Chapter 2

After that night, Frederick punished my transgression in the cruelest way possible—by pretending I didn't exist.

He announced his engagement publicly and became the perfect "invisible guardian."

Stumbling home at midnight? No interrogation. Leaving the apartment in skirts that barely covered anything? Not even a glance.

The man who used to lose his mind if another guy got within three feet of me had simply vanished.

The silent treatment was driving me insane.

Friday, 2 a.m. I emerged from the shower still damp, digging through the bottom of my drawer for the thinnest lace camisole I owned.

Nothing underneath. The cool fabric clung to my flushed chest, thin straps cutting into my collarbones, the hem so short that any movement risked exposure.

I stared at the young, alive body in the mirror.

There was no way this wouldn't crack his composure. No way.

Barefoot, I padded down the hallway and pushed open the study door he'd left ajar.

The overhead lights were off. Frederick was slumped on the leather couch, out cold.

His tie hung loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a stack of law school case files still draped across his lap. The whiskey on the side table had melted down to a few sad ice chips.

In the dim light, that usually rigid face looked completely unguarded.

I walked straight over and did something I'd never dare if he were conscious—knelt on the couch and straddled him.

The position was aggressive, invasive. If he opened his eyes, my face would be less than two inches from his.

He didn't wake. Just frowned slightly at the weight settling onto him, his breathing still heavy and even.

I was so close I could smell him—whiskey mixed with that cold fir scent he always wore.

I lowered my gaze, my fingertips trembling as they traced the scar on the back of his hand, traveling up his forearm, pausing at the bob of his throat.

"You were jealous that night, weren't you?"

I leaned down, lips almost brushing his jaw, voice shaking with nerves and hurt. "You saw my post. Saw me go out with another guy. You were furious..."

Still, his eyes stayed closed.

My vision blurred. I grabbed his shirt collar with both hands, demanding like a gambler who'd run out of chips:

"Frederick, call off the engagement."

"Would you really rather marry some professor from your department than admit you want me?"

Just as my tears were about to hit his cheek, he moved.

He didn't open his eyes, but his body responded on pure instinct.

Those scarred hands shot up and clamped around my waist with a possessive violence, crushing me against his burning chest.

"Don't... go..." His voice came out in a rough rasp, his chin burying into the curve of my neck, breath scorching against my skin.

Euphoria surged through me—he did feel something, he did want me, that coldness the other night was all an act!

But that sharp spike of joy never reached its peak, because his alcohol-soaked exhale landed hot against my ear:

"Jane..."

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. My breath stopped.

Jane Davis. His newly announced fiancée.

"Jane?" My throat closed up, the word barely a trembling whisper against his ear.

I tried to push myself up off his chest, wanted to grab his collar and shake him awake, make him see who was actually in his arms—

But the moment I struggled, he frowned in irritation. The hand at my waist slid up my bare back and pressed me down harder against him.

Suddenly, I had no fight left.

All that defiance, that burning need—obliterated by one unconscious murmur.

I stopped resisting. Let every defense fall away and slumped against him like someone who'd stopped fighting the current, my chin settling on his shoulder as hot tears soaked through his shirt.

Whatever. Even if I was just a pathetic stand-in, even if he was calling someone else's name in his sleep.

At least right now, the person he was holding was me.

I don't remember when I fell asleep in his arms.

When I opened my eyes again, it was morning. I was in my own bed, in my own room.

If I hadn't still been wearing that camisole, I would've convinced myself the whole thing was just a delusional dream.

I reached for my phone. A text from Frederick, sent an hour ago: [Swamped with cases at the law school these next few days. Take care of yourself.]

Every word distant and perfunctory, like he was dismissing an inconvenient roommate.

I didn't reply. Just threw on a hoodie and jeans, grabbed my bag, and headed downstairs.

As I passed through the kitchen, I stopped.

On the island sat my Yeti tumbler, next to a black umbrella and a Post-it note.

The handwriting was sharp and familiar: Oat milk latte. Heavy rain this afternoon. Take the umbrella.

I stared at that note, anger flaring hot in my chest.

Texting me like a stranger, but playing perfect guardian behind the scenes. God, the nerve.

I crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash, grabbed the tumbler and umbrella, and slammed the door on my way out.

The days that followed played out exactly as his text promised—he was "busy."

I stayed out at bars until 2 a.m. on purpose, but the dark living room never held that cold, waiting figure anymore.

My secondhand Jeep blew a tire on the bridge. The call I made to him went straight to voicemail. A tow truck came. Not his Land Rover.

Even when I sprained my ankle at volleyball practice, it was Chloe who helped me to campus health. Not him.

I thought maybe I'd catch him on the weekend.

But when I pushed open the apartment door, all I got was a glimpse of his taillights pulling out of the driveway from the window.

He'd only stopped by to grab some files. Didn't even come upstairs.

And his so-called "busy schedule"? Everyone on campus was talking about it.

The law school's internal forum was flooded with updates on him and Jane. Attending academic galas together. Flying to Europe for an exhibition.

That photo of them kissing outside the library side entrance—it hit like a slap, over and over, reminding me: this whole time, I'd been deluding myself.

Friday afternoon, I dropped off a paper at the law school. Passing by the faculty lounge, I caught fragments of conversation through the cracked door:

"Frederick actually turned down tonight's trustees' dinner. Said he's taking Jane to that drive-in theater in the suburbs."

"Well, they just got engaged..."

Drive-in. Date night.

That was our thing. Ever since I moved into his apartment at eleven, he'd taken me there religiously every month without fail.

Now, he was taking her.

Jealousy bulldozed every rational thought. I pulled out my phone and texted Felix—the business school quarterback who'd confessed last week.

[Want to catch a drive-in movie tonight? I'll ride with you.]

The second I slid into Felix's passenger seat, I snapped a photo of his hand on the steering wheel, tagged the drive-in location, and posted it.

I knew Frederick's control issues too well. His phone would light up with the notification immediately.

8 p.m. The big screen flickered to life.

Felix's Ford SUV had just pulled into a spot when I caught it in the rearview mirror—that black Land Rover, parked diagonally behind us.

He came.

To force him out of the car, I leaned shamelessly closer to Felix.

Let him drape his jacket over my shoulders. Laughed at his dumb jokes, bright and clear.

The cramped cabin heated up fast. Felix's gaze darkened. His long fingers traced up to the back of my neck, his head tilting down toward mine.

I didn't pull away.

I tilted my face up, closed my eyes, deliberately leaning into it.

I knew that with the harsh glow from the screen, the silhouette of our almost-kiss was projecting perfectly onto the fogged-up window.

Just as Felix's lips were about to touch mine—

Knock. Knock.

Someone rapped on the passenger window from outside. Twice. Hard.