Chapter 2
Angela
I sat cross-legged on my twin mattress, surrounded by a blizzard of crumpled receipts, pay stubs, and printouts from the student loan portal. My laptop hummed against my thighs, the screen glowing with a terrifying shade of red.
Application Denied.
Loan Limit Reached.
Payment Past Due.
It was a symphony of failure.
Across the room, Chloe was upside down. Literally. She was hanging off the side of her bed, her black-dyed hair pooling on the floorboards, a half-eaten bag of Takis balanced on her stomach.
"Okay, so let’s recap," Chloe said, her voice muffled by a mouthful of spicy corn chips. "You got fired by the hottest—and arguably the cruelest—guy on campus. A drunk boomer tried to grope you. And the university just happened to realize you’re poor on the same day. Have you considered that maybe you’re the protagonist in a really dark fanfiction? "
"It’s not funny, Chlo," I whispered, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars exploded behind my eyelids.
"They want forty-eight thousand dollars by Monday.
I have exactly three hundred and twelve dollars in my checking account.
And my tips from tonight? Zero. Because I got fired before dessert service. "
"Elijah Vance is a sociopath," Chloe declared, flipping herself right-side up. She smoothed down her oversized Cure t-shirt. "I heard he once made a freshman cry just by looking at him. Like, didn't even speak. Just stared until the kid’s soul evaporated."
"He looked at me like that tonight," I admitted, a shiver tracing the line of my spine.
I couldn't shake the memory of it. The way Elijah had stood in that hallway, perfectly still, while I was shaking with adrenaline.
He hadn't looked horrified that I kneeing a donor in the crotch.
He hadn't looked angry. He had looked...
hungry. Like a scientist observing a rat navigate a maze, waiting to see if it would find the cheese or get electrocuted.
"He said I was a liability," I murmured, picking at a loose thread on my comforter. "He said I was emotional."
"You just kneed a guy in the junk, Ange. That’s not emotional. That’s efficient." Chloe hopped off her bed and padded over to me, offering the bag of Takis. "Look, we’ll figure it out. We can start an OnlyFans. I have great feet. You have... okay, your feet are a horror show, but you’re flexible."
I managed a weak, watery smile. "My mom called while I was walking back."
The air left the room. Chloe knew the stakes.
She knew about the dialysis, the medication that cost more than a luxury car payment, the fragile thread keeping my mother tethered to the earth.
The Sterling University student health plan was a "Gold Tier" PPO.
It covered out-of-network specialists. It was the only reason my mom was still alive.
"Did you tell her?" Chloe asked softly.
"No," I said, my voice cracking. "She sounded happy. She was talking about how she managed to walk to the mailbox today. I couldn't... I couldn't tell her that I failed."
That was the core of it. The rot in the center of my chest. It wasn't just the money.
It was the shame. My father had been the equipment manager here for twenty years.
He was beloved. Until the day they found the missing inventory and the cash in his locker.
He swore he was framed, but the vodka bottles in his truck said otherwise.
He went to jail, and I became "The Thief’s Daughter. "
I had spent three years scrubbing that stain off my name. I was the first one in the studio every morning. I was the last one out of the library. I smiled until my face hurt. I wore my armor of perfection so tight I could barely breathe, all to prove that I wasn't him. That I wasn't trash.
And in one night, Elijah Vance had stripped it all away.
I closed my laptop with a snap.
"I have to get that job back," I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
Chloe blinked, her eyeliner smudged. "What? The catering gig? Ange, you assaulted a donor. You’re blacklisted."
"Not the catering company," I said, standing up. My knees popped. "Elijah."
"Elijah?" Chloe looked horrified. "You want to go talk to the Ice King? Now? It’s eleven o'clock at night and it’s snowing sideways."
"He’s the one who fired me," I reasoned, pacing the small length of our room. "He’s on the conduct committee. He saw what Henderson did. If I can just... explain. If I can make him see that I had no choice. Maybe he’ll retract the complaint.
If I get the job back, maybe the Bursar will see it as a sign of 'good character' and reinstate the scholarship appeal. "
It was a flimsy plan. It was a desperate plan. It was a plan built on the delusional hope that Elijah Vance possessed a human heart.
But it was all I had.
