The final buzzer blared, vibrating right through Vesper's ribs.

The home crowd erupted into a deafening roar. Vesper sat in the back row of the crowded bleachers, her hands pressed over her ears. The noise was physically painful.

But her eyes weren't on the scoreboard. They were locked on the VIP section across the court.

Julian Hayes stood there, clapping politely. He wore a navy cashmere sweater that made his shoulders look broad and soft.

Vesper's chest tightened. She remembered the rainy afternoon freshman year when she had dropped her groceries in a puddle. Julian had stopped, handed her his umbrella, and helped her pick up the bruised apples. He had smiled at her like she actually mattered.

Down on the court, Slade was being swarmed by teammates. He had just hit a buzzer-beating three-pointer to win the game.

Vesper didn't wait for the celebration to end. She grabbed her bag, squeezed past the screaming fans, and hurried down the narrow concrete stairs to the basement level.

The air down here was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and bleach.

She found the men's locker room and pressed her back against the wall, hiding in the dark shadow of a broken vending machine.

She waited. Her legs ached.

Half an hour later, the heavy metal door finally swung open for the last time.

Slade walked out. His dark hair was wet, dripping water onto the collar of his jacket. He had a massive black duffel bag slung over one shoulder and was staring down at his phone, his brow furrowed.

Vesper stepped out of the shadows and planted herself directly in the middle of the hallway.

Slade stopped short. He looked up. Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes.

He didn't say anything. He just shifted his bag and tried to step around her.

Vesper mirrored his movement, blocking his path again.

Slade clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I told you to find someone else. Don't make this weird and stalker-ish."

"September fourteenth. Flight 402 from Chicago," Vesper said, her voice deadpan and cold.

Slade froze. His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.

Vesper pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and shoved the screen inches from his face.

The photo displayed a crushed, vintage brass suitcase. Scattered around it on the airport floor were dozens of hand-forged, custom woodcarving knives, their delicate wooden handles splintered.

"Those tools were forged in the eighteenth century," Vesper said softly, her eyes locked on his. "They belonged to my grandfather. They were appraised at over ten thousand dollars."

Slade's pupils dilated. He stared at the photo, then looked at Vesper's face. Recognition finally dawned in his eyes. He remembered the crying girl on the floor.

"If you don't show up to Cromwell's studio," Vesper said, her voice trembling slightly with adrenaline, "I will file a formal property damage claim with the university."

Slade didn't move.

"Once the claim is filed," Vesper continued, pushing her advantage, "the athletic board will flag your file for disciplinary review. You'll be suspended pending investigation. You'll miss the NCAA playoffs."

The silence in the hallway was suffocating. Vesper could hear the faint dripping of water from his wet hair hitting his jacket.

Slade's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "You think you can blackmail me?" he demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. The sudden shift in his demeanor sent a cold shiver down her spine, but she held her ground, refusing to let him see the way her pulse hammered against her ribs.

He shifted his heavy bag to his other shoulder and took a slow step forward. He was so close now that Vesper could smell his body wash-something sharp and minty.

"Alright, art girl," Slade said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll be your model."

Vesper exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

"But," Slade added, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. "You're going to do something for me in return."

Vesper stepped back instantly. Her shoulder blades hit the cold tile wall behind her.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice tight.

Slade's smirk vanished. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a few times. He turned it around and held it out to her.

Vesper squinted. It was a blurry, low-resolution photo of a wooden sculpture. It depicted a delicate rose enclosed in a glass-like wooden dome, with a semi-abstract figure of the Little Prince kneeling beside it.

"I need a custom piece," Slade said, his tone entirely serious now. He shifted his weight, looking almost defensive for a fraction of a second. "I'm going to use it to ask a girl to the Winter Formal next month. And before you say anything, this one is different. Normal stuff doesn't work on her. She thinks I'm just some dumb jock who expects everyone to fall at his feet. I need to prove her wrong, and handing her some store-bought garbage isn't going to cut it."

Vesper stared at the screen, her mind struggling to process the request. "Why?"

Slade rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for a split second. "I don't care how long it takes," Slade said, his eyes snapping back to hers. "If you have it done before the Formal, I will sit on that stupid stool in your studio for the rest of the semester."

Vesper did the math in her head. Sixty hours of lost sleep versus keeping her scholarship and avoiding the NCAA nightmare.

She looked up at him. She extended her right hand. "Deal."

Slade looked at her hand for a second before wrapping his large fingers around hers. His palm was hot. Too hot. The heat burned against her calloused skin, sending a strange jolt up her arm.

They dropped their hands quickly.

"Give me your number," Slade said, pulling up his contacts. "I need to know you're actually working on it."

Vesper rattled off her digits. She watched as he typed Angry Sculptor into his phone.

She rolled her eyes, pulled out her own phone, and saved his number as Bankrupt ATM.

