She wears a midnight blue dress, the kind that is engineered to appear effortless. It hugs her in all the right places, but the neckline is almost puritanical. Her hair is up, loose pieces escaping to shadow her cheeks. There’s a luster to her skin that makes her look untouchable, but I can see the tiny muscles in her jaw tensing as she surveys the parking lot.
She doesn’t notice me at first. Her focus is on the girls by the steps, who have paused their performance to stare at her like a rare, unclassified specimen. Amara’s hands—fine-boned, perfectly manicured—clutch her clutch in a white-knuckle grip.
I wait. Patience is everything.
When her gaze finds me, the effect is instantaneous. Her posture stutters, then sharpens, as if my presence pulled a string inside her. She hesitates at the top of the steps, then descends, each movement a negotiation between gravity and poise.
I stand as she approaches, and for a moment we are the only two that matter in the quad. Even the smokers go quiet.
“Miss Marcus,” I say, bowing my head slightly.
She slows, then stops exactly one meter from me. Her perfume is something floral with undertones of spice. It reminds me of hot apple cider. I resist the urge to lean in.
“Mr. Roth,” she returns, tipping her chin up.
Her eyes flick to my neck, then away.
I gesture toward the car, an invitation and a command in one. “Shall we?”
She doesn’t move.
“There are worse options than dinner with me,” I add, smiling. “Trust me. My mother will be in attendance. You’ll be safe.”
The word safe hangs there, a lie so blatant we both pretend not to see it.
She walks past me, and I open the passenger door. The dress pulls taut across her hips as she slides in. For a moment, the skin at her collarbones is bare, blue vein visible just beneath the surface. I stare, then close the door, not without great effort. I want o bite her skin just to see how pretty a red ring would adorn her.
In the driver’s seat, I take my time. I want her to think about the interval between doors opening and closing, about the exact moment she becomes my responsibility.
Inside, the leather is black, the dash cold to the touch. I check the mirrors; the girls on the steps are still watching. Amara buckles her seatbelt, hands folded perfectly in her lap.
I let the silence settle, then start the car. The engine is tuned to perfection and the car rumbles as it come to life.
“Do you need anything before we go?” I ask, shifting into reverse.
She shakes her head, hair barely moving. “I’m fine.”
We pull away from the curb, the world outside smeared by speed and rain-streaked glass. I drive fast, but not recklessly. There’s no thrill in risking her life. The thrill is in the control.
For a full minute, neither of us speaks.
She’s the one who cracks first.
“Is your father as awful as they say?” she asks, still looking straight ahead.
I smile. “He’s worse, but his taste in wine is flawless.”
She exhales, almost a laugh, and I feel the small satisfaction of victory.
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “He only eats the weak.”
She turns to look at me, and for the first time I see her without a filter of fear or expectation. Her eyes are blue, but in this light, almost violet.
“What does he want from me?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Probably the same thing your father wants.”
She considers that. “Which is?”