"He’s going to eat you alive," Chloe warned, climbing back into her bed. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
I grabbed my coat—a thrifted wool trench that was two sizes too big—and wrapped a scarf around my neck.
"I don't have a choice," I said, more to myself than to her. "I can't lose this, Chloe. I can't let my mom die because I have too much pride to beg."
The trek to the Sterling Summit tower was a lesson in class warfare.
The dorms—"The Barracks," as the rich kids called them—were located at the bottom of the hill, near the maintenance sheds and the dumpsters. The wind whipped through the valley, carrying needles of ice that stung my cheeks. I trudged up the winding road, my boots crunching on the salted asphalt.
As I climbed, the architecture changed. The brick turned to limestone. The streetlights changed from sodium-yellow buzzers to elegant gas-style lanterns. Heated sidewalks melted the snow before it could stick.
By the time I reached the Summit, I was breathless and shivering, my nose running, my curls frizzed by the humidity.
The building pierced the sky like a shard of black glass.
It was the tallest structure in the city, a monument to excess where the ultra-elite students lived.
The penthouse—Elijah’s domain—occupied the entire top floor.
I had heard the rumors. Private elevator.
Heated floors. A view that cost more than my father’s bail.
I stood in front of the revolving glass doors, hesitating. My reflection stared back at me: a girl in a baggy coat, eyes wide and rimmed with red, looking like a stray cat waiting for scraps.
Turn around, a voice in my head whispered. He’s going to humiliate you again.
I pictured my mom sitting in her dialysis chair, smiling at a photo of me in a tutu.
I pushed through the doors.
The lobby smelled like lemongrass and money. A concierge in a suit that cost more than my life sat behind a marble desk. He looked up as I entered, his lip curling slightly.
"Deliveries are in the back," he stated, not even checking a screen.
"I’m not a delivery," I said, channeling my best Madame LeClair posture. I lifted my chin, pulling my coat tighter. "I’m here to see Elijah Vance."
The concierge actually laughed. A short, sharp bark of amusement. "Mr. Vance does not accept unannounced visitors. Especially not..." He gestured vaguely at my entire existence. "...this late."
"Tell him it’s Angela Moretti," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "Tell him I have something that belongs to him."
I didn't. I had absolutely nothing. But I knew Elijah was transactional. If he thought I had leverage, he might be curious.
The concierge sighed, clearly bored, and picked up a sleek black phone. He murmured something low, waited, and then his eyebrows shot up. He looked at me with new interest—or maybe it was pity.
"He says to send you up," the concierge said, placing the phone down gently. "Penthouse level. The elevator requires a key card, but he’s unlocked it for you."
He slid a black card across the marble.
I took it, my fingers brushing the cold plastic. I felt like I was picking up a loaded gun.
"Good luck," the concierge muttered as I walked toward the elevators. It sounded like a eulogy.
The elevator ride was silent and impossibly smooth. There were no buttons, just a touch screen that glowed with the word PENTHOUSE.
My stomach twisted into a knot. I tried to rehearse what I would say.
Mr. Vance, I apologize for the scene. I was under extreme duress.
No, too formal.
Elijah, please. My mother is sick.
No, too weak. He hated weakness.
Listen here, you sadistic prick...
Definitely not.
The doors slid open with a soft ding that sounded like a bell tolling.
I stepped out directly into... space.
There was no hallway. The elevator opened straight into the living room.
And "living room" was an insult to the cavernous expanse of black marble, chrome, and leather that stretched out before me.
The far wall was entirely glass, revealing the glittering lights of the campus and the town below. It was breathtaking.
And it was freezing.
The air in the apartment was conditioned to a meat-locker chill. I shivered, clutching my coat.
"You’re late."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
I spun around. Elijah was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair in the corner, shrouded in shadow. The only light came from the fireplace—which was gas, and currently set to a low, blue flame that offered zero warmth.
He wasn't wearing the tuxedo anymore. He was wearing grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a tight black t-shirt that clung to his chest. His feet were bare. The casualness of it was jarring. It made him look larger, denser, more real.
He stood up, the movement fluid and silent. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand.
"Late?" I managed, my voice echoing in the vast, empty room. "You didn't know I was coming."