Chapter 11 Gio
Gio
The library is quiet in the way that only matters when you’re trying not to lose your fucking mind. It’s a false silence—paper shifting, pages turning, the low, steady hum of the HVAC—but it beats the hell out of the noise outside.
Outside, the volume stays up.
Night settles in for real. Campus goes dark except for pockets of light and the occasional cluster of idiots hunting a story. I gave her time like she asked. Ten, twelve hours. Waiting for her to come to me. I told myself I could.
Turns out I can’t.
I checked my phone an hour ago. The thread is a snake pit.
DUI. Cover-up. Rossi money buys silence.
The Briarcliff Whisperer keeps dumping fuel like it’s a sport—fresh captions, new “screenshots,” anything that gets clicks and a hundred commenters acting like they’re judges. They’re talking and organizing. Someone started a hashtag.
#JusticeForTheVictim.
They don’t even know who the victim is. They just know there’s blood on the pavement and a Rossi behind the wheel, and that’s enough for them to decide what I am. Silence feeds it now. That hush lets it grow teeth.
I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the house, letting Adrian and Declan talk me off the ledge, or watching Coach pace the office like the program is a patient on life support.
But containment feels like a cage tonight, and I need oxygen.
Or I need to break something.
I find her on the third floor, back corner.
The stacks.
Deepest part of the building, surrounded by history monographs and dusty journals no one touches. The lights are dimmer up here, shadows stretched longer, sound swallowed by paper and distance. Good place to disappear.
She isn’t disappearing.
She’s working.
Zoe is sprawled on the floor, boots discarded, legs extended in front of her, back braced against the shelving unit.
Fabric swatches are spread around her like a crime scene—color chips, textures, edges frayed where she’s tested them—sketchbook propped on her knees.
She chews the end of a pen, gaze narrowed at a page, completely refusing to feed the noise burning two floors down.
I stop at the edge of the aisle.
Just watching.
The sight of her hits like a blunt impact to the chest. Clean lines. Sharp focus. Disciplined. The kind of control people mistake for safety until they try to take it from her.
Every instinct in me says keep her away from this.
I bring it to her anyway.
That’s the ugliest part.
“You’re loud,” she says.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t stop drawing. Just drops the words into the quiet like she’s been timing my approach.
“I didn’t say anything,” I reply.
“You’re breathing like you’re in the fourth period of a championship game,” she says. “It’s distracting.”
I step into the aisle. The floorboards creak under my weight. A warning.
“News travels,” I say. “You really haven’t checked?”
She finally lifts her head. Her eyes are cool, assessing, sweeping me from my hoodie to my sneakers like she’s checking for structural damage.
“I checked,” she says. “They’re saying you killed someone.”
“Accident,” I correct. “Allegedly.”
“Allegedly,” she repeats, flat. “Does the distinction matter to the mob?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?” She sets the pen down. “I told you I needed time.”
“I don’t have time.”
I walk toward her, stepping into the circle of her workspace. I don’t stop until my boots are inches from her knees. Aggressive. A boundary violation dressed as urgency.
She doesn’t flinch.
She tilts her head back, exposing the long line of her throat, and stares up at me like I’m a math problem she hasn’t solved yet.
“That’s your problem,” she says. “Not mine.”
“It’s yours the second you’re seen with me.”
“Then I won’t be seen with you.” She reaches to close her sketchbook. “Problem solved.”
I drop to a crouch before she can shut me out. Fast. Controlled. I plant one hand on the floor beside her hip, boxing her in—forcing her to either retreat or hold her ground.
She holds.
Deliberate.
She plants her palm flat on the floor by her own thigh, anchoring herself like a choice, not a corner. Her chin lifts a fraction, gaze locked on mine like she’s daring me to pretend I’m the only one with control in this aisle.
“You’re already in the frame, Zoe,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You were seen leaving the studio with me this morning. People are connecting dots.”
Her eyes narrow. “So?”
“So the narrative is forming,” I say. “Right now, you’re the innocent bystander. Give it twenty-four hours and you’re the accomplice. The girl who helped the rich kid cover it up.”
She lets out a sharp, incredulous breath. “You think I care what they think I am?”
I hold the stare. “You care about your future.”
Her mouth tightens.
“Milan. Access.”
That lands.
I see it in the slight stiffening of her shoulders—irritation, not fear. Calculation, not collapse.
“You’re threatening me,” she says.
“I’m negotiating.”
“There’s a difference,” she snaps.
“Close enough.”
I lean in closer. The smell of her hits me—rain, graphite, something sharp and expensive. It cuts through the stale air of the aisle like a blade through fog.
“You want to know what the price is?” I ask. “The price is you stop pretending you’re immune. You’re already in the crosshairs.”
Her gaze goes colder. Older.