"See you in class," Slade said. He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

Vesper let out a long, shaky breath. The tension drained from her muscles, leaving her exhausted.

She walked out of the arena. Light snow had begun to fall, the icy flakes melting against her hot cheeks.

When she finally pushed open the door to her dorm room, the lights were dim.

Rowan was sitting on her bed, staring at her phone screen with a massive, goofy smile on her face.

"What's so funny?" Vesper asked, shrugging off her heavy coat.

Rowan jumped. She instantly locked her phone and shoved it under her pillow. "Nothing! Just a stupid dog video."

Vesper frowned. Rowan looked flushed and panicked, but Vesper was too physically drained to interrogate her.

She walked over to her desk and clicked on her small brass reading lamp. She pulled out her thick sketchbook and a graphite pencil.

She started sketching the rose. The curves of the petals flowed easily onto the paper.

As she shaded the Little Prince, her mind drifted to Julian. She imagined carving something this beautiful for him. Would he look at her the way he looked at his textbooks-with that gentle, focused attention?

She shook her head violently. She needed to focus on Slade's order.

Vesper kept drawing. The scratch of the pencil was the only sound in the room. She worked until her vision blurred, eventually resting her head on the desk and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Vesper's alarm blared, vibrating violently against the wood of her desk.

She jerked awake. Her cheek peeled off the rough paper of her sketchbook. She groaned, rubbing her stiff neck, and looked down. The detailed schematic of the wooden rose was finished.

She grabbed a clean flannel shirt-one already stained with old acrylic paint-and threw it on. She shoved the sketchbook into her bag and ran out the door.

When she pushed open the heavy doors of the sculpture studio, she froze.

The room was packed. Usually, there were only fifteen students, but today, even a few students from the neighboring painting studio had found excuses to linger by the open doorway, their curiosity piqued as they whispered and giggled among themselves.

Vesper squeezed past them, dropping her bag onto her workstation.

Professor Cromwell clapped his hands. "Settle down! Let's begin."

The back door of the studio swung open.

Slade walked in. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a tight black athletic shirt that clung to his chest.

The whispers in the room instantly escalated into a loud hum.

Slade ignored everyone. He walked straight to Vesper's table, placed both hands on the edge of her workstation, and leaned in. He flashed a devastatingly arrogant smirk.

"Where do you want me, boss?" he asked, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

Vesper's stomach did a nervous flip, but she forced her face to remain blank. She pointed a carving knife toward the center of the room. "On the platform. Sit on the stool."

Slade chuckled, turned around, and easily hopped onto the elevated wooden platform.

Professor Cromwell began a dry lecture on the anatomical structure of the human shoulder.

Vesper picked up a piece of charcoal. Her hand shook slightly as she looked up at Slade. The physical elevation of the platform made him look even more imposing.

Suddenly, Slade cleared his throat loudly. "Professor?"

Cromwell stopped talking. "Yes, Mr. Forrester?"

"Since this is a classical life-size sculpture," Slade said, his voice booming across the quiet room, "do I need to be fully naked like the Greek statues?"

The entire class gasped. Then, a wave of hysterical laughter erupted from the girls in the back.

Slade looked directly at Vesper and smirked. "My partner was asking me about nudity limits in her texts last night. Just wanted to clarify."

Vesper's charcoal snapped in half.

The sharp crack was drowned out by the laughter, but the heat that rushed to her face was unbearable. Her skin felt like it was on fire. Every eye in the room shifted to her, judging her, mocking her. But beneath the burning humiliation, a sharp spike of anger pierced through. The sheer childishness of his lie was almost as infuriating as the humiliation itself, she thought, her nails digging into her palms. He was a cornered animal, lashing out because I had him trapped, and this pathetic stunt was his only way to regain control. She forced her breathing to steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a visible breakdown.

"That is entirely unnecessary, Mr. Forrester," Cromwell said sternly, banging his pointer. "Athletic wear is sufficient."

Slade pouted mockingly and winked at Vesper.

She grabbed a soaking wet rag from her bucket and slammed it down onto her block of raw clay. The wet, meaty thud echoed loudly, silencing the girls nearby.

Slade's smirk faltered.

Vesper didn't look at his face again. She went completely cold.

For the next hour, she treated him like a bowl of fruit. Her eyes flicked over his shoulders, his biceps, the line of his neck, with the clinical, detached precision of a surgeon. She measured his proportions with her thumb and pencil, her expression entirely dead.

Up on the platform, Slade shifted uncomfortably. The joke had worn off. Being stared at with such intense, emotionless scrutiny was making his skin prickle. He felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of irritation. He wanted her to look at him like a person, not a piece of meat.

When the bell finally rang, Vesper didn't hesitate for a single second. She threw her tools into her bag, zipped it, and walked out without a backward glance.