Chapter 4
Angela
The morning light in the Sterling Summit penthouse was unforgiving.
It didn't filter in softly like it did through the grime-streaked windows of my dorm room.
It assaulted the space. It poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, reflecting off the black marble floors and the chrome fixtures until the entire apartment felt like the inside of a diamond—cold, hard, and blindingly bright.
I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in the guest suite, staring at my reflection in the mirrored closet doors.
I looked the same as I had yesterday. Same dark curls, currently a tangled mess. Same pale skin. Same slightly bruised knees from the studio floor. But I felt... altered.
I touched my lips.
They felt swollen. A phantom pressure lingered there, a memory of Elijah’s mouth inches from mine in that dusty pantry. The smell of cedar and scotch. The heat of his body caging me in.
"Yes, Sir."
The memory of those two words whispered in the dark made my stomach flip. It wasn't nausea. It was something heavier, stickier. Shame mixed with a jolt of arousal so potent it made my toes curl into the plush carpet.
I had spent three years at Sterling University fighting for respect.
I was the scholarship girl. The hard worker.
The one who followed the rules. And in less than forty-eight hours, I had signed a contract to be a billionaire’s plaything, moved into his fortress, and nearly let him ravish me in the back room of a frat house while a keg stand happened ten feet away.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
"You are losing your mind, Angela," I whispered to the empty room. "You are absolutely losing your mind."
But then, the other reality hit me. I reached for my phone on the nightstand. I opened my bank app.
Balance: $10,312.00.
I opened my email.
Bursar’s Office: Payment Received. Registration Hold Lifted.
I opened the portal for the University Hospital.
Teresa Moretti Account: $0.00 Balance.
I stared at the zeros. They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. They were freedom. They were my mother’s next breath.
I owed Elijah Vance everything. And that terrified me more than the debt ever had. Because money was just math. What Elijah wanted—what I had agreed to give him—was something far more complex. He wanted my will.
And God help me, last night, I had wanted to give it to him.
I needed coffee. I needed caffeine to jumpstart my brain before I had to face him. I assumed he was here. His car—a matte black Aston Martin that looked like the Batmobile—had been in the garage when I woke up.
I pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and a frantic, oversized t-shirt that said Sterling Ballet across the chest. I padded barefoot down the long, silent hallway toward the living area.
The penthouse was quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of a library, but the tense, pressurized quiet of a bomb shelter.
I rounded the corner into the open-concept kitchen and froze.
Elijah was there.
He was sitting at the island, wearing low-slung basketball shorts and nothing else. His back was to me, a vast expanse of sculpted muscle and skin. And for the first time, I saw the ink.
I gasped softly.
His entire back was a canvas. A stormy, turbulent ocean depicted in black and grey realism. Waves crashed over his shoulder blades, dark clouds gathered at the base of his neck, and a ship—tiny and fragile—was being tossed in the center of his spine. It was beautiful. And it was violent.
He didn't turn around. "You’re staring."
His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. He sounded exhausted.
"I... I didn't know you had tattoos," I stammered, walking slowly into the room. "You always wear suits. Or gear."
"I keep them covered," he said. "They aren't for public consumption."
He turned on the stool to face me, and the breath left my lungs.
He looked wrecked.
His hair, usually styled with military precision, was chaotic, falling over his forehead. There were dark bruises blooming under his eyes, purple shadows against his tan skin. But it was his right hand that stopped me in my tracks.
It was resting on the marble counter, wrapped in a bag of frozen peas. The knuckles were swollen to twice their normal size, turning a sickly shade of blue-black.
"Your hand," I whispered, stepping closer without thinking. "Is that... from Kyle?"
Elijah looked down at the bag of peas, his expression bored, as if the limb didn't belong to him. "Kyle has a hard head. And a harder wrist bone."
"Is it broken?"
"Just a deep bone bruise. Maybe a hairline fracture in the metacarpal. I’ll tape it."
"You’ll tape it?" I repeated, incredulous. "Elijah, you’re a center. You need your hands for face-offs. If it’s fractured, you can't play."
"I play," he stated simply. "Pain is information. Nothing more."
He reached for a mug of black coffee with his left hand, taking a sip. He winced, just slightly—a flicker of a grimace that vanished as quickly as it appeared. But I saw it.
For the first time since I met him, the "Ice Man" looked human. He looked like a guy in his twenties who was hurting.
