Emilia
“Ready?” Vincent opens the passenger door like I’m some delicate princess instead of a functional disaster.
I slide in, already irritated. “So what’s the surveillance plan? Following me around campus like a lost puppy? Sitting in on my figure drawing classes?”
He starts the engine, mouth twitching like I’m mildly entertaining. “I’ll pick you up after your last class.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Huh.” I’m almost disappointed. “Expected more helicopter parent energy.”
“I’m not your parent, Emilia.”
The way he says my name—cool, precise, with just the barest flicker of disdain—does ridiculous things to my stomach. I turn to the window to hide my expression.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Vincent asks, his voice low, careful.
I give a small nod. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? Can’t exactly skip the first day back.”
He watches me for a second, like he wants to say more but decides against it. The car hums to life, smooth and quiet, like everything else about him. I glance down at my jeans, then tug at the hem of my cropped sweater.
“You look fine,” he says gently, eyes still on the road.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“I know.”
We drive in silence for a minute. The ocean’s somewhere just out of view, but I can feel it in the air. It’s strange being back—like trying to step into a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
“Langdon hasn’t changed,” Vincent says eventually. “Same people. Same drama.”
Langdon’s this insanely elite private art school twenty minutes from the coast, where rich kids go to cosplay as tortured artists before inheriting daddy’s empire. I study fashion design and marketing—sounds shallow until you realize I spent my internship year in Paris working for Chanel’s PR department. Yeah, that Chanel. Same internship that led to my viral breakdown, but we don’t discuss that particular career highlight.
“I have,” I say before I can stop myself.
He glances at me. “You mean Paris?”
I nod. “That... and everything after.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know,” I say quietly. I don’t want to. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I catch my reflection in the side mirror—dark hair still damp at the ends, eyes that always look a little different depending on the light. Green today, with a flicker of something else. Tired. I look tired.
Vincent pulls onto the main road. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
“Tell that to my dad.”
Another silence. This one heavier.
“Langdon’s still Langdon,” he says again, as if that’s supposed to comfort me.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “And I’m still me. Just… maybe not the version I was hoping to bring back.”
He shifts into gear. Silence stretches between us.
“You know,” I mutter, just to break it, “your little act isn’t going to hold up forever. Sooner or later, I’ll get under your skin.”
He glances at me briefly, jaw hard. “You overestimate your impact.”
Ouch.
I smirk, because it’s safer than looking wounded. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
Another silence. Then, calmly, like he’s reciting a weather report:
“You can push. Throw your tantrums. Make whatever scene you think will get a rise out of me. But I don’t rattle, Emilia. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
The air in the car shifts. Cooler. Sharper.
Message received.
Langdon’s campus is exactly as pretentious as I remember—glass buildings and manicured lawns where students in designer everything pretend to read Kerouac while posting Instagram stories.
I’m barely out of Vincent’s car when someone attacks me from behind.
“EMILIA FUCKING TORRES!”
Julian Chen’s lifting me off the ground in a bear hug that smells like expensive cologne and art studio paint. Julian’s been my friend since kindergarten—tall, lean, with that effortless Asian heartthrob thing happening. Black hair that’s always perfectly messy, brown eyes behind trendy glasses, cheekbones that should be illegal. He’s popular, talented, funny, and completely head-over-heels in love with me.
Which would be fantastic if I ever felt anything beyond platonic affection for him.
“Christ, Julian. Trying to break my ribs?”
He sets me down, grinning. “Just missed your chaotic ass. Paris looked… eventful.”
Before I can respond, Julian’s friends drag him toward the sculpture building, but not before he throws me that smile that makes half the school swoon.
Then Cleo Martinez comes barreling toward me like a tiny hurricane.
“OH MY GOD, BITCH!” She slams into me with enough force to level a small building. Cleo’s five feet of pure chaos—wild curly hair, tattoos everywhere, mouth of a sailor. “I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER!”
“Please it has only been two days.”
“Yeah, and in those two days you got a babysitter.”
Julian catches up to us near the fountain, slightly breathless. “Hey, you free tonight? There’s this new place downtown, thought we could—”
“Yes.” The word slips out faster than I mean it to. No hesitation. Just instinct. A tiny, vicious spark lit in my chest.
His face lights up like Christmas morning. “Serious? Sweet. I’ll text you details.”
As he jogs off, still grinning, I keep my eyes on the ground—aware of Vincent’s presence beside me like gravity itself. Heavy. Inescapable.
I can feel him watching me, even if he doesn’t say a word.
And I don’t care. I don’t.
Except, obviously, I do. Because that “yes” wasn’t about Julian. It wasn’t about dinner or flirting or anything real.
It was about Vincent. About the way he dismissed me like I was a child throwing a fit. About how perfectly unaffected he looked while I was falling apart.
Maybe I want him to worry. Maybe I want him to wonder what I’m doing, who I’m with, whether I’m safe. Maybe I want him to realize that controlling me isn’t as simple as he thinks.
After Julian disappears, Cleo gives me a look.
“Vincent’s actually gonna let you though?”
I smirk, feeling the first spark of my old confidence returning.
“Who said Vincent has to find out?”