Chapter 14
Faye
Happiness is a drug. It’s a narcotic that makes you stupid. It makes you think you can walk through fire without getting burned. It makes you think you can outsmart gravity.
I was high on it.
I was walking across the quad on a Wednesday afternoon in late March. The snow was finally starting to melt, revealing patches of brown, dormant grass that looked promising. The air smelled like mud and potential.
I had just come from my advanced studio critique. Professor Vance—a woman who usually critiqued art with the enthusiasm of an executioner—had looked at my new series and actually smiled.
"These are... vibrant, Faye. The energy here is kinetic. It’s raw. Keep going."
I was floating.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Graham: Practice ended early. Meet me at The Grind? I need caffeine and I need to look at your face.
I smiled at the screen, biting my lip.
Me: Looking at my face is a premium service. It’ll cost you.
Graham: Put it on my tab.
I laughed out loud, ignoring the confused look from a passing freshman.
We were invincible.
It had been three weeks since the blackmail incident. Three weeks since Graham’s "father handled it." And true to his word, the silence from the Allister camp had been absolute. No texts from my father. No threats from the Dean. Just peace.
We had fallen into a rhythm that felt dangerous and perfect. We slept in the same bed every night. We drove to campus together, holding hands until we hit the parking lot perimeter. We stole kisses in the library stacks and groped each other in the elevator.
We were getting sloppy. I knew it. But I didn't care.
Because when you're in love with the Governor, you start to believe that he really can control the world.
I changed course toward The Grind, the campus coffee shop that was usually overrun with premed students mainlining espresso.
I walked in. The smell of roasted beans and stress hit me.
I scanned the room.
There he was.
Graham was sitting at a corner table, his back to the wall (always the strategist). He was wearing a grey hoodie—my grey hoodie, technically, since I had claimed it, but he had stolen it back this morning—and reading a textbook.
He looked up as I entered.
The change in his face was instant. The neutral mask dissolved, replaced by a warmth that was reserved exclusively for me. His grey eyes softened. The corner of his mouth quirked up.
I walked over, feeling the familiar pull in my chest.
"Hey," I said, sliding into the chair opposite him.
"Hey." He reached across the table and took my hand. He didn't check to see who was watching. He just laced his fingers through mine. "You look smug. Good critique?"
"Better than good. Vance didn't hate it. She used the word 'kinetic'."
"High praise."
"Basically a Nobel Prize in her language." I squeezed his hand. "How was practice?"
"Brutal. Coach is riding us hard for the playoffs. But..." He lowered his voice, leaning in. "I scored a goal during the scrimmage that defied physics. I wished you were there."
"I have classes, Graham. I can't just be your personal cheerleader."
"You're my muse. It’s different."
He winked.
God, he was lethal when he was playful. The contrast between the intense, brooding Captain and this boyish, flirting guy was enough to make my knees weak.
"I missed you," he whispered.
"It’s been four hours."
"That’s three hours and fifty-nine minutes too long."
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles.
A girl at the next table dropped her spoon. It clattered loudly against her ceramic mug.
I froze. I looked over.
It was a girl from my Art History seminar. Sarah? Samantha? She was staring at us with wide eyes. Her phone was in her hand, the camera lens pointed vaguely in our direction.
I pulled my hand back.
"Graham," I hissed. "People."
"Let them look," he said, unbothered. "We're roommates. Roommates hold hands."
"Roommates do not kiss knuckles in public coffee shops."
"Maybe European roommates do."
He was smiling, but I felt a prickle of unease. The "Secret" felt thin today. Like stretched plastic wrap.
"We should be careful," I murmured. "My dad has been quiet, but that doesn't mean he’s gone."
"He’s handled," Graham assured me. "Trust me."
"I do trust you. I don't trust the rest of the world."
"Relax, Faye. We're fine. Do you want a latte? Or should we just go back to the penthouse and celebrate your kinetic energy?"
The look in his eyes promised a very specific kind of celebration.
My unease vanished, replaced by heat.
"Penthouse," I said. "Definitely penthouse."
We stood up to leave. As we walked out, Graham put his hand on the small of my back. It was possessive. Heavy.
I didn't push it away. I leaned into it.
We walked out into the sunshine, blind to the fact that the girl at the next table was typing furiously into a group chat.
