"I know where the rink is." I pull out my phone with shaking hands. "Give me your number. Let's get this over with."
We exchange information in tense silence. His contact photo is probably professional, I don't look. Just save it under "Asshole" and shove my phone back in my pocket.
"The first date should be this week," he says, checking his own phone. "Thursday afternoon work for you? Between your shifts?"
The fact that he knows my schedule makes my skin crawl.
"Fine. Four o'clock. Campus rink. Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His voice is softer now, almost gentle, which is somehow worse than his usual cruelty. "Isla?—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't. We're not friends. This isn't real. It's a transaction. You paid, and I have to deliver. So let's just get through this with minimum contact and maximum efficiency. Okay?"
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Really looks at me, and there's something in his expression I can't read. Something that makes my chest ache in a way I refuse to examine.
"Okay," he says finally. "Thursday at four."
He walks away, and I'm left standing in the hallway, clutching a folder that represents my next two weeks of hell.
My phone buzzes. A text from him:I'll pick you up at your dorm. 3:45.
I type back:I can walk myself.
His response is immediate:Part of the date package. Transportation included. See you Thursday.
I want to throw my phone at the wall.
Instead, I head back into the ballroom to collect my coat. The auction is still going on. People are laughing, bidding, having fun. This is entertainment to them. A charity event with a side of voyeurism.
I spot Ivy near the back, she waves me over, her expression sympathetic.
"Holy shit," she whispers when I reach her. "Sebastian Thornhill? Isla, what?—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"But he bid one thousand dollars. Everyone's talking about it. Tyler Brennan looked like he wanted to punch him."
"Everyone can mind their own business." I grab my coat from the coat check. "I need to go."
"Wait." Ivy catches my arm. "Are you okay? Seriously?"
Am I okay? No. I'm about as far from okay as it's possible to be. But what am I supposed to say? That I'm trapped in a contract with someone who's made my life miserable for two years? That I need the money too badly to refuse? That I'm terrified of what the next two weeks will bring?
"I'm fine," I lie. "It's just dates. I'll survive."
"If you need anything?—"
"I know. Thanks."
I leave before she can ask more questions. Outside, the February air is bitter cold, but I welcome it. Anything to clear my head.
The walk back to my dorm takes fifteen minutes. Long enough for the shock to fade and the anger to settle into something harder. More dangerous.
Sebastian Thornhill thinks he's won something. Thinks he's bought two weeks of power over me.
But he's wrong.
Yes, I'm stuck in this contract. Yes, I need the money. But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for him. If he wants five dates, fine. He'll get five dates, but I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
