Chapter 6
chapter six
"Hey, Vanderholt!" I shout, a little louder than necessary across the bustling campus green. But Alec doesn't so much as twitch in my direction. His shoulders are set, squared and unyielding; his stride doesn’t falter. It's as if I'm just another whisper of the wind, inconsequential, easy to ignore.
"Asshole," I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists at my sides. Each day that passes, his coldness chips away at my resolve. The contempt is almost palpable—like a tangible frost that settles over me whenever he's near, yet still far enough to keep me grasping for warmth that isn't there.
The day after I discovered Alec’s secret, I went to class. I had a speech prepared, promises to keep his secret.
But Alec stonewalled me.
I sat next to him in class. I started talking. But it was as if I was invisible and silent. He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t mutter a word. I was met with utter, cold silence.
For two long weeks now, it’s been like talking to a wall.
I'm not one to cower or shrink back, but with Alec, it's different. There's something about the way he looks through me, as if I'm made of glass—transparent and fragile—that knots my insides. I hate that he has this effect on me, that his mere presence can turn my spine into a brittle twig ready to snap.
"Can you believe him?" I growl at Josh as I watch Alec just walk away. "He won’t even look at me, let alone discuss the damn project."
"Maybe he's intimidated by your powerhouse brain," Josh replies, but he’s barely paying attention. He’s watching some girl across the space. She looks up and smiles at Josh. Good. He hasn’t dated anyone in two years and he could use a good woman to put him in his place every now and then.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?” I point out.
“Fuck,” Josh curses, scrambling to his feet and darting away without another word.
With irritation, I head to my next class, and force myself to concentrate on anything but Alec fucking Vanderholt. AKA Vice.
But that afternoon, as I climb out of a mid-day shower, my phone chimes with a notification.
It’s a new post from Vice.
My brain races and my blood pounds hard as I stare at the notification.
I shouldn’t look at it. I should unfollow him. I should forget the account exists.
But I can’t help myself when I click on it, and the video opens.
Vice's latest post is a work of provocative art paired with seamless transitions and the perfect sound track. My finger hovers over the screen, part of me wants to close the app, bury my phone under my bed, pretend I haven't been sucked into this digital black hole.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and something else—curiosity? No, it's more like... envy. I watch, transfixed, as Vice—Alec, moves with a confidence I've never known. How does it feel to be so free, so unapologetic about your own desires?
A sigh escapes me, and I flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. The thought niggles at the back of my mind, probing and persistent. Could I ever be that bold? To put myself out there, to not feel shame in acting provocative, without giving a damn what anyone thinks? The idea is terrifying—and exhilarating.
I roll onto my side and hold up the screen again. With everything in me, I hate that I can’t stop myself from diving deeper.
There is another post, a series of photos that makes my pulse skitter like a startled rabbit. Alec is there, but not the Alec I know. This version of him is shirtless, the contours of his athletic body captured in perfect lighting, the skull mask obscuring his face. His eyes, though—those are unmistakably his, piercing blue and smoldering right through the screen.
"Damn, Vanderholt," I breathe out, my cheeks heating up despite the coolness of my dorm room. The guy's got audacity, posting pictures like these while walking around campus like he's untouchable. But here he is, laid bare for the world to see.
He’s smart about it. He doesn’t have anything defining about his body, other than it being perfect. He doesn’t have any tattoos. He has no obvious birth marks. He’s just a flawless body on a screen. And he gets away with the anonymity.
My heart kicks against my ribs as I scroll through more photos and videos, each one more provocative than the last. There's an artistry to them that I hadn't expected from Alec. Then again, he’s surprised me with his creativity with our project. His posts, his videos, they're not just thirst traps; they're a silent scream against the gilded cage he lives in. Every image and video whispers secrets and beckons me closer, pulling at something deep inside me that I can't quite name.
"Who knew the ice king could melt camera lenses?" I quip to the empty room.
A twinge of something akin to respect mixes with the heat swirling in my belly. Alec Vanderholt is more than just a pretty face with a trust fund. He's a rebel with a cause, even if that cause is simply to be seen as himself, not the heir, not the legacy, but the man behind the mask.
He's there—half-naked, all hard lines and shadows playing across his muscular form like a monochrome symphony. The mask conceals enough to make you wish you knew the man behind it, but reveals just enough for me to confirm it's him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the unmistakable golden locks tousled just so. And then his hands. Those fucking hands. My heart thuds against my ribs as if vying for an escape, each beat syncing with the flicker of the screen.
"Get a grip," I scold myself, shaking off the fog of desire clouding my thoughts. But it clings, persistent and unyielding, a testament to the effect Alec Vanderholt has on me—masked or not.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly drop my phone, I startle so hard. Heat floods my cheeks, staining them with embarrassment like I’ve been caught doing something naughty, and no one else is even here. It's a reminder—our project deadline looms, and Alec is still being a monumental avoidant ass. Enough is enough.
