Chapter 2 #2
Nick Vance had pulled the thread, and my entire life had unravelled.
Rage, hot and blinding, surged up through the despair. It was better than the fear. The fear paralyzed me, but the rage? The rage made me warm.
"He did this," I hissed, watching my breath plume in the air. "He literally ruined my life over a dry cleaning bill."
I pulled out my phone. My battery was at 12%. I opened the browser and typed in the only thing I could think of.
Blackwood University Student Directory.
Vance, Nicklas.
Most students had their dorm addresses listed. Nick Vance didn't live in a dorm. But the directory listed an address for "Vance, N." downtown. The Meridian Tower. Penthouse A.
Of course. The Meridian. The building that pierced the skyline like a glass needle.
I shouldn't go. It was crazy. It was stalking. It was probably illegal.
But I wasn't thinking about legality. I was thinking about the fact that I had nowhere to sleep, and the man who put me there was probably sitting by a fire right now, drinking scotch that cost more than my tuition.
I needed him to fix it. I needed him to un-blacklist me. I needed to scream at him until he realized that I was a human being, not a stain.
I marched toward the bus stop. I was going to the Meridian.
The lobby of The Meridian was not a lobby. It was a cathedral to minimalism.
The floors were polished concrete. The walls were living moss. The doorman looked like he had been bred in a lab to deny entry to people like me.
"Delivery?" he asked as I stomped in, shaking snow off my coat like a wet dog.
"No," I said, marching past him to the elevator bank. "Visitation."
"Name?" He stepped in front of me. He was big.
"Jess Monroe. I'm here to see Nick Vance."
"Is he expecting you?"
"He should be," I lied through my teeth. "I'm his... assistant. From the gala last night. He forgot his... cufflink."
The doorman looked me up and down. He saw the wet sneakers. The fraying coat. The wild hair. But he also saw the sheer, unadulterated murder in my eyes.
He picked up a phone. "I'll call up."
"Don't," I snapped. "It's a surprise. Look, if I'm not up there in five minutes with this cufflink, he’s going to fire me. Again. Do you want to be the reason Nick Vance is in a bad mood?"
The doorman hesitated. Everyone knew the Vance reputation. It was a currency of terror.
"Penthouse A," he grunted, swiping a key fob over the elevator panel. "Five minutes."
"You're a gem," I muttered, slipping into the elevator before he could change his mind.
The doors slid shut, enclosing me in a glass tube that shot upward. The city dropped away beneath my feet. My ears popped.
Layer 3: The Micro-Tension.
As the numbers climbed—20, 30, 40—my bravado started to leak out, replaced by nausea. What was I doing? Was I going to beg? Was I going to threaten him? With what? Fix my life or I'll bleed on your rug?
The elevator chimed softly at the top floor. The doors opened directly into the apartment.
There was no hallway. Just... space.
It was vast. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire room, offering a panoramic view of the snow-swept city. The furniture was low, black leather, sharp angles. There was a fireplace, a long ribbon of gas flame dancing behind glass.
And it was freezing.
Seriously. It felt colder inside than outside. The air conditioning was humming.
"Hello?" I called out. My voice sounded small in the cavernous room.
No answer.
I stepped off the elevator, my wet sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. "Nick? I know you're in here. The doorman let me up."
Silence.
I walked further in, past a kitchen island that was larger than my entire dorm room. On the counter, there was a protein shaker and a stack of papers. A playbook.
"Look, I'm not leaving until you talk to me," I shouted at the empty room. "You got me evicted! Do you hear me? I'm homeless because you have a God complex!"
Nothing.
I turned a corner, heading toward what looked like a hallway leading to the bedrooms.
And then I ran into a wall.
Except it wasn't a wall. It was warm. And damp.
I bounced back, stumbling, catching myself on a marble pedestal.
"You have a habit of crashing into things, Jessica."
The voice came from above me. Low. Resonant. It vibrated in my chest bone.
I looked up.
And stopped breathing.
Nick Vance was standing there. But he wasn't wearing the suit.
He was wearing a towel.
Just a towel. Low on his hips. White.
He had just showered. Water droplets were clinging to his chest hair—dark, sparse hair that trailed down a stomach so defined it looked like an anatomy chart. His skin was flushed from the heat of the water, a stark contrast to the freezing air of the apartment.
