Chapter 4 #3
I watch her for a second before I speak. “What time do you finish today?”
She frowns. “Why?”
“Because I don’t love the idea of you walking back alone,” I tell her. “Text me when you’re done. I’ll come get you.”
Her smile softens as she gives a small nod. “I’ll see you around.”
“Okay.” But I have a feeling she’s not going to text me.
I make my way across campus and into the library, heading for the private study room I had booked for this call. It's quiet—too quiet, and I already feel the tension curling in my spine. I boot up the laptop, log into the meeting, and wait.
A beat later, my father’s face fills the screen. Crisp suit. Sharp tie. Disappointment practically radiating off him in high definition.
“Micah,” he says. Not a greeting—just my name, like it’s a question and a complaint all at once.
“Hey Dad,” I say, leaning back in my chair, already bracing.
“Did you follow up on the South Beach property? The reports from Legal?”
“I emailed everything this morning.”
He clicks something off-screen. “You should’ve cc’d Marianne. You know that. She’ll think you’re unprepared.”
Marianne’s the assistant my dad assigned to help me with things like scheduling, navigating the company, and handling the occasional favor—anything that makes my life easier.
She’s been with the company way longer than I have, and honestly, sometimes it feels like I’m the one who should be impressing her.
She’s older than me too, which makes it feel a little weird sometimes—like I should be doing the favors and errands, not the other way around.
But age doesn’t really matter to people like my dad.
What matters is your name. And I’m a Vale—so that alone opens doors, whether I’ve earned it or not.
“I’ll forward it to her now,” I say, jaw tightening.
“You know how much responsibility comes with the Vale name. Being in charge of the company means no slacking. No excuses. You don’t have time for distractions.
Your grades need to be perfect. Every single board member needs to walk away convinced.
Otherwise, you’re just a kid with no talent, carried here by your name.
Make valuable connections at Westcliffe.
You’re not at school to have fun or to collect girlfriends. ”
I stay quiet. I’ve heard it all before.
“Speaking of which,” he continues, like it’s an afterthought—which it never is—“Margot Whitmore is transferring to Westcliffe in the spring.”
I freeze, knowing exactly where this is going. Margot’s a girl Grant and I went to high school with. Exactly the type of heiress my father would want me to associate with.
“She’s a bright girl,” he says. “Her father and I are close, and we’re about to launch a new development deal together.
You remember Marcus Whitmore, right? It would be beneficial if you and Margot got better acquainted.
I’ll have Marianne send you her contact info.
Show her around the school before she transfers. ”
I meet his eyes through the screen. “Dad…”
“She’s smart, well-connected, and has a clean reputation. Most importantly, she’s from a good family. That’s what you need in a partner, Micah—not a cheerleader or a yoga teacher or whoever you’re entertaining these days.”
My fists clench under the desk. “I barely even know her.” Grant knows her better than I do, but I don’t want to bring him into this.
“Then fix that,” he says flatly. “Do I really need to spell everything out for you? Jesus, Micah. It wouldn’t hurt you to take her out. Let her know where you stand. Make the right impression for once.”
My chest tightens. “I’m not looking to date right now.”
His jaw ticks. “You’re allowed to have fun. Just don’t forget who you are—and don’t forget that your actions reflect on me. One mistake, one emotional entanglement with the wrong girl, and the Vale name can be at stake. Understood?”
I nod stiffly. “Got it.”
He stares for a moment like he’s trying to read me. “How’s Grant?”
“Still charming the board members,” I say, voice flat.
“Good. At least someone’s making good impressions,” he chuckles dryly. “And don’t forget about the golf plans with the Swedish investment delegation on Sunday.”
He ends the call without another word. Just a click. Gone.
I sit there staring at the black screen, jaw tight, pulse ticking behind my ears. He’s never been subtle. I’m a piece on his board—trained, positioned, expected to move exactly where he says, marry who he approves of, build his empire with the right person beside me.
But as his voice in my head fades, it’s not Margot or some polished legacy girl I see.
It’s Sophie—quietly folding her hoodie sleeves at the wrist, head tilted when she listens, her eyes wide, scanning a calendar packed to the brim like she’s holding her life together with threadbare strings.
And that’s the problem.
Because like my dad said, I don’t have time for distractions. But somehow, this girl I’ve barely known three weeks has already taken up more of my thoughts than anyone else ever has.
It seems I may be fucked.