And the part that alters the equation—the part I resent—is that he didn’t fall into step to flirt. He did it to make sure I registered the message.
Which means whatever Milan is about to demand from me, Gio Rossi is already standing in the doorway like it’s his threshold.
Someone brushes past, shoulder grazing my sleeve. A scrap of conversation follows—“…Aldridge got the placement last year, obviously… my mom said it was locked…”
The words slide under my ribs, clean and efficient.
Milan lingers long after the hallway swallows him. Weight. Judgment, combined. The sum of three years of sleepless nights, caffeine tremors, fingers split raw over silk chiffon and wool blends priced higher than my rent.
Swatches come back—the bruised purple twilight palette pinned to my ceiling last semester. The oxblood shade mixed for hours until it looked freshly torn. Those pages took blood. Mine.
Now they sit in my tote, dense and unforgiving, waiting on the Polimodi email. One click decides if I go to Milan or stagnate here.
A buzz in my pocket.
Pulse snaps upward on instinct before I check.
Campus group chat—someone clipped the hockey promo, tagged with a laughing emoji and
See you degenerates tonight.
I lock the screen.
Legacy students sour my throat—the Julia Aldridges who treat design like a placeholder between galas. They don’t read construction. They read names. They walk through doors pre-opened.
Leather bites as my grip tightens.
Pain centers me. Proof of presence. Proof of fight.
I refuse to be the girl who advances on association. I intend to advance on merit. But the silence in my inbox roars. It insists that merit alone no longer tips the scale.
Waiting is the real torture. Suspended breath. The conditioned flinch every time my phone vibrates, bracing for loss that hasn’t landed yet.
Or maybe it already has, and the system just hasn’t bothered to confirm it.
That might be why Gio asked—not for the answer, but because he read the strain. Because he recognizes load the way some people recognize dialect. Because men like him collect data before they move.
The building releases me into afternoon air, sunlight slamming hard. Campus crackles. Somewhere across the quad, someone shouts, laughter splintering the cold.
The tote digs into my shoulder, firm and unforgiving.
Phone comes out, thumb hovering over the mail icon, then swiping it away.
Work waits. Drawing waits. Something that answers only to my hands.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 2
Gio
Istop where she leaves me. Following would mean conceding ground, and fuck that.
Zoë doesn’t hesitate. Her step stays steady, clean. She doesn’t check behind her. She shifts her tote higher on her shoulder—smooth, automatic—and keeps moving like the hallway adjusted itself around her instead of the other way around. Like my presence was information she processed and set aside.
That lands wrong. Sharp.
I track her anyway—I can’t help it. Shoulder-length caramel hair swings once before she tucks it back, bangs already falling into place like they were engineered to piss me off. Enough length to wrap around my fist. Thigh-high boots. Again. Black suede this time, paired with a skirt that dares people to underestimate how fast she can move in it.