"Why didn't you wake me?" I asked. "I could have... I don't know. Helped."
"Helped how?" He raised an eyebrow, the arrogance creeping back into his tone. "Are you secretly an orthopedic surgeon in addition to being a ballerina?"
"I know how to wrap an injury," I said defensively. "Dancers get hurt all the time. I can tape an ankle blindfolded."
I walked around the island until I was standing in front of him. Up close, the damage to his hand looked worse. The swelling was angry.
"Let me see it," I said.
He pulled his hand back slightly. "It’s fine."
"Elijah," I said, my voice firm. "Give me your hand."
He looked at me. He looked at the determination in my eyes. For a second, I thought he was going to snap at me, tell me to remember my place. But then, he let out a long sigh and slid his hand across the cold marble toward me.
I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly. His hand was massive compared to mine. Hot to the touch, despite the ice. I gently lifted the bag of peas.
"God," I hissed. "You really did a number on him."
"He shouldn't have touched you," Elijah murmured.
I looked up, meeting his gaze. "You risked your season to break a teammate's wrist because he was being a drunk idiot?"
"I established a boundary," he corrected. "If I let him touch you, then the rookies think they can touch you. Then the donors think they can touch you. Respect is a currency, Angela. Once you lose it, you go bankrupt."
"So this..." I gestured to his swollen hand. "...this is just business expenses?"
"Essentially."
I shook my head. I walked over to the freezer, dumped the half-melted peas, and found a fresh bag of ice. I grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it expertly, creating a cold compress that would actually conform to the joint.
I walked back to him and placed it gently over his knuckles.
"Hold that," I instructed.
He obeyed.
"Coach called last night," he said suddenly. The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. "And?"
"He’s not happy. Kyle went to the ER. Spiral fracture of the wrist. He’s out for six weeks."
My stomach dropped. "Oh my god."
"Coach wanted to suspend me," Elijah continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "He said brawling with a teammate at a frat party is 'conduct unbecoming of a Captain.' He threatened to strip the 'C' from my jersey."
"Elijah..." I felt a wave of nausea. Hockey was his life. Being Captain wasn't just a title for him; it was his identity. "Did you tell him why? Did you tell him Kyle was harassing me?"
Elijah looked away, staring out the window at the grey sky. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because if I tell him it was over a girl, the locker room talk gets worse.
You become the Yoko Ono of Sterling Hockey.
The distraction. The problem." He looked back at me, his eyes intense.
"And... I didn't want him looking into who you were.
If the administration digs too deep, they might find the contract. They might find the payments."
Silence stretched between us.
He had taken the heat. He had let his coach—the man he respected most in the world—believe he was just a violent thug, all to protect my privacy. To protect the arrangement that saved my mother.
Something inside me cracked. The armor I wore—the resentment, the pride—fissured.
"You’re an idiot," I whispered. But there was no venom in it.
"Probably," he agreed.
"Does your hand hurt?" I asked softly.
"Like a bitch," he admitted.
It was the most honest thing he had ever said to me.
I reached out, bypassing the ice, and placed my hand on his forearm. His skin was warm, the muscle dense and hard beneath my fingertips. I felt a tremor run through him at the contact. He didn't pull away.
"Thank you," I said. "For my mom. And for... standing up for me. Even if your method was psychotic."
He looked at my hand on his arm, then up to my eyes. The air in the kitchen changed. It shifted from medical concern to that dangerous, magnetic pull that always seemed to exist between us.
"I didn't do it to be nice," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I did it because you’re mine."
"We established that," I said, feeling my pulse quicken. "But you’re going to get suspended if you don't give Coach a better reason."
"I bought myself twenty-four hours," he said. "I told him there were mitigating circumstances I would explain in person."
"And what are those circumstances?"
He looked at me, a strange glint entering his eyes. Calculation. Strategy.
"That depends on you."
"Me?"
"Sit," he said, nodding to the stool next to him.
I sat. The domesticity of it was jarring. We were sitting at a breakfast bar, him shirtless and injured, me in pajamas, discussing how to salvage his career.
"The only way this goes away," Elijah said, "is if my actions are framed as... chivalrous. Protective. Noble."
"Breaking a wrist is noble?"
"If I was defending the woman I love? Yes."
I choked on my own spit. "The woman you what?"