"Time to end this bullshit," I declare to no one, pushing off the bed. With quick, clipped strides, I make my way onto campus.
Where? Where might Alec Vanderholt be this time of day?
Not classes. It’s too late in the day for that. But not late enough I expect him to be at his apartment.
Following my gut, I cut to the library. I search the stacks. I scan the study tables. And then I take off down the hall to the private rooms.
And there is where I find him.
His figure is silhouetted by the window behind him, the fading sunlight casting him in a golden halo that seems so at odds with his frosty demeanor.
"Hey," I say, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "We need to talk."
Alec turns, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing here, Salem?"
"Breaking the ice," I answer, stepping closer. "Look, I know you never meant for me to see… what I saw. I wasn’t really meaning to snoop. I know we’ve been at each other’s throats for years, but Alec, I'm not going to tell anyone about Vice, okay? That's your... thing."
"Is it?" He leans back against the table, arms crossed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because I need to pass this class more than I enjoy blackmailing people." My gaze doesn't waver, meeting his icy blue stare head-on. "And because we're both adults who can keep secrets.”
He stares at me, and I can see a vulnerability in his eyes that’s never been there before. It’s guarded behind a foot of ice. But he’s scared. I can see it.
Vice means something to him. Something significant.
And he’s scared that I’m going to rip that away from him.
“I promise, Alec,” I say softly, allowing myself the first bit of vulnerability in his presence. “I’m not going to tell anyone. But I do want to know why. Why do you do it?"
His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He takes a shaky breath in and out. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to break down, or kick me out. But then, something shifts in his posture, a subtle loosening of tension.
"Freedom," he finally says, his voice low. "When I'm Vice, nobody knows me. No preconceived notions, no legacy bullshit. They don't see the Vanderholt name—they see... they see a guy. Just a guy. Nobody wants anything from me."
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. I've never seen him anything but poised, untouchable. But here, now, I catch a glimpse of something raw beneath the surface.
"I started the account... Honestly, I was pissed at my father. We’d just had a huge fight about expectations and keeping up appearances. I… I didn't think it'd blow up like this."
"I’ll say,” I laugh in a huff. “You have half the internet panting over you.”
He glares at me at that. He turns away, lacing his fingers through that blond hair. And I get a damn nice view of him silhouetted against the sunset out the window.
"Shit, Salem." Alec's voice cuts through the silence, raw and shaky. Not the cool, collected tone I'm used to. "It wasn't for money or fame. It was just..." He trails off, searching for words that seem to stick in his throat.
"Must be fucking liberating,” I muse, unable to help myself. "I…"
Alec looks back over his shoulder at me, curiosity arching a brow.
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump forming in my throat. My own confession feels as heavy as lead on my tongue, but if Alec can peel back a layer, maybe I owe it to this strange truce to do the same.
"Fuck, I..." I start, tripping over the admission. "I've always wanted to... you know, explore. Figure out what all the fuss is about." My cheeks burn with the truth of it. "But I'm too damn… controlled. I’d never say I’m exceptionally shy, but when it comes to… that…"
"Salem Winters has desires?" Alec's lips twitch, a hint of a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Color me shocked."
"Asshole," I retort automatically, but the tension between us shifts, becomes something charged yet fragile. Like we're both walking a tightrope between enmity and something else—something neither of us ever would have expected.
"Exploration's not a crime," he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "You're allowed to want things, Salem."
"Sure," I scoff, pushing back the sudden warmth his words spark in my chest. "As long as it's quiet, proper, and doesn't make waves, right?"
"Fuck 'proper,'" he says, surprising me again. I look back at him, and I can’t believe the sincerity burning in those blue eyes. His jaw is hard, his shoulders squared. "Do what you want. Be who you want to be. Nobody else gets a say."
"Easy said, harder to do," I mutter, but the seed is planted, growing wild and untamed in the pit of my stomach. What would it be like to shed the expectations, the good girl persona, and just... be?
Alec watches me, and I can feel the unspoken challenge hanging in the air. He's unknowingly thrown down another gauntlet, one that tempts with the forbidden fruit of freedom—a taste of what it could mean to truly discover myself, outside of whispers and judgments.
His eyes study me. Really study me. From top to bottom, in a way that leaves me blushing from head to toe.
“I’ll trust you to keep your word, Winters,” he says, his business demeanor suddenly back in place. He puts his things back in his bag. “We’ll finish the project. I’ll see you tomorrow to work on it.”
And he just walks out of the room like nothing serious, deep, and intimate just happened, leaving me with my mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot.