Carter #2
He stays close, his presence all over as his hands find the zipper. He pulls it up to my sternum with a slow, mechanical precision, the zip sounding like a finality.
I tug my hands through the oversized cuffs. The fog in my head is clearing, replaced by a sharp spike of reality.
"This is a terrible idea," I breathe, the black fabric of the collar brushing against my skin. "People are going to talk."
A small, sharp twitch pulls through his cheek—a flash of genuine irritation that flickers across his face and vanishes just as fast.
"You gonna keep chatting with me," he asks, his voice dropping to a gravelly low as he steps back just enough to let me breathe, "or are you going to get to campus?"
I glance down at my phone. Ten minutes. I have ten minutes.
"Better start running then," he says, catching the time too.
I turn and bolt for my car, my heart tripping over itself for a completely different reason now. I throw it into reverse, the engine's growl echoing off the exterior walls of the mansion, and for a second, I focus entirely on the mechanical.
But as I swing the nose around to face the gate, my eyes betray me. They flick to the rearview mirror before I can stop the impulse.
Dominic is still standing exactly where I left him. He isn't looming or looking predatory anymore. Instead, he raises a hand in a slow, casual wave, and a smile breaks across his face—not a smirk, but something bright and dangerously infectious.
My pulse stutters, a sudden, violent misfire that has nothing to do with the speed of the car.
I’ve seen him look arrogant, and I’ve seen him look focused, but I’ve never seen him look like that.
He looks like a man who just stood on the top step of a podium.
He looks like he’s just claimed the only trophy that matters, and the sheer, unadulterated satisfaction on his face lands somewhere it shouldn’t—and it feels better than it has any right to.
I don't understand the look or this sudden warmth under my skin, but I don't have time to analyze it. I check the dashboard clock. Nine minutes.
I floor it, the gate blurring past as I head for campus, the weight of his last name on my back feeling heavier with every mile.
By the time I pull into the university lot, I’m running on pure adrenaline. I don’t even wait for the engine to fully settle before I’m out the door, bag bouncing against my hip.
The parking lot is a blur of moving bodies and idling vehicles. I’m half-jogging, half-sprinting toward the finance building.
I check my phone as I hit the quad. Sixty seconds.
I round the corner of the building at a clip, my sneakers skidding on the pathway, and nearly plow straight into someone standing too close to the turn.
"Whoa—easy there."
Luka catches me by the shoulders, his hands steadying me as I stumble back.
A short, breathless laugh escapes me, the sheer absurdity of the morning finally snapping my last thread of composure. "Sorry. Apparently, today is just a gauntlet of Valerio brothers."
Luka snorts, a familiar, easy grin tugging at his mouth. "Rough morning? You look like you’re trying to set a lap record on foot."
"You have no idea," I say, already ducking under his arm and sidestepping him. My eyes are fixed on the doors of the lecture hall. "I'm literally down to the second. I’ve got to go."
Luka isn’t moving. The teasing light in his eyes has vanished, replaced by a sharp, jarring stillness. His gaze isn’t on my face anymore; it’s dropped to the material over my upper body.
His expression locks tight before his brows draw together, his eyes narrowing as they flick from the jacket back to my face, filled with a sudden, uneasy suspicion.
I look down at the time on my phone and curse, taking off. I don't wait for a "good luck." I’m already five feet past him. I have a presentation to get to, and I’ve already spent enough of my morning caught in the Valerio orbit.
I disappear inside the building, the heavy doors swinging shut on the silence he left behind.
I navigate the familiar corridors on autopilot.
I slip through as quietly as the hinges allow, keeping my head low as the rhythmic, academic hum of Adler’s voice fills the space.
The room is a sea of bent heads and glowing screens, and I blend into the back row, sliding into an empty seat.
My laptop is out and humming to life before I’ve even fully settled it onto the desk.
"Carter Hayes," my professor’s voice says, cutting through the internal static of my hectic morning. "Why don’t you get us started."
I walk to the front, my feet silent on the carpet. The second I stand behind the podium, the morning's wreckage recedes. This is my turf. The data is clean. The logic is mine. I just think about the margins.
"Good morning," I say, my voice finding its professional floor. "Today I’m walking you through a comparative analysis of risk exposure across short-term derivative positions."
For thirty minutes, I am the analyst. I dismantle the numbers. I predict the shifts. I am in total control, the logic of the market flowing as naturally as the air in the room.
"And the takeaway," I finish, clicking to the final slide, "is that volatility doesn’t just affect returns. It reshapes behavior. If you don’t account for the human element of the risk, you’re already behind."
Adler nods, but before he can open the floor, Sienna’s hand is up. She doesn’t wait to be called on. She’s leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed on me with a sharp, glass-like intensity.
"You’re assuming a stable margin requirement," she says, her tone that specific brand of academic sweet that tastes like battery acid. "What happens when liquidity dries up and your hedge collapses?"
I don't hesitate. "Slide seven." I click back. "Liquidity risk is exactly why the model adjusts exposure thresholds dynamically. It doesn't assume stability; it assumes chaos."
A soft murmur ripples through the back row. Sienna’s smile tightens, her fingers tapping a sharp rhythm on her desk.
"Theory’s cute, but the real world is messier than a spreadsheet."
"I agree," I say, meeting her gaze with a steady, bored calmness. "Which is why the data is pulled from live-market behavior. Messy inputs are the point."
Adler checks the watch on his wrist, a heap of papers already in his hand. "Well, that’s time. Good work today. See you all next class."
The tension breaks as chairs scrape and bags zip. I pack my laptop, the adrenaline still thrumming in my fingertips. I feel good. I feel like myself again—until I reach for my bag and the reality comes rushing back.
"Nice jacket," Sienna says from behind me.
I don't turn. I keep zipping my bag.
"Dom always does that," she continues, her voice idle, though it carries a sharp edge. "Leaves things behind. Once he forgot a sweater at my place and didn't even bother asking for it back. I think he liked the idea of me having to look at it."
The words hit me like a cool draft. I finally remember exactly whose name is branded across my back.
"I figured it was his way of keeping things uncomplicated," she adds, stepping into my peripheral vision. Her eyes are scanning me, looking for a crack, a blush—anything that proves I’m as affected as she wants me to be. "Easier than actually staying."
I finally turn, my face of professional indifference.
"Interesting," I say evenly, adjusting the strap of my bag. "I’ll keep that in mind."
I walk past her without another word, maintaining a steady, defiant rhythm until the doors of the lecture hall close shut behind me.
The moment I’m alone in the hallway, I stop. I look down, my fingers trailing over the matte-black color on my sleeve.
Uncomplicated.
I think of the infectious, triumphant smile he’d flashed in my rearview mirror—the way his eyes had crinkled, looking more human than I’d ever seen them.
I’d let myself believe it was for me. But as I stare at the cuff, the image of that smile begins to warp.
I wonder if I’d hallucinated the depth of it, or if I’d simply seen what I wanted to see.
If there was a sweater for Sienna, then this wasn't a breakthrough. It was a routine. A way to stake a claim without ever having to stay. He hadn't just helped me out of a mess; he’d branded me with his name and sent me off to deal with the fallout while he headed to the track.
I tug the jacket off, but the scent of him clings to my skin for a heartbeat before I shove the fabric deep into my bag.
It doesn't feel like generosity anymore. It feels like a debt I can't afford to carry.