Chapter 20
Zoe
The door stands open. He didn’t just knock it down.
He kicked it in and mailed me the key without asking if I wanted to live here.
Anger arrives precise. Not loud. Not messy.
A sharp, clean point of pressure under my ribs.
This pressure is leverage I didn’t consent to.
A win that tastes like someone else’s fingerprints.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Maya.
*Everywhere.*
A link follows. Campus gossip blog. A grainy photo from outside the arena last night shows Gio’s arm around me, my head tilted toward his shoulder, city lights blurring like we were the only thing in focus. The headline reads: ROSSI’S NEW MUSE? I don’t click. There’s no need.
“You good?” Genny’s voice comes quiet from her side of the room. She’s already dressed, spine straight, watching me like she clocked the exact second the world shifted.
“I’m deciding,” I say, voice flat.
“Deciding what.”
“Whether to burn a bridge I didn’t ask him to build.”
She lets the silence sit. A test. “Opportunity isn’t consent,” she says at last.
“No,” I agree. “It’s a debt.” The word hangs in the air, sharp and unwanted. My eyes return to the email. To the name that opens rooms and the man who makes them remember I’m there.
A single tap. Sharp. Decisive. Thank you for the confirmation. I will be there. Send, before I can calculate the cost. The choice is made. Payment comes later.
Outside the residence hall, he waits. Leaning against brick like he belongs there.
Visible. Still. Occupying space until it becomes his.
This morning’s edge hasn’t dulled, but the sight of him drives a different spike through my system: pure, unwelcome awareness.
My pace stays even. No slowing. No speeding.
A line he has to match. He falls into step beside me without a word, the gap closing from casual to deliberate.
Morning traffic parts around us, curious glances and lowered phones forming a current.
“You’re still angry,” he says. A read.
“Recalibrating,” I correct, voice level, eyes forward. “There’s a difference.”
A group of guys blocks the path, laughing, forcing us tighter. His palm settles flat against my back, firm, guiding me through before the space opens again. Brief contact. Lingering effect. Heat blooms at the point of touch, a territorial claim dressed as navigation. Logged. Filed. Left unanswered.
“Recalibrating how?” he asks.
“Deciding how to collect on a debt I didn’t agree to incur.”
His fingers brush my elbow. Another adjustment. Another placement that isn’t accidental.
“You’re going to the meeting.”
“Yes.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stop and turn, sharp enough to halt him. The crowd flows around us. “Don’t mistake my attendance for gratitude, Rossi.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves again, and this time his hand stays at the small of my back. Steady pressure. Assumption instead of asking. I allow it. Quiet answers, for now.
Outside the residence hall, he waits. Leaning against brick like he belongs there.
Visible. Still. Occupying space until it becomes his.
This morning’s edge hasn’t dulled, but the sight of him drives a different spike through my system: pure, unwelcome awareness.
My pace stays even. No slowing. No speeding.
A line he has to match. He falls into step beside me without a word, the gap closing from casual to deliberate.
Morning traffic parts around us, curious glances and lowered phones forming a current.
“You’re still angry,” he says. A read.
“Recalibrating,” I correct, voice level, eyes forward. “There’s a difference.”
A group of guys blocks the path, laughing, forcing us tighter. His palm settles flat against my back, firm, guiding me through before the space opens again. Brief contact. Lingering effect. Heat blooms at the point of touch, a territorial claim dressed as navigation. Logged. Filed. Left unanswered.
“Recalibrating how?” he asks.
“Deciding how to collect on a debt I didn’t agree to incur.”
His fingers brush my elbow. Another adjustment. Another placement that isn’t accidental.
“You’re going to the meeting.”
“Yes.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stop and turn, sharp enough to halt him. The crowd flows around us. “Don’t mistake my attendance for gratitude, Rossi.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves again, and this time his hand stays at the small of my back. Steady pressure. Assumption instead of asking. I allow it. Quiet answers, for now.
—
Hot glue, paper, ambition. The design studio smells like effort. My station waits. Muslin spreads under my hands, familiar weight grounding me. The earlier edge still hums beneath my skin, but here it should be irrelevant. Work is supposed to equalize. Or it was.
A voice cuts through the low hum. “Moretti? Seriously, Zoe?” Chloe, two tables down. Envy and disbelief carefully mixed. “I heard her assistant doesn’t even return calls.”
The pin slides clean through fabric. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Right,” she draws out. “Because you’re just that good.” The implication thickens the air. That I’m not. That someone else made the call.
Liam leans over from his station. “Don’t act blind, Chloe. You saw the pictures.” His smirk aims my way. “Rossi’s got connections. Turns out his girl does too.”
My fingers still on the pin. His girl. The phrase hits like a stone dropped into water, warping everything. This stopped being about my work last night. It’s proximity now. Alignment. Who I stand next to.
Professor Davies passes, eyes scanning. They pause at my table, at the clean lines of my pattern.
Instead of her usual critique, her expression softens.
