Monday morning arrives like a slap. I haven't even made it through Westbridge's main doors when the whispers start, trailing behind me like toxic smoke.
"She paid him. Has to be."
Jessica from AP History, loud enough to carry. "Look at her—developer’s daughter, that massive house on Riverside Drive, the BMW she doesn't even drive. She could afford it."
"What do you think—a thousand a week? More?"
Madison joins in, her voice cutting. "Daddy's construction empire money finally being put to use. Caleb Voss wouldn't touch her otherwise."
"My dad says Harper Construction just landed the new mall contract," someone adds. "She could buy the whole basketball team if she wanted."
I keep my head down, clutching my chemistry textbook. The worst part is they're not wrong about the money—my father owns half the commercial real estate in town, could definitely afford whatever price they're imagining.
The photos from Friday are everywhere—me pressed against Caleb, his tongue in my mouth, my hands fisted in his shirt. I look wrecked in every single one.
Stop thinking about it. But I can't. Can't stop feeling his mouth on mine, the way he kissed me like he wanted to consume me. It's fake, I remind myself. Just a deal. Eight months until graduation, then Yale, then freedom.
At my locker, I fumble with the combination three times before getting it right. My hands won't stop shaking, and the numbers blur together. That's when the perfume hits me—expensive, floral, suffocating.
Stacy Wheeler leans against the locker next to mine, flanked by her two minions, all matching designer bags and shark smiles. Caleb's ex. Not just any ex—the one before Brittany, the one everyone whispers he actually cared about. The one who had him for six months before he got bored.
"So you're the virgin he's playing with now." Stacy examines her perfect manicure like I'm not worth the effort of eye contact. Her blonde hair falls in waves that probably cost more than my entire outfit.
Her green eyes meet mine. "Did you really think this was serious? That he actually wants you?"
My throat closes. She's right—of course she's right. This is pretend. A business arrangement. Nothing more.
"How long before he's bored?" Melissa asks. "I give it a week."
"Three days," the other laughs. "She can't handle someone like Caleb."
They're right. I'm trembling—but not from fear. From remembering how his hands gripped me at the party, how my body lit up like I'd been dead until he touched me. Stop. It's not real. It's never been real.
Stacy steps closer, close enough that I can see the perfect wing of her eyeliner. Her voice drops to a whisper meant to cut deep.
"He used to tell me about girls like you. Virgins who think one kiss makes them special. You're not special, honey. You're just entertainment. A toy he'll break and throw away."
I'm trying not to cry, my fingers white-knuckled on my locker door, when suddenly the hallway erupts in chaos.
Caleb appears with half the basketball team, their presence commanding immediate attention. They're loud, laughing about something from practice, their voices echoing off the walls. But Caleb's eyes find me instantly across the crowded hallway, dark and knowing.
He cuts through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his teammates following in his wake. Everyone steps aside—they always step aside for Caleb Voss. He walks straight to me with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you own every room you enter.
Stacy and her friends step back but don't leave. They want to watch this, like everyone else.
Without warning, Caleb's hand slides around my waist, pulling me against him hard enough that I stumble. The smell of him—leather jacket, something spicy, danger—floods my senses.
"Morning, baby." His voice is loud, deliberately loud, making sure everyone hears the possessive endearment.
Then his mouth is on my neck, right there in front of everyone. Slow, deliberate. His lips warm against my pulse, then his teeth grazing skin. The sensation shoots through me and I gasp, hands flying to grip his jacket.
It's just for show, I tell myself even as my legs threaten to give out. He doesn't mean it. By June, this will be over. You'll be at Yale and this will all be a weird memory.
He sucks gently, just enough to leave a mark, and my hands fly up to grip his jacket because my legs won't hold me. He's marking me like an animal claims territory, and everyone is watching.
The basketball team erupts. Whistles, laughter, catcalls.
"Damn, Voss, save it for later!"
"Get a room!"
"That's one way to say good morning."
When he finally pulls back, the spot on my neck throbs with heat. I know without looking that there's a mark—dark and obvious and screaming that I belong to him.
He looks directly at Stacy, and his smile is pure predator. "What's wrong, Stace? Jealous?"
Stacy's perfectly composed face cracks slightly. "Of her? Please."
"Funny, you didn't used to be such a bad liar." His arm stays around me, and his fingers start playing with the hem of my skirt, casual and possessive. "Come on, some of us remember how you begged me not to leave."
The team goes quiet, sensing blood in the water.
Caleb's voice drops, but it still carries. "What was it you said? That you'd do anything? That you'd let me do anything?"
Marcus makes a whipping sound. Someone else whispers "brutal" with something close to awe.
Stacy's face goes from pink to red to white in the span of three seconds. She opens her mouth, closes it, then turns on her designer heels and storms off, her friends scrambling to follow like lost puppies.
The crowd starts dispersing, but I can already hear the new whispers spreading like wildfire.
"Did you see that mark on her neck?"
"How much extra did that cost her?"
"It looks too real, maybe they really are together?"
Caleb's mouth brushes my ear, his breath warm. "You're welcome."
Then he's gone, rejoining his team like he didn't just destroy my entire reputation in a new and creative way. Like he didn't just mark me as his in front of the whole school.
I stand there frozen, one hand reaching up to touch the spot where his mouth was. It's still warm, still tingling, and I can feel the slight indentation where his teeth pressed against my skin.
The gossip explodes in different directions now. I catch fragments as I walk to class, the school divided into camps.
"She's definitely paying him," insists a girl from student council. "No way Caleb Voss randomly picks the school virgin."
But then a junior cheerleader argues back: "Did you see how he looked at Stacy? That wasn't fake. He wanted to hurt her."
"Maybe he just likes virgins now," someone suggests. "You know how guys get. The challenge or whatever."
"That kiss at the party didn't look like he was getting paid," another voice adds. "He looked like he wanted to eat her alive."
"Still think it's fake—"
"I don't know, my cousin goes to Westfield and she says Caleb never does anything for money."
I finally make it to first period fifteen minutes late, sliding into my seat while trying to hide the mark with my hair. But it's useless.
Everyone's already seen the photos being shared in real-time. Caleb Voss marking the virgin in the main hallway. The debate rages in hushed whispers around me—real or paid, genuine interest or elaborate game.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: That mark looks good on you. -C
Another buzz: They all think you're mine now.
A third: Are you?
I turn my phone face down, my whole body burning. The worst part? After that kiss, after the way my body responded instantly to just his mouth on my neck, after the way I gripped his jacket like I needed him to breathe—I realize I can't back out now.
It's temporary, I tell myself for the hundredth time today. Just a deal with the devil.
But devils are good at making you forget deals have endings. And Caleb Voss is very, very good at making me forget everything.