The interior of the town car was a world of muted grey leather and silent, gliding movement. Amelia sat stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap, watching the familiar campus landmarks slip past the tinted windows, transformed into anonymous, glowing shapes in the twilight. The driver hadn't said a word beyond a polite, "Miss Reed," and the silence was a heavy blanket, smothering the confident persona she'd felt in the dorm room.
What am I doing? The thought was a frantic drumbeat in time with her heart. I don't belong here. This is a mistake.
They left the Westbridge gates behind, entering a part of the city she only knew from postcards. The buildings grew taller, the lights brighter. Finally, the car slid to a smooth halt beneath the glittering portico of a historic hotel, its stone facade illuminated by soft, golden spotlights. A doorman in a long coat and top hat was already moving to open her door.
The moment her heel touched the polished marble of the entrance, the sound was swallowed by a wave of noise—the distant swell of an orchestra, the murmur of a hundred conversations, the clink of crystal. The lobby was a cathedral of wealth, all vaulted ceilings, gilded mirrors, and enormous floral arrangements that probably cost more than her car.
People were everywhere, moving in a slow, elegant stream towards the grand ballroom. The women were visions in silk and jewels, their laughter like the ringing of delicate bells. The men were sharp and confident in their tuxedos. Amelia felt a thousand eyes flick towards her, assessing, cataloging. She clutched her tiny clutch, her palms damp. The green dress, which had felt like armor minutes ago, now felt like a costume, a pathetic attempt at camouflage.
"Reed."
The voice cut through her panic, familiar and grounding. She turned.
Adrian was standing a few feet away, separated from the flow of guests. He was, of course, devastatingly handsome in a classic black tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. But it was his expression that stopped her breath. He was looking at her not with appraisal, but with something akin to wonder. His gaze traveled from her face, down the line of the green dress, to her heels and back up, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, all the noise and the people simply vanished.
"You..." He seemed to have lost his words. He shook his head slightly, a slow, genuine smile erasing the last traces of his usual cool detachment. "You look... you clean up good, Library Girl."
The old nickname, spoken in that tone, felt like a secret handshake. It broke the spell of her intimidation.
"You don't look so bad yourself," she managed, her voice only slightly unsteady. "For a guy who usually looks like he just rolled out of a catalog."
His smile widened. He offered her his arm. It was a simple, old-fashioned gesture, but it felt like a lifeline. "Ready to face the lions?"
"Are they going to eat me?"
"Only if you let them." His eyes held hers. "Stay close to me."
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, the fine wool of his jacket soft beneath her fingers. The contact sent a jolt of warmth through her, a current of solidarity. He was nervous, too. She could feel the tightness in his arm.
Together, they joined the stream of people moving into the ballroom.
It was like stepping into a jewel box. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars blazed overhead, their light reflecting off gold-leafed trim and the polished surface of a vast, empty dance floor. Round tables draped in white linen surrounded it, each one a galaxy of sparkling glassware and silver. On a stage at the far end, a full orchestra played a soft, sweeping waltz.
Adrian's grip on her arm tightened slightly as they were immediately set upon. A older couple, dripping with diamonds, descended.
"Adrian, darling! You look so handsome!" the woman trilled, air-kissing his cheeks.
"Thank you, Mrs. Lowell. You remember my father." Adrian's voice was smooth, polite, but utterly devoid of warmth. He was performing.
"Of course, of course. And who is this?" Mr. Lowell asked, his sharp eyes landing on Amelia.
Adrian didn't flinch. "This is my guest, Amelia Reed. She's a literature student at Westbridge. A brilliant one." The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and it made Amelia stand a little taller.
"A student! How... charming," Mrs. Lowell said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
Amelia felt the condescension like a physical blow. But she remembered Chloe's words. You are a goddamn mystery. She met the woman's gaze and offered a small, polite smile of her own. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Westbridge has an excellent program. I'm sure you're familiar with their endowment initiatives."
It was a bland, safe thing to say, but she said it with a calm she didn't feel. Mrs. Lowell blinked, slightly wrong-footed. The conversation moved on, a blur of names and polite inquiries that Adrian navigated with robotic efficiency.
As they moved deeper into the room, Amelia saw him. Alistair Vale. He was holding court at the center of a group of serious-looking men, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was an older, sharper version of Adrian, with the same blond hair gone steel-grey and the same blue eyes, but where Adrian's could be warm, his father's were like chips of ice. He exuded an aura of absolute, unassailable power.
Adrian followed her gaze. His jaw tightened. "Come on," he said quietly, his voice tight. "Let's get a drink. I need one."
He led her towards a bustling bar area, his posture rigid. The performance was taking its toll. The boy from the coffee shop was gone, replaced by the heir, the puppet. And as Amelia watched him, a fierce, protective urge rose within her. He had brought her here to be his shield. And for the first time that night, standing beside him in her emerald armor, she felt ready for the fight.