“You think I don’t know how this ends for women?” she says quietly. “I’ve watched the same system turn ‘near’ into ‘guilty’ faster than it takes a man to deny it.”
Good.
There she is.
“Or I could walk away,” she adds, voice dropping, matching my tone.
“You could.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because I know you won’t.”
It’s a gamble. A calculated risk built on watching her long enough to recognize the pattern: She doesn’t walk away from a challenge. She doesn’t leave an opening unclaimed. She doesn’t let men rewrite her reality without making them pay for the ink.
She stares at me, chest rising and falling slightly faster now. The air between us tightens, charged with the kind of static that makes the hair on my arms lift.
“You’re arrogant,” she says.
“I’m right.”
“You’re using me.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t feel bad about it?”
“No.”
The honesty hangs there—ugly, exposed. Most people would flinch. Most people would reach for a softer word.
Zoe just looks hungry.
She shifts her weight, one leg bending at the knee, opening her posture just enough to invite me in or trip me up. I can’t tell which. My hand stays planted. I don’t touch her. I don’t give myself that.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s hear the terms.”
“Here?”
“Here.” She gestures at the empty shelves. “No one comes up here this time of night. It’s secluded. It’s out of the way. There’s a difference.”
She knows that. Her eyes say she knows it.
She’s pricing risk, not ignoring it.
“Talk,” she says.
“Proximity,” I say. “Public. Consistent. We give them a better story.”
“Define better.”
“We complicate the narrative,” I say. “If they think we’re together, the rumors about the accident get muddy. They stop looking at the police report and start looking at us.”
Her gaze drags over my face, lingering on my mouth. “You want to use me as a distraction.”
“I want to use you as a shield.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
My hand lifts, slow. I don’t touch her—just hover near her knee, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my skin.
“A shield takes the hit,” I say. “A distraction gets in the way. I need you to stand there and look unbothered while they throw stones. I need you to look like you know something they don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m innocent.”
She laughs, short and sharp. “You’re part of it.”
“Does it matter?”
She studies me for a long moment. Silence stretches, thick as dust. Somewhere distant, a door slams. The sound echoes through the aisles, but neither of us moves.
“No,” she says finally. “It doesn’t.”
Her fingers reach for my wrist, brushing once. Not a caress.
A test.
Her grip is firm, her fingers cool against my fever-hot skin.
“If I do this,” she says, “I want access. Real access. Skip the tour. Skip the meeting. A door.”
“Name it.”
“Elena Moretti.”
The name lands like a blade.
She watches my face for hesitation. For the flinch that tells her she asked for something outside my reach.
I don’t give it to her.
I meet her eyes. “You know who that is.”
Her mouth tightens. “She’s the one everyone wants. She doesn’t take interns without a reference. Not even interviews. She doesn’t answer emails. She doesn’t answer anyone.”
“I know,” I say. “And I can be the reference.”
Her brows lift a fraction—surprise, sharp and fast—and she kills it almost immediately.
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” I cut in. “I will.”
“Because you know her,” she says, like she doesn’t quite believe it.
“Because I have access,” I correct. “And I’m spending it.”
She stares at me, searching for the catch. Finding none.
“You’re serious,” she says.
“Deadly serious.”
She lets go of my wrist, leaning back against the shelves again. The movement shifts her weight, bringing her hips closer to my hovering hand. I don’t pull away. I don’t touch her, either.
“Okay,” she says. “We have a deal.”
“We have a framework.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
I lean in, invading her space until our noses are almost touching.
“A framework is what you build before you start breaking things.”
“And what are we going to break?”
“Everything.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Adrian, maybe. Coach, maybe. Or the rest of my life collapsing inward.
None of it matters.
Right now, it’s dust in the air, the faint chemical bite of fixative from her swatches, the warmth coming off her skin, and the sharp, dangerous edge of her eyes.
“Stand up,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because we’re leaving.”
“I’m not done working.”
“You’re done now.”
I stand first, then extend a hand down to her. She looks at it like it’s a trap.
“Take it,” I say.
She hesitates for a heartbeat—just long enough to make it a choice—then grips my hand. Her palm is rough, calloused from sewing and drafting. Real. Grounding in a way that pisses me off.
I pull her up.
She stumbles slightly, her body colliding with mine for a fraction of a second before she steadies herself.
She doesn’t step back.
Neither do I.
For a second, we just stand there in the dim light of the stacks, breathing the same air. Contained. Taut. Braced.
There’s a difference.
“Terms start now,” I say.
“Terms start when I say they start,” she counters.
She pulls her hand from mine, grabs her bag, and heads for the aisle.
I watch her go.
Then I follow.
The noise outside is waiting.
But for the first time all day, I think I might be loud enough to drown it out.