Chapter 3
Isla
I'm going to kill him.
Not metaphorically. Not hypothetically. I am actually going to murder Sebastian Thornhill and dump his body in the lake behind the library where no one will find it until spring.
One thousand dollars.
He bid one thousand dollars on me like I'm a prize at a carnival. Like I'm something he can buy.
Which, technically, he just did.
Vivienne is saying something about date package details and social media requirements, but I can't hear her over the roaring in my ears. I need to get off this stage. I need to breathe. I need to…
"Isla?" Vivienne touches my arm gently. "You can go backstage now."
Right. Because there are more participants. More people to be auctioned off while rich students throw money around like it's nothing.
One thousand dollars. Twenty percent of that is mine. Two hundred dollars that I desperately need.
Two hundred dollars, that now feels like blood money.
I walk backstage on numb legs. A few other participants who've already gone through it offer sympathetic looks. One girl, a sophomore I don't know whispers, "At least he's hot?"
I don't respond. Can't respond. If I open my mouth, I'll scream.
There's a table with water bottles and schedules. A coordinator, some perky senior from the planning committee, bounces over with a clipboard.
"Isla Monroe? Congratulations! Sebastian Thornhill, paddle forty-two.
You'll need to exchange contact information and schedule your five dates.
They must be completed by Valentine's Day, and you're required to post at least one photo from each date to social media with the hashtag #ThornhillGala. Here's your packet."
She hands me a folder. Inside, a contract, date guidelines, social media requirements, and a check request form for my portion of the proceeds.
Two hundred dollars. Minus taxes.
The price of my dignity.
"Any questions?" the coordinator chirps.
"Can I refuse?"
Her smile falters. "Well, no. You signed the participation agreement. And the bid is final. But this is for charity! And Sebastian is Legacy Council president, so you're very lucky—"
"Right. Lucky. That's exactly what I am."
I take the folder and push past her, heading for the exit. I need air. I need to be anywhere but here. I stop when I hear my name.
"Monroe."
Of course. Of course he's waiting in the hallway.
Sebastian leans against the wall outside the backstage area, hands in his pockets, looking infuriatingly calm. Like he didn't just spend one thousand dollars to torture me for two weeks.
"Don't," I say, my voice shaking. "Don't say a word."
"We need to schedule the dates. According to the contract—"
"I know what the contract says." I clutch the folder so hard it crumples. "What I don't know is what the hell you think you're doing."
He pushes off the wall, and suddenly he's too close. I can smell his cologne, something expensive and woodsy that probably costs more than my textbooks.
"I'm participating in a charity auction," he says mildly. "Same as you."
"You bid one thousand dollars."
"I'm very charitable."
"You're very sadistic." I step back, needing distance. "This is a game to you. Another way to humiliate me. Well, congratulations, Sebastian. You win. You always win."
"If you'd prefer Tyler Brennan had won, I can probably arrange a trade—"
"I'd prefer not to be auctioned off like cattle." My voice cracks, and I hate it. Hate he's seeing me like this. "But I don't get what I want. I get two hundred dollars and two weeks of whatever fresh hell you have planned."
"Two hundred?" He frowns. "You get twenty percent?"
"That's how percentages work, yes."
His jaw tightens. "That's—" He stops himself. "Never mind. Look, we need to exchange numbers and schedule the first date. Ice skating, according to your package list. There's a rink on campus that—"
"I know where the rink is." I pull out my phone with shaking hands. "Give me your number. Let's get this over with."
We exchange information in tense silence. His contact photo is probably professional, I don't look. Just save it under "Asshole" and shove my phone back in my pocket.
"The first date should be this week," he says, checking his own phone. "Thursday afternoon work for you? Between your shifts?"
The fact that he knows my schedule makes my skin crawl.
"Fine. Four o'clock. Campus rink. Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His voice is softer now, almost gentle, which is somehow worse than his usual cruelty. "Isla—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't. We're not friends. This isn't real. It's a transaction. You paid, and I have to deliver. So let's just get through this with minimum contact and maximum efficiency. Okay?"
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Really looks at me, and there's something in his expression I can't read. Something that makes my chest ache in a way I refuse to examine.
"Okay," he says finally. "Thursday at four."
He walks away, and I'm left standing in the hallway, clutching a folder that represents my next two weeks of hell.
My phone buzzes. A text from him: I'll pick you up at your dorm. 3:45.
I type back: I can walk myself.
His response is immediate: Part of the date package. Transportation included. See you Thursday.
I want to throw my phone at the wall.
Instead, I head back into the ballroom to collect my coat. The auction is still going on. People are laughing, bidding, having fun. This is entertainment to them. A charity event with a side of voyeurism.
I spot Ivy near the back, she waves me over, her expression sympathetic.
"Holy shit," she whispers when I reach her. "Sebastian Thornhill? Isla, what—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"But he bid one thousand dollars. Everyone's talking about it. Tyler Brennan looked like he wanted to punch him."
"Everyone can mind their own business." I grab my coat from the coat check. "I need to go."
"Wait." Ivy catches my arm. "Are you okay? Seriously?"
Am I okay? No. I'm about as far from okay as it's possible to be. But what am I supposed to say? That I'm trapped in a contract with someone who's made my life miserable for two years? That I need the money too badly to refuse? That I'm terrified of what the next two weeks will bring?
"I'm fine," I lie. "It's just dates. I'll survive."
"If you need anything—"
"I know. Thanks."
