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.

The studio emptied out quickly. Vesper was halfway down the hallway when a heavy hand grabbed the strap of her canvas bag, yanking her backward.

She stumbled, her back hitting a solid chest.

"Move," Vesper spat, spinning around to glare at Slade.

Slade dropped his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at her. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a rare look of discomfort.

"Look," he muttered, his voice rough. "I'm sorry. It was a locker room joke. I didn't think everyone would stare at you like that."

"I don't care about your sense of humor," Vesper said, her voice like ice. "I only care about the deal. Do you want the woodcarving or not?"

Slade's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I do."

"Then we need to finalize the design," she said, clutching her bag to her chest.

"Fine. Let's get lunch," Slade said, gesturing down the hall. "My treat."

Vesper opened her mouth to refuse, but her stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl. She hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.

Slade bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. He stepped aside and gestured toward the exit.

They walked across the sunlit campus plaza. Every ten feet, a girl would wave or call out Slade's name. He offered tight nods in return. Vesper deliberately walked two steps behind him, desperate to avoid the collateral damage of his popularity.

They entered the crowded main dining hall. Slade bypassed the long lines and led her to a secluded corner booth in the back.

He dumped his bag, walked to the counter, and returned three minutes later with two massive turkey sandwiches and two black coffees.

Vesper didn't touch the food. She pulled her sketchbook out and pushed it across the table.

Slade looked down.

The breath caught in his throat. The sketch wasn't just a drawing; it was a blueprint of raw emotion. The way the Little Prince knelt, the delicate, fragile curve of the rose petals-it was breathtaking.

"I'm going to use redwood for the petals," Vesper explained, her voice losing its icy edge as she slipped into her element. "The natural color variation in the grain will give it a gradient effect without needing artificial stain."

Slade looked up from the paper. Vesper was leaning over the table, pointing at the joints with her pencil. Her eyes were bright, completely consumed by her craft.

He stared at her profile. He noticed the faint dusting of freckles across her nose. He noticed the way her lips parted slightly when she concentrated.

"Do you have a problem with redwood?" Vesper asked, turning her head to look at him.

Slade blinked hard, snapping out of his trance. He grabbed his coffee cup and took a huge gulp. The scalding liquid burned his tongue, but he welcomed the pain.

"No," he coughed, setting the cup down. "It's perfect. The design is perfect."

Vesper nodded. She slid a piece of notebook paper toward him. "This is the material cost. I need a deposit before I buy the wood."

Slade pulled out his phone. He opened his banking app, typed in her number, and hit send.

Vesper's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen and her eyes went wide. "You transferred triple the amount. I don't take tips."

Slade leaned back against the vinyl booth, crossing his arms. "It's not a tip. It's to buy out all your free time. I want it done fast."

Vesper opened her mouth to argue, but a loud voice cut through the noise of the dining hall.

"Slade! There you are."

Vesper froze. She recognized that voice.

She slowly turned her head. Julian Hayes, wearing his signature navy sweater, was walking straight toward their booth, followed by two other basketball players.

"Mind if we join you?" Julian asked, his warm smile directed at Slade.

Slade's jaw instantly clenched. He let out a heavy sigh and slid over, making room on his side of the booth.

Julian sat down directly across from Vesper.

Vesper's lungs seized. Her heart started beating so fast it physically hurt her chest. She panicked, slamming her sketchbook shut and shoving it awkwardly under her arm so Julian wouldn't see it.

Julian noticed the sudden movement. His smile softened. "Sorry, did we interrupt a study session?"

"N-no," Vesper stuttered, her voice barely a whisper. "Just... talking."

She stared down at the table, her face burning. She could feel Julian's eyes on her, and it made her skin prickle with nervous sweat.

Slade sat perfectly still. His dark eyes flicked from Vesper's flushed cheeks to Julian's polite smile.

One of the teammates sitting next to Julian took a massive bite of a burger and grinned, leaning across the table. "Forrester, didn't peg you for a fan of the fine arts. What's the project? You finally expanding those horizons?"

Slade's head snapped toward the teammate. "Mind your own business, Miller," he muttered, his voice tight and carrying a warning edge that instantly killed the teammate's smile.

The table went dead silent. Miller swallowed hard and looked away.

Julian cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension. He looked at Vesper. "I know you, don't I? Freshman year. Outside the library in the rain. I gave you my umbrella."

Vesper's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide with pure, unfiltered joy. "You remember?"

In her excitement, her elbow jerked outward. It slammed into her full glass of ice water.

The glass tipped over. Freezing water flooded across the table, soaking into the napkins and dripping onto Vesper's lap.

"Oh my god!" Vesper gasped, jumping up from the booth. She grabbed a handful of dry napkins and started frantically wiping the table, her hands shaking violently.

"Hey, it's okay. Let me help," Julian said. He reached across the table with his own napkins.

His fingers accidentally brushed against the back of Vesper's hand.

Vesper gasped like she had been burned. She yanked her hand back, clutching it to her chest. Her face turned a violent shade of crimson, the blush spreading all the way down her neck.

Slade watched the entire exchange.

A sudden, violent surge of heat erupted in his chest. It wasn't annoyance. It was pure, blinding jealousy. He hated the way she looked at Julian. He hated the way she trembled when Julian touched her.

Without thinking, Slade reached across the table and violently yanked the sketchbook out from under Vesper's arm.

"Hey!" Vesper cried out.

Slade held the book up high, out of her reach. He plastered a cruel, mocking smirk on his face. "Since we're just 'talking,' Vesper, why don't you show Julian what you've been drawing? I'm sure he'd love to see it."

Vesper's face drained of all color. She looked at Slade, her eyes wide and filled with absolute terror and pleading. If Julian saw the confession gift she was making for Slade, he would ask questions. Her secret deal, her humiliation, everything would be exposed.

Slade looked into her terrified eyes. The anger in his chest suddenly vanished, replaced by a sharp, painful twist of guilt.

He lowered his arm. He tossed the sketchbook back onto the table in front of her.

"You know what?" Slade said, his voice tight. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his jacket. "I lost my appetite."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and stormed out of the dining hall, his heavy boots hitting the floor with aggressive force.

Julian watched him go, shaking his head. "Don't mind him, Vesper. He's always been moody."

Vesper clutched her sketchbook to her chest. She couldn't look at Julian anymore. The guilt of what had just happened made her stomach churn.

She mumbled an apology, grabbed her bag, and practically ran out the opposite door.