I stared. I couldn't help it. My eyes traced the jagged white scar that ran from his hip bone, disappearing under the towel. It was violent and beautiful. His shoulders were impossibly wide, corded with muscle that shifted as he crossed his arms.
He smelled like sandalwood and steam.
"Are you done staring?" he asked. His tone wasn't angry. It was bored. Which was infinitely worse.
I snapped my gaze up to his face. His hair was wet, spiked up, water dripping down his forehead. His grey eyes were locked on mine, unblinking.
"I... I..." I stuttered. Smooth, Jess. Real iron.
"You broke into my apartment," he stated.
"I didn't break in. The doorman let me in."
"Because you lied to him."
"Because I'm desperate!" I exploded, the anger finally overriding the shock of seeing him half-naked. "I'm evicted, Nick! My landlord kicked me out. The school cut my scholarship. I have nowhere to go. And it is your fault."
He didn't flinch at my shouting. He just watched me, his face impassive.
"Cause and effect," he said calmly. "You caused a scene. The effect was unemployment. You failed to pay rent. The effect was eviction. None of this is my fault. It is a sequence of your own failures."
The cruelty of it took my breath away. It was so clinical.
"You arrogant prick," I whispered. "You have everything. You have this..." I gestured around the palace of glass and ice. "And you can't even see people. You just see numbers."
"I see a intruder dripping melted snow on my Brazilian walnut floors," he countered. "Leave."
"No."
He raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"No," I said, planting my feet. "I'm not leaving. It's a blizzard outside. I have no car. I have no dorm. Unless you want to physically throw me out into the snow, I am staying right here until I figure out what to do."
He stared at me. The silence stretched, tight and humming with tension.
He took a step toward me.
I held my ground, though every instinct screamed run.
He stepped closer. I could feel the heat radiating off his damp skin. He towered over me, a wall of muscle and dominance. He was so close I could see the flecks of silver in his irises.
"You are tempting me," he murmured softly. "To throw you out. It would be satisfying."
"Do it," I challenged, tilting my chin up. "Prove you're a monster."
He looked down at me. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. For a second, the air between us crackled. It wasn't just anger anymore. It was something heavier. Something thick and dark.
He wasn't looking at me like a bug anymore. He was looking at me like... a problem he wanted to solve. Or break.
"You have nowhere to go," he said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"And you need money."
"Yes."
He studied me for another long moment. Then, abruptly, he stepped back. The loss of his body heat made me shiver.
"I have a problem," he said, turning and walking toward the kitchen. "And you are currently... available."
"What?" I blinked, confused by the sudden shift.
He picked up a tablet from the counter and tapped the screen. The lights in the apartment dimmed slightly.
"I am being drafted in four months," he said, his back to me. "My schedule is about to become impossible. I need a nutritionist. I need a housekeeper. I need someone to manage my calendar and ensure my life runs with absolute precision so I can focus entirely on hockey."
He turned around, leaning back against the counter. The towel dipped dangerously low on his hips.
"My last assistant quit because I was 'too demanding.' You..." He looked me over, his eyes lingering on my defiant stance. "You are desperate. And you are stubborn."
"You want me to be your maid?" I asked, incredulous.
"I want you to be my handler," he corrected. "Live-in. You get the spare room. You get a salary that will cover your tuition and your debt. You get safety."
My mouth fell open. "You're joking."
"I never joke," he said. "But there are conditions."
"What conditions?"
He walked back toward me, slow and predatory. He stopped inches from me again. He reached out, his hand hovering near my face. I held my breath.
He tucked a wet curl of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed my jawline. His skin was rough, calloused. My pulse hammered against his fingertips.
"Total control," he whispered. "You live by my rules. You eat when I say. You sleep when I say. No noise. No mess. No chaos. You sign a contract, and you obey it. If you break a single clause... you're back on the street."
He dropped his hand.
"Well?" he asked, his voice silky. "How much is your pride worth, Jessica? Is it worth sleeping in a snowbank?"
I looked at him. I hated him. I wanted to punch his perfect, chiseled jaw.
But I also looked at the snow swirling against the black glass of the windows. I felt the emptiness of my bank account.
And I felt the burn where he had touched me.
"Show me the contract," I said.