Sarah: You guys. The Governor and the Allister girl are DEFINITELY banging. I just saw him kiss her hand at The Grind. Pics attached.
Later that afternoon
I was in the campus bookstore, looking for a replacement charcoal set, when Rys cornered me.
I didn't hear him coming. He just appeared in the aisle, blocking my exit with his massive frame and a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Princess," he drawled. "Shopping for supplies?"
"Rys," I said, clutching my basket. "Don't you have a puck to hit somewhere?"
"Practice is over. Now comes the part of the day where I annoy people. You're first on the list."
He leaned against the shelf of sketchpads, looking down at me. Rys was Graham’s best friend, but he was also the wildest card in the deck. He saw everything.
"So," he said, lowering his voice. "How’s domestic bliss?"
"Fine. Graham is very... tidy."
"I bet he is. He color-codes his socks. It’s a sickness." Rys picked up a charcoal stick and twirled it. "You know, the team pool is up to five hundred bucks."
"What pool?"
"The 'When Will They Admit It' pool. Miller bet next week. I bet on graduation. But after seeing you two at the coffee shop today... I might need to adjust my wager."
My stomach dropped. "You saw us?"
"I didn't. But Sarah from Delta Gamma did. And she told Jessica. And Jessica told Miller. And Miller told the locker room."
Rys stopped twirling the charcoal. His expression turned serious.
"Faye," he said quietly. "Graham thinks he’s slick. He thinks he’s playing 4D chess with the world. But he’s not. He’s in love. And guys in love are stupid."
I stiffened. "We're careful."
"You're not careful. You're glowing. Both of you. It’s obnoxious." He sighed. "Look, I don't care who Graham sleeps with. But the Coach cares. And your dad cares. And right now... there are eyes on you. More than usual."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, there was a guy at practice today. Suit. Not a scout. He wasn't watching the hockey. He was watching Graham. Taking notes on his phone every time Graham checked his phone."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Who was he?"
"Don't know. But he looked like a lawyer. Or a P.I." Rys stepped closer. "If Graham is in trouble, he won't tell me. He tries to carry everything himself. But you... you can make him talk."
"He told me everything is handled."
"Graham’s definition of 'handled' usually involves him taking a bullet so no one else has to hear the gun go off."
Rys patted my shoulder.
"Just... watch his six, okay? He’s the Captain. We need him."
Rys walked away, leaving me standing in the aisle with a basket full of charcoal and a heart full of dread.
A guy in a suit. Watching Graham.
Was it Silas? Was it the Dean?
Or was it something else?
I abandoned the basket and ran out of the store. I needed to find Graham.
I found him in the parking lot, leaning against the Rover, waiting for me. He was scrolling on his phone, his brow furrowed.
"Graham!"
He looked up. The worry vanished instantly, replaced by the mask.
"Hey. Ready to go?"
"Rys talked to me," I said, breathless. "He said there was a guy at practice. Watching you."
Graham’s face didn't change, but his hand tightened on his phone.
"Rys is paranoid. It was probably a scout."
"He said he looked like a lawyer."
"Scouts wear suits too, Faye."
"Graham." I grabbed his arm. "Is my father back? Did the deal fall through?"
"No," he said firmly. "The deal is solid. Silas hasn't said a word."
"Then who was the guy?"
Graham sighed. He looked around the parking lot, checking for listeners.
"My father’s guy," he admitted quietly.
I blinked. "Your father? Senator Vane?"
"Yes. He sent an aide to 'check on his investment.' To make sure I’m holding up my end of the bargain."
"What bargain?"
Graham froze.
He hadn't told me about the bargain. He had just said he used "political capital."
"Graham," I whispered. "What did you promise him?"
He looked away. He looked at the mountains. He looked at the pavement. Anywhere but me.
"I promised him... focus," he lied. It was a bad lie. I could hear the edges of it. "I promised him I’d finish the season strong. That the relationship wouldn't be a distraction."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it."
I didn't believe him. Not fully. But looking at the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders were slumped under the hoodie... I couldn't push him.
He was protecting me. Again.
"Okay," I said softly. "But if his 'guy' is watching... we need to be more careful. No more coffee shops. No more hand-holding."
"Faye—"
"I’m serious. If your dad thinks I’m a distraction, he might pull the plug on whatever deal you made with Silas. And then we're screwed."
