If he wasn’t, why would he follow me? He had enough arrogance and confidence not to give a damn about what people thought of him. It was literally one of the things that made him hot... according to my roommate. I myself pretended not to notice.
Big, fat fibber.
But the most important thing in all of this was that I might not be the only one freaking out.
This wasn’t a one-way street.
Dante had something to hide. Which meant I needed to know what.
I had leverage. The question was what to do with it.
Part of me wanted to keep it close, tucked away like a card you don’t lay down until you know it’s the winning move. The other part of me — well, the part still simmering from the way he’d played with me this afternoon — wanted to hurl it back at him first chance I got, just to watch that smug confidence crack.
But information was power. You didn’t waste it just to land a single blow — yousavedit for when it could take someone down for good.
Was that what he was going to do with me? Keep it until the right moment? I groaned. I turned back to my workbench, running a fingertip along the jagged edge of glass until it bit at my skin. Maybe I’d keep my little discovery to myself... for now.
Let him think he was the one holding all the aces.
A scuff of movement outside the shed made me freeze, my gaze darting to the small, square window. A shadow slid across the frosted glass. For one heart-stopping second, I was sure he was still out there. Watching.
I spun toward the door, sure I’d locked it, but now unsure, and ran to confirm it was shut tight.
The door creaked open, and I exhaled when Professor Yates stepped inside, the smell of turpentine and scorched metal following him. His eyes swept over my latest piece — copper filigree laced with shards of deep blue glass — before landing on me.
“You’ve been putting in the hours,” he said, voice mild but threaded with approval.
“I had some things to work out,” I replied, my eyes darting to the doorway to make sure it was closed properly.
“Mmhmm.” He stepped closer, leaning over the workbench. “Your lines are cleaner this week. More confident. You’ve stopped second-guessing yourself.”
I almost laughed. If only he knew how much of my life right now was second-guessing. “Guess I just needed to... focus.”
“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” His gaze softened for a moment, the kind of look I didn’t get from my father — not in a long time. “You have real talent, Savannah. Don’t waste it chasing dreams that aren’t yours.”
Ouch.My throat tightened. “I won’t.”
Professor Yates had been my quiet ally since my sophomore year. Dad was determined to push me to follow in his footsteps; my love of art was ‘nonsensical’ to him. A ‘fun’ freshman elective in sculpture had been tolerated — barely — before he shut it down entirely. But it had lit a fire I couldn’t smother.
Not for clay or marble. For the overlooked and abandoned. Rusted iron beams from a collapsed barn. Bent bicycle wheels left to rot in alleys. Jagged shards of stained glass from forgotten churches. I wanted to drag the broken into the light and give it a shape no one expected.
Maybe it was because I knew what it felt like to be written off. Fixing the discarded wasn’t just art — it was proof that things weren’t always what they seemed.
Dad thought I was gluing shells to picture frames when, in reality, I was building a twelve-foot wind sculpture from scrap metal and glass.
At a pre-semester faculty function with staff and alumni in attendance, Professor Yates had caught me at the bar, almost accepting a glass of champagne despite being a few months shy of twenty-one. We’d chatted, he’d lamented my absence from his class, and I had been all too conscious of Dad’s watchfuleye as we exchanged pleasantries. The next week, the professor “happened” upon me after a tutoring session. Showed me this shed. Handed me the key. Told me to lock up when I was done.
The man deserved a medal.
This place had become my refuge. Here, I wasn’t Dean Cole’s daughter. I was Savvy — torn jeans, messy hair, calloused hands from materials that cut, bruised, and burned.
The professor lingered a beat longer, talking about other materials I was going to incorporate into it, and studying the piece like it held the answer to a question he couldn’t ask, then nodded and left.
The moment the door clicked shut, I glanced at the window.
The glass was still fogged with condensation from the heat of the workshop. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadow I’d seen hadn’t belonged to Professor Yates, but to someone I had no interest in letting see any more ofmethan he already had.
I couldn’t dwell on what-ifs. I had limited time here, so I could worry later. This was my happy place, and I’d be damned if some blond-haired, blue-eyed God of football ruined it for me.
