever you do.”
Leo grinned, ruffling my hair aggressively. “That’s the spirit. Lock up when you leave. And hey—fix your face. You look like you lost your best friend.”
He turned and lumbered back toward his bedroom.
I waited until I heard the shower turn on. Then, I let the mask drop. I slumped forward, burying my face in my hands.
I didn't lose my best friend. I lost my safety net. I lost my identity.
And the only person who knew the truth was the "robot" in the penthouse who had looked at my chaos and offered me structure instead of pity.
The Design Studio at Blackwood University was usually my sanctuary. It was a massive, loft-style space with exposed brick walls, rows of dress forms, and the chaotic energy of fifty students running on caffeine and ambition.
Today, it felt like a courtroom.
I stood in front of Professor Halloway’s desk, clutching my sketchbook to my chest like a shield. Halloway was a brilliant designer, a terrifying woman who wore oversized spectacles and judged people based on their fabric choices.
“Amara,” she said, peering at me over the rim of her glasses. She tapped a fingernail on the paper in front of her. “This proposal for your final collection… it’s ambitious.”
“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile. “I really want to explore the dichotomy between—”
“It’s also incredibly expensive,” she interrupted.
My smile faltered.
“You’ve listed silk charmeuse, imported French lace, and structured leather,” she continued, listing the materials like crimes I had committed. “Based on the yardage you need, you’re looking at a budget of three, maybe four thousand dollars. Minimum.”
I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat felt like a golf ball.
“Right,” I squeaked. “Quality is important to the silhouette.”
“It is,” she agreed. She leaned back in her chair. “But I’ve noticed a pattern with you this semester, Amara. You rely on expensive materials to hide structural weaknesses. You drape expensive silk over a poorly constructed bodice and hope the sheen distracts the eye.”
The criticism stung. It hit too close to home. Wasn't that my whole life? Draping expensive labels over a hollow, terrified interior?
“I can construct a bodice,” I argued, though my voice lacked its usual fire.
“Then prove it,” Halloway said. “But Amara… the department fees for the semester were due yesterday. The bursar’s office sent a note this morning. Your payment bounced.”
The room went silent. I could hear the hum of the sewing machines in the background, the snip-snip of scissors, the laughter of a girl two tables away.
Halloway looked at me. Not with anger, but with something worse. Pity.
“If the fees aren’t paid by Friday, you can’t present in the showcase. And if you don’t present, you fail the practicum. And if you fail the practicum…”
“I know,” I whispered. “I get kicked out of the program.”
“Fix it, Amara,” she said gently. “You have talent. Somewhere under all that… noise. Don’t waste it.”
I nodded, unable to speak. I turned and walked away, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. I walked past my station, past the half-finished muslin prototype I had been so proud of last week.
I walked out of the studio. I walked out of the building.
I ended up on a bench in the quad. It was freezing, the wind biting through my coat, but I didn't care. I sat there, watching students hurry by, clutching their books, laughing with their friends. They looked so normal. They looked like they knew where their next meal was coming from.
I pulled out my phone.
Balance: $0.00.
I had a granola bar in my purse. That was my lunch.
I took a bite, chewing mechanically. It tasted like sawdust and despair.
I could call my mother. I could beg. But I knew what she would say. “Just apologize to your father, Amara. Switch your major. Stop playing dress-up. Marry well.”
If I made that call, Amara the Designer died. Amara the Independent Woman—however flawed she was—died. I would just be Mrs. Someone, a doll on a shelf.
Tears pricked my eyes, hot and blurry. I wiped them away angrily.
“No,” I whispered. “I am not quitting.”
But I couldn't stay with Leo. He would find out. He would tell Dad. Or worse, he would try to pay for me, and Leo didn't have that kind of money. He was on a scholarship. He sent money home to Mom. I couldn't be a leech on him.
I needed a solution. I needed a miracle.
Or… I needed a deal.
I thought about the spreadsheet. The color-coded blocks of time. The silence. The way Ezra had looked at my messy, chaotic life and didn't recoil, but simply organized it.
“Discipline isn’t about doing what you love. It’s about doing what is necessary.”
I stood up. I brushed the crumbs off my lap.
I started walking. Not toward my townhouse. Not toward Leo’s.
I walked toward the glass tower that loomed over the campus like a monolith.
The doorman at The Sterling Heights recognized me.
“Miss Vane,” he said, tipping his hat. “Mr. Sterling left instructions that you were to be admitted if you returned.”
If you returned.
He knew. The arrogant, controlling, brilliant jerk knew I would come back.
I rode the elevator up in silence. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm of fear and hope. This was it. I was about to sell my soul. I just hoped the price was right.
The elevator doors opened.
The penthouse was exactly as I had left it. Immaculate. Silent. Freezing.
Ezra was sitting on the black leather sofa. He had an ice pack strapped to his knee, his leg propped up on the coffee table. He was reading a thick textbook, a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
Ezra Sterling in reading glasses. It was a sight that should have been illegal. It made him look human. It made him look… approachable.
He didn't look up when I stepped off the elevator.
“You’re late,” he said.
I stopped in the middle of the foyer, dropping my bag.
“I didn't know I had a curfew,” I said.
“Protocol Rule Number Four,” he said, turning a page. “Check-in is at 1600 hours.”
He finally looked up. He took off the glasses, folding them deliberately. His blue eyes swept over me, taking in the red-rimmed eyes, the slumped shoulders, the sheer exhaustion radiating off me.
He didn't gloat. He didn't smile.