"Love," Elijah said, testing the word like it was a foreign currency. "Or, at least, the woman I am seriously committed to."
He turned his stool so his knees knocked against mine.
"Think about it, Angela. If I tell Coach that Kyle was sexually harassing my serious girlfriend, the narrative flips. I’m not the aggressor; I’m the hero. Kyle becomes the villain. The team rallies behind me because you don't touch another man’s woman. It’s tribal code."
"So..." I processed this slowly. "You want to fake date? On top of the... other arrangement?"
"We’re already living together," he pointed out. "We’re already seen together. It’s the logical cover story."
"But people hate me," I said quietly. "The team hates me because of my dad."
"They hate the idea of you," Elijah corrected. "They don't know you. If you’re with me—if you’re under my protection—they will fall in line. They will have to."
"And what do I have to do?"
"Be the girlfriend," he said. "Come to the games. Wear the jersey. Sit in the box. Hold my hand in the quad. Kiss me when we score."
"Kiss you," I repeated. My gaze dropped to his mouth again. I remembered the pantry. The almost-kiss.
"Yes," he said. "Publicly. Frequently."
"And privately?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Does the... does the contract still stand?"
Elijah leaned forward. He reached out with his good hand—his left—and tucked a loose curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jawline, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. The touch was so tender, so at odds with his size and his violence, that my breath hitched.
"Privately," he murmured, "you are still my submissive. You still obey me. You still kneel when I tell you to. The 'girlfriend' is the mask, Angela. This..." He pressed his thumb into my lip, opening my mouth slightly. "...this is the reality."
I shivered. It was a dangerous game. Blurring the lines like this. Playing the loving couple in the sunlight and the master/slave dynamic in the moonlight. It was a recipe for emotional disaster.
"It’s too complicated," I said weakly. "We’ll mess it up."
"I don't make mistakes," he said. "And you are a performer. You know how to play a role."
He pulled his hand back, leaving my skin tingling.
"It solves your problem, too," he added, his voice returning to business mode. "If you’re my girlfriend, the social stigma vanishes. The 'thief’s daughter' label gets replaced by 'Vance’s girl.' The donors won't touch you. The students won't sneer. You get your dignity back."
He was right. God, he was always right.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. We do it."
"Good."
"But," I added, holding up a finger. "We need ground rules."
He raised an eyebrow. "You’re negotiating?"
"Always. Rule number one: You don't make decisions about my life without telling me. No more surprise firings. No more secret payments."
He considered this, then nodded once. "Acceptable."
"Rule number two," I said, looking at his bruised hand. "You let me help you. You don't hide your injuries. If we’re doing this—if we’re 'partners' in public—you can't shut me out when things get ugly."
Elijah looked at me for a long moment. I saw the resistance in his eyes. The wall going up. But then, he looked down at the ice pack I had made him.
"Fine," he grunted.
"And rule number three," I said, feeling bold. "You have to be nice to Chloe. My roommate. She thinks you’re a serial killer."
Elijah actually laughed. It was a rusty, low sound, like a car engine turning over on a cold morning. "I can't promise 'nice.' I can promise... civil."
"I'll take it."
He stood up, towering over me. The humor vanished from his face, replaced by that intense gravity.
"Then it’s settled. We debut tonight."
"Tonight?" I squeaked. "What’s tonight?"
"Sunday dinner at the Alpha house," he said. "The whole team will be there. Coach usually stops by. We walk in together. We establish the claim."
He walked toward the massive refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs.
"Now," he said, turning back to the stove. "Do you know how to cook? Or am I going to have to feed you myself?"
"I can cook," I said, standing up. "But with that hand, you’re not cooking anything. Sit down, Vance."
He paused, looking at me with surprise. I had just given him an order.
"I’m nursing the patient," I said, walking over and taking the carton of eggs from his hand. "Sit."
Elijah stared at me. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Yes, Ma’am," he drawled, the sarcasm heavy, but he sat.
I turned on the stove, my heart pounding in my chest.
We had a deal. We had a plan. And for the next ten minutes, as I scrambled eggs in a kitchen that cost more than my childhood home, listening to the quiet sound of Elijah breathing behind me, I allowed myself to pretend that maybe, just maybe, we were normal.
But I knew better. I knew that beneath the domestic surface, the water was dark and deep, and we were both swimming straight toward the drop-off.