I leave before she can ask more questions. Outside, the February air is bitter cold, but I welcome it. Anything to clear my head.
The walk back to my dorm takes fifteen minutes. Long enough for the shock to fade and the anger to settle into something harder. More dangerous.
Sebastian Thornhill thinks he's won something. Thinks he's bought two weeks of power over me.
But he's wrong.
Yes, I'm stuck in this contract. Yes, I need the money. But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for him. If he wants five dates, fine. He'll get five dates, but I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Two can play at this game.
And Sebastian might have money, but I have something he doesn't, nothing left to lose.
By the time I reach my dorm room, I've made a decision.
Becca is there, studying at her desk with headphones on. She doesn't look up when I enter, which is a blessing, I am not in the mood to tell her what happened tonight.
I drop my coat, sit on my bed, and open the folder Sebastian's coordinator gave me.
The contract is standard. Five dates, social media documentation, completion required by February 14th. Failure to complete results in return of auction proceeds.
So I can't back out. Can't refuse. Can't even half-ass it without losing the money.
Fine.
I pull out my phone and open a new note. Start making a plan.
Operation: Survive Sebastian Thornhill
Rule 1: Minimum engagement. Polite but distant. Don't give him anything real.
Rule 2: Document everything for social media, but control the narrative. Make it look perfect. Never let anyone see the truth.
Rule 3: No vulnerability. He doesn't get to see me break.
Rule 4: Find his weaknesses. Everyone has them, even heartless assholes.
Rule 5: Get through two weeks and never think about him again.
It's not much of a plan. But it's something.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Sebastian: Dress warm Thursday and bring skates if you have them.
I stare at the message. The fact that he's being practical, almost considerate makes me irrationally angry. I want him to be cruel. I want him to confirm everything I think about him.
This almost-kindness is more dangerous than any insult.
I don't respond, set my phone aside and pull out my laptop to work on the Victorian Lit paper that's due Friday. Work is familiar. Safe. I lose myself in analysis of Villette and the economics of spinsterhood.
Two hours later, my phone buzzes with another text. I ignore it.
Ten minutes after that, another one.
Finally, I check.
The first message: You're not going to respond?
The second: Fine. But you should know I don't bite. Usually.
I type back before I can stop myself: You've been biting for two years. Why stop now?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
His response: Fair point. See you Thursday, Monroe.
I throw my phone on my bed and go back to my paper.
My concentration fractures as Thursday crowds every thought, the reality settling in. Two weeks trapped with Sebastian Thornhill.
About the fact that somewhere under all my anger, there's a tiny, terrifying thread of curiosity about what he's planning.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Wednesday passes in a blur of classes and work shifts. I avoid the main quad where I might run into Sebastian. Avoid the library where he sometimes studies. Avoid anywhere our paths might cross.
By Wednesday night, I'm exhausted and anxious and so not ready for tomorrow.
Ivy catches me after my library shift.
"Walk with me?" she asks.
We head toward the dorms together. It's late, nearly midnight, and campus is quiet except for a few students heading home from parties or study sessions.
"You've been avoiding everyone," Ivy says after a moment.
"I've been busy."
"Isla." She stops walking, forcing me to stop too. "I know we're not super close, but I've been watching you work yourself to death for two years and now you're trapped doing this thing with Sebastian Thornhill, and I just... I want you to know you're not alone. Okay?"
Something in my chest cracks a little.
"Thanks," I manage. "I just need to get through the next two weeks."
"And after?"
"After, I go back to my normal life. Pretend this never happened."
"What if he's not as bad as you think?"
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Trust me. He's exactly as bad as I think."
"Everyone says he's complicated. That there's more to him than—"
"Everyone doesn't know him like I do." The words come out harsher than I intend. "He's spent two years making my life hell, Ivy. This auction thing, it's just another way to humiliate me. I'm not going to pretend otherwise."
She's quiet for a moment. "Okay. But if you need backup, or someone to call during the dates, or anything... I'm here."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you care? We barely know each other."
Ivy shrugs. "Because you remind me of myself. Working too hard. Trying to prove you belong and because everyone deserves someone in their corner."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod.
We walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence. When we reach our dorm, Ivy squeezes my arm.
"Good luck tomorrow. And remember, you're Isla Monroe. You don't back down from anything. Including heartless assholes with too much money."
Despite everything, I smile.
"Thanks, Ivy."
"Anytime."
Thursday arrives too quickly.
I spend the morning in class, trying to focus on Victorian literature and failing miserably. Keep checking my phone. Checking the time. Watching it tick toward 3:45.
By three o'clock, I'm back in my dorm room, staring at my closet like it holds answers. What do you wear to a fake date with your enemy?
Something warm. Practical. Nothing that could be interpreted as trying to impress him.
I settle on jeans, a thick sweater, and my warmest coat. Pull my hair into a ponytail. Minimal makeup because I don't own much anyway and I'm not about to start buying it for Sebastian Thornhill.
At 3:40, my phone buzzes: Outside in 5.
At 3:45 exactly, there's a knock on my door.
I take a deep breath. Check my reflection one last time. Grab my phone and the cheap skates I bought at a thrift store freshman year.
This is it.
Two weeks starts now.
I open the door, and Sebastian Thornhill is standing in the hallway of my shitty dorm, looking completely out of place in his expensive coat and polished shoes.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. Not even remotely.
"Let's go," I say instead.
And just like that, we're off.