Graham looked at me. He reached out and cupped my cheek.
"I hate hiding you," he whispered.
"I know. I hate being hidden. But I’d rather be hidden with you than famous without you."
He smiled, but it was sad.
"Let's go home," he said. "I want to lock the door and pretend the world doesn't exist for a few hours."
We got in the car.
As we drove away, I looked in the side mirror.
A black sedan pulled out of a spot three rows back. It followed us.
I watched it. It stayed two cars behind. When we turned onto the main road, it turned. When we merged onto the highway, it merged.
Paranoia? Or reality?
I didn't tell Graham. He was already stressed about his father. If I told him we were being followed, he would snap. He would do something rash.
I decided to protect him this time.
I watched the sedan until we turned up the private road to the penthouse. It didn't follow us up the gate. It kept driving.
Maybe Rys was right. Maybe I was just paranoid.
Or maybe the trap was already set, and we had just walked right into it.
The Penthouse
The evening was quiet. We ordered Thai food. We ate on the floor of the living room, watching a documentary about penguins because Graham found their social structure "efficient."
It was domestic. It was sweet.
But the shadow was there.
Every time Graham’s phone buzzed, we both flinched. Every time the elevator chimed (which was just the wind, or a neighbor), we looked at the door.
We were jumpy.
"Come here," Graham said, pulling me onto his lap.
I straddled him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
"Distract me," he murmured against my lips. "Tell me about the art. Tell me about the kinetic energy."
"It’s not just energy," I whispered, running my fingers through his hair. "It’s tension. The moment before the break. That’s what I’m painting."
"Is that us?" he asked. "Are we the moment before the break?"
"I hope not. I want us to be the moment after. The survival."
He kissed me. Deep and slow. It tasted like curry and desperation.
He carried me to the bedroom.
We made love with the lights on. We needed to see each other. We needed to be sure.
It was fierce. Possessive. Graham held me down like he was trying to imprint himself onto my skin. He marked me. He left bruises on my hips that would last for days.
"Mine," he growled in my ear as he came. "You're mine."
"Yours," I vowed. "Always yours."
Afterward, as he slept, I slipped out of bed.
I needed water.
I walked to the kitchen, naked, wrapping myself in his grey hoodie.
I drank a glass of water, staring out at the city lights.
My phone was on the counter. I had charged it.
I turned it on.
It flooded with notifications.
Texts from Cleo. Texts from Rys.
And one email.
From [email protected].
Subject: Urgent: Meeting Regarding Academic Standing.
I frowned. My grades were fine. I was acing Art History.
I opened the email.
Dear Ms. Allister,
Please report to the Dean’s office tomorrow at 9:00 AM. A formal inquiry has been launched regarding allegations of academic impropriety and violation of the Student Code of Conduct.
Sincerely,
Dean Miller
My heart stopped.
Academic impropriety? Cheating?
I hadn't cheated.
I scrolled down. There was an attachment.
It was a photo.
Not the alley photo. Not the coffee shop photo.
It was a photo of my Advanced Studio final project. The red painting. The one Graham had inspired.
But next to it was a photo of a famous painting by a French artist from the 1950s. They looked... similar. Suspiciously similar.
Plagiarism allegation.
I stared at the screen.
I hadn't plagiarized. I had never even seen that French painting before.
Someone had set this up. Someone had dug through art history archives to find something that looked like my work and flagged it.
This wasn't about grades. This was about getting me expelled.
If I was expelled, I lost my student status. I lost my housing eligibility (even if I lived off campus). And most importantly... I became a disgrace.
Graham had saved me from the sex scandal. So they attacked my art instead.
"Faye?"
I jumped.
Graham was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.
"What are you doing?"
I quickly turned off the phone screen.
"Nothing," I said, my voice shaking. "Just... water."
He walked over. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
"You're tense," he noted.
"Just tired."
"Come back to bed. The bed is cold without you."
I looked at the black screen of my phone.
If I told him... he would go to war. He would storm the Dean’s office. He would call his father again. And his father would own him even more.
I couldn't let him do that.
I had to fight this one alone.
"Coming," I whispered.
I let him lead me back to bed. I let him pull me into his arms.
But as I lay there in the dark, listening to his steady breathing, I knew the invincibility was gone.
They weren't just watching us. They were dismantling us. Piece by piece.
And I was the first piece to fall.