Page 49 of With This Mask
“The prince and the pauper, right?”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I square my shoulders. Beside me, Alec's presence is a silent vow of solidarity. He's a wall of confidence, untouchable, even as murmurs follow us like shadows.
"Keep walking," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
"Never planned on doing anything else," he replies, a smirk audible in his voice.
We walk inside and reach the hall where we have to go our separate ways. Alec pulls me to a stop. "See you later, Winters," he says, pulling me close without warning. His kiss is a brand, searing and bold. A statement. A promise. I cling to him, matching his fervor, knowing it's more than just a goodbye.
"Later, Vanderholt," I manage, breathless as we part. Whispers swell around us, a crescendo of intrigue. But I push the old habit to overthink them into the back of my brain.
Alec winks, all brazen charm, before turning away. I watch him go, his stride unapologetic, his back to the storm. Then, with a deep breath, I face forward and step into my own tempest, ready to conquer whatever comes next.
chapter sixteen
Green lighting and me spread out on the bed. Alec’s dramatic entrance. His hand as it traces its way up my thigh. A flash to black and then?—
"Miss Winters," Professor Hargrove's voice slices through my reverie like a scalpel, clinical and precise. My heart thuds against my ribcage, cheeks warming with the sudden spotlight on me. "Care to share what's so captivating outside that window?"
The classroom snaps back into focus—no longer am I scheming mine and Alec’s next video, but rows of heads swivel towards me, some smirking, others indifferent. Crap. Compartmentalization is a bitch when your daydreams are about the rich boy who's become your unexpected co-conspirator in making the internet pant.
"Sorry, Professor," I mumble, forcing my eyes down to my notes, a scrambled mess of theories and terms. "I was just pondering the socioeconomic implications of the topic."
"Is that so?" His skepticism hangs heavy in the air. "Well, perhaps you'd like to enlighten us on the Keynesian perspective of fiscal policy?"
"Of course." I straighten, clearing my throat. "Keynes argues for increased government expenditures and lower taxes to stimulate demand and pull the global economy out of depression. He emphasizes the importance of aggregate demand in driving economic performance."
"Very well, Miss Winters." He nods, apparently appeased, though the arch of his brow suggests he's onto my game. "Let's hope your focus can remain within these walls for the remainder of the class."
"Understood," I say, a tinge of defiance sharpening my tone. But inside, my pulse still races, betraying the thrill of being caught between the mundane world of academia and the electric current of desire that seems to hum beneath my skin whenever I think of Alec and our activities in front of a camera. It's reckless and foolish letting the thoughts take me over here, but damn it makes me feel alive.
When class is over, the last of the students trickle out of the lecture hall, their chatter a white noise backdrop to once again drifting thoughts. I shove my notebook into my backpack, the edges frayed and ink-stained—much like my pride after being spotlighted by the professor.
"Miss Winters?" A gravelly voice cuts through the din.
I glance up, confronted by a tall figure cloaked in a tailored suit that screams money. The kind of suit that has no business being in my line of vision. His eyes, a steely gray, are unreadable, but there's an edge to his posture that sets off alarms in my head.
"Can I help you?" My tone is guarded, hackles rising as I sling my backpack over my shoulder. I don't know this man from Adam, but something tells me he's not here to chat about the weather.
"Mr. Vanderholt would like to have a word with you," he states, and it's not a request. It's an order, dressed up in polite phrasing.
"Which Mr. Vanderholt?" I ask, even though I know damn well Alec wound never send an oaf like this after me.
"William," the man clarifies, and a cold shiver races down my spine. What could Alec's father possibly want with me?
"Look, I have another class, I can’t just?—"
"Miss Winters." His interruption is firm, brooking no argument. "Mr. Vanderholt doesn’t like waiting. This way."
My whole body feels cold. I swallow once, but nothing wants to go down. So, with stiff legs, I step forward. I realize it now. With these kinds of people, I don’t really have a choice here.
We exit down the hallway before he leads me outside, where the mid-day sun is blindingly bright, though it does nothing to warm the chill that's taken up residence in my bones. We stop beside a sleek black car. The back door opens, and there he is—Alec's father, exuding authority and expectation from the leather cocoon of his chauffeured vehicle.
"Get in, Salem," he commands, and it's all clipped tones and sharp edges.
"Or what?" I try to fire back, but it comes out more nervous sounding than I’d hope. "You'll have me kidnapped?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, a wolf's smile on his lips. "But we do need to talk."