The knock on my dorm room door comes at 3 PM on a Tuesday, unexpected and unwelcome.
I’m sprawled across my bed in sweats and an oversized hoodie, half-heartedly working through a political theory assignment that’s due tomorrow. Zane left twenty minutes ago after our study session devolved into him trying to get me to admit I’m thinking about Dredyn.
I wasn’t thinking about Dredyn.
Much.
“Coming!” I call, assuming it’s Zane coming back for his forgotten water bottle. I don’t bother checking the peephole, just swing the door open with an easy smile that dies the second I see who’s standing there.
Chase Harrington.
He’s dressed like he stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalog—charcoal slacks and crisp white button-down rolled to the elbows. His blond hair is perfectly styled, and his smile is the kind that probably makes sorority girls weak in the knees.
It makes my stomach turn.
“Mara. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Every instinct screams at me to slam the door in his face, but years of political training kick in. I force my expression into something neutral, polite. “Chase. This is… unexpected.”
“Your father asked me to check on you.” He leans against the doorframe. “Make sure you’re settling in well at AGU. You know how he worries.”
Bullshit. My father doesn’t worry about me, he worries about his image, and I’m part of that image. But I can’t say that, so I smile instead. “That’s thoughtful, but unnecessary. I’m fine.”
“I can see that.” His eyes sweep over me, lingering just a fraction too long on the way my hoodie hangs off one shoulder. “Though, I have to say, the campaign trail Mara, and this”—he gestures vaguely at my sweatpants—”are quite different.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl.
“I’m allowed to be comfortable in my own dorm,” I say, keeping my voice light even as I grip the door tighter.
He straightens, and for a second I think he’s going to leave. Instead, he says, “Of course you are. Why don’t we take a walk? It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I’d love to see the campus. You can show me around.”
I know that tone, I’ve heard it from my father a thousand times—the polite phrasing that masks a command. If I refuse, he’ll mention it to my father.
So, I swallow my resistance and nod. “Let me grab my shoes.”
Five minutes later, we’re walking across the main quad. Students are scattered across the lawn—studying, playing frisbee, soaking up the October sun. Chase keeps his hand on the small of my back as we walk, a gesture that probably looks gentlemanly from a distance.
Up close, it feels like a leash.
“Your father and I have been having some interesting conversations lately,” Chase says, his tone conversational. We pass a group of girls who definitely recognize him.They whisper and giggle behind their hands. “About the future. About what comes after the election.”
“Oh?” I keep my eyes forward, trying to create distance without being obvious about it. His hand presses harder against my spine.
“He’s very focused on ensuring certain… alliances remain strong. The Syndicate values stability, Mara. Predictability. Your father understands that.”
The way he emphasizesyour fathermakes it clear he’s talking about more than politics.
“I’m sure he does,” I say carefully.
We reach the fountain at the center of the quad, and Chase guides me to sit on the stone edge. He sits close, his thigh pressing against mine. When I try to shift away, his hand catches my wrist.
“I like you, Mara. You’re smart, beautiful, well-connected. You’d make an excellent partner for someone with the right… vision.”
My mouth goes dry. “Chase?—”
“Your father thinks so too. In fact, we’ve been discussing the possibility of a more formal arrangement. After the election, of course. Once things settle.”
The world tilts sideways.
