POV Noelle
"Oh my God, you've been fucked!"
Jamie's squeal echoes across the entire quad like he's announcing the apocalypse, and I'm pretty sure every person within a fifty-foot radius just learned intimate details about my sex life.
"Why don't you just rent a fucking billboard," I hiss, grabbing his arm and trying to drag him toward the psychology building before campus security gets involved.
"I can't help it! You're literally glowing. Like, actual post-orgasm glow." He's practically bouncing on his heels. "Who's the lucky bastard? Please tell me it's not some random frat boy with a trust fund and big dick."
"It's not—"
"Because honey, you deserve someone who knows what they're doing. Someone with experience. Someone who can actually find your clit without requiring GPS navigation."
A group of freshmen walking by turn to stare, and I contemplate transferring to a school in Siberia where nobody knows my name or my sexual history.
"Can we please discuss this at a volume that won't get us arrested?"
"Normal volume is for boring people. Spill everything. Who is he? How was it? Scale of one to ten? Did he make you forget your own name?"
Jamie stops walking so suddenly I nearly face-plant into his designer backpack.
"No." His eyes go wide like he just solved quantum physics. "Don't tell me it's that bodyguard of yours."
I keep walking, which is apparently all the confirmation his hyperactive brain needs.
"NOELLE FUCKING MORRIS!"
I slap my hand over his mouth before he can alert the National Guard. "Jesus Christ, Jamie!"
He's practically vibrating against my palm, eyes bulging with excitement. When I finally let go, he immediately launches into interrogation mode.
"When? How? Where? Was it good? It had to be good, look at you! I can't believe you actually banged your shadow!"
"Can we please not call it that?"
"What else am I supposed to call it? Making sweet love? Please. That man looks like he fucks like it's a contact sport."
My face is burning hotter than a California wildfire. "We're not discussing this."
"We are absolutely discussing this. I need details. I need—"
"You need to shut up before I murder you with my bare hands."
"You can't murder me. I'm your best friend, and I'm literally the only person who's going to help you figure out what fresh hell you've gotten yourself into."
The thing is, he's right.
Because I have no fucking clue what I'm doing.
Three days ago, Owen executed someone in my backyard like he was taking out garbage.
Three days ago, I had a complete mental breakdown about daddy's world.
And somewhere between horror and hysteria, we ended up in my bedroom making decisions that probably violate several employment contracts.
And then? Complete radio silence. Professional distance. Like it never happened.
After our lecture on developmental psychology—which I absorbed approximately zero percent of because my brain was too busy replaying recent bedroom activities—Owen's waiting by his usual car.
"How was class?" he asks, opening the passenger door with mechanical politeness.
"Educational."
Professional. Polite. Like he didn't fucked me four times until I was a shaking mess three nights ago. Like I don't know what he sounds like when he loses control.
The cognitive dissonance is fucking brutal.
"We need to make a stop before heading home," he says, sliding into the driver's seat. "Hospital visit. My mother."
"Okay."
Great. Meet the parents.
Nothing awkward about that timing.
The hospital smells like disinfectant and broken dreams, same as always. But this time, I'm not just the employer's daughter tagging along.
I'm... what exactly?
Owen's mother is tiny and fierce, with the same storm-gray eyes as her son. She's wearing a silk scarf to cover her hair loss, and her smile could power the entire oncology wing.
"Mom, this is Noelle," Owen says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "She's the daughter of a friend."
Daughter of a friend.
That's what I am, apparently. Not his girlfriend. Not even his friend. The daughter of his friend. Which makes me what… a professional obligation? A job hazard?
A mistake with really good health insurance?
"It's lovely to meet you, dear," Margaret says, patting the chair beside her bed. "Owen doesn't usually bring anyone to visit."
I sit, trying to ignore the way that comment makes my chest feel like someone's crushing it with a hydraulic press.
"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Tate."
"Please, call me Margaret. Any friend of Owen's is family."
Except I'm not Owen's friend, according to Owen. I'm just collateral damage with a trust fund.
We make small talk about my studies, her treatment, whether the hospital food is actually trying to kill the patients. Margaret is brilliant and sharp and clearly adores her son. But the whole time, I can feel the weight of undefined territory crushing my windpipe.
What am I to Owen?
Someone he protects? Someone he sleeps with when convenient? Someone he wishes would spontaneously combust so he wouldn't have to deal with complications?
The professional distance is killing me.
Three days ago, we crossed every line imaginable. Now he's treating me like I'm radioactive.
"I'm going to grab something from the vending machine," I announce after twenty minutes of polite torture. "Anyone want anything?"
"Diet Coke would be wonderful," Margaret says.
I escape to the hallway, desperate for air that doesn't taste like uncertainty and medical anxiety. The vending machine is around the corner, and I'm digging for quarters when the Diet Coke gets stuck halfway down.
Perfect metaphor for my entire fucking existence.
I'm bent over, trying to coax the can free with increasingly violent shaking, when a voice behind me makes my blood turn to ice water.
"So you're his new toy."