“Interesting technique on that dart, Zoe,” she says, lighter than all semester.
“Very forward. Confident.” Not praise. Pardon.
She’s seeing a story, not skill. Borrowed confidence. Placed.
I straighten, forcing tension from my shoulders.
“It’s a structural choice,” I say. “Nothing more.” She’s already moving on, the moment logged as data unrelated to fabric or form.
Everything feels different. Glances shift from competition to confirmation.
Peer no longer fits. Variable does. A known quantity placed by an outside force.
Worst of all—he didn’t need to be here for it to happen.
His shadow reaches far enough on its own.
The studio door clicks behind me, cutting off speculation.
Less than ten feet into the hall, he appears.
Waiting by the door. Occupying the opposite wall like a bracket holding the building upright.
His attention isn’t on me. It sweeps the hallway, predatory and lazy, clocking every look.
Presence confirmed. Watch fully engaged.
I stop, portfolio suddenly heavy. He pushes off the wall and closes the distance in one contained motion. The air thickens with unspoken fallout.
“Heard your class is full of fans,” he says low, a dry rumble through the floor.
“They’re observant,” I reply, stripped of inflection.
Close now. Heat. Intent. Instead of my back, his fingers brush my wrist as he takes the portfolio from my grasp. Electric. Deliberate. No request. Just action.
“I can carry my own things.”
“I know.” The case stays with him. He stands there holding my work. A piece of my future resting in his grip. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction before meeting mine again.
“They’re talking about you.”
“They’re talking about you,” I counter. “I’m just the nearest object.”
A slow smile touches his lips, stops short of his eyes.
“You’re a target, Zoe.” A shift. His shoulder brushes mine as he angles us toward the exit.
“They can aim at you. Difference matters.” That hand returns to my lower back, firm, possessive, guiding.
No questions. No permission. Just the assumption—and the wait to see if I’ll revoke it.
I don’t. The quiet stretches, thick with choice.
Allowing this answers plenty. All-day resistance loosens.
Less shield now. More of a cage. Running isn’t an option.
Not from this. Not from him. Not from the opportunity forced into my hands.
Surrender would be stepping away before the fight starts.
Tomorrow, I walk into that interview. I own the room.
Fallout with him comes later. On my terms. Neither the institution nor he gets to set the price of my future.
We cross the quad, afternoon light bleeding into heavy gold-gray.
The path is crowded, yet space opens around us, cleared by his shoulders and the set of his face.
He doesn’t angle toward the main gates. Keeps pace, cutting a straight line back to the residence halls.
Weight hangs between us, packed with everything unsaid.
The portfolio remains heavy in his hand. No offer to return it. No release.
Dorms loom ahead, brick catching the last light. This should be the end of the transaction. I stop at the steps and turn. Cooling air. Burning space between us.
“My portfolio.” Hand out. Boundary set.
He looks down at the case, then up at me. Dark eyes unreadable, studying my face like he’s memorizing this angle. The case transfers. Fingers linger a beat after the weight shifts. Gravity shifts.
“Go inside,” he says. Not a suggestion.
“I can manage the walk.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move. Instead, he leans against the oak ten feet away. Arms crossed. Casual stance. Razor attention. That gaze tracks me, weight pressing against skin.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you get there.”
“I’m literally going inside.”
“Humor me.”
Curiosity sharpens past the lingering heat. I don’t argue. Up the steps. Key card clicks. Door buzzes open. Dim lobby quiet. Stairs to the second floor. Footsteps echo on linoleum. My room waits at the end of the hall. Door unlocked. Portfolio drops to the desk with a solid thud.
The hallway confrontation. The walk. His look.
All of it vibrates under my skin. I need distance.
I need it gone. The sweater comes off, fabric dragging over skin, catching at elbows before I toss it aside.
Cool air shocks. The window pulls me in.
A breath. Something beyond four walls. Below, the quad glows twilight purple.
Tree line dark. And there—leaning against the oak—is a solid figure.
Gio. He hasn’t moved. Watching the building. Watching my window.
Sightlines block him from seeing in. Distance helps. Light fades. He still knows where I am. My heart slams hard against my ribs. The blinds should close. I should step back. The performance should end.
I don’t.
The button of my jeans slides free, fingers steady despite the racing pulse.
This is my space. My air. My light. If he wants to watch, he can see exactly what he can’t have.
Denim pools at my feet. The glass turns reflective, my room ghosting back at me.
Yet I feel him. Attention drags over exposed skin, heating the air between floors.
Defiance. Open warfare. The most charged thing I’ve done all day.
I hold there another second—bra, fading light—letting him look. Letting him wonder. Then the glass loses me. A T-shirt yanked on, sharp and aggressive. When I glance back, he’s still there. A statue in shadow.
The blinds snap shut. Connection severed. Darkness fills the room. A breath escapes that I didn’t know I held. Skin burns. Hands shake. Somewhere below, he’s still watching the building— knowing I just won.