Unwanted Secret Lover: Now Watch Me Shine

"Oh my God, you guys have to see this."

Thea burst through the door of their suite's common room, her phone held up like a trophy. The Friday afternoon quiet shattered.

Kaelyn flinched. The tip of her X-Acto knife skittered across the foam core of her architectural model, narrowly missing a load-bearing wall she'd spent three hours constructing. Her breath hitched.

"Thea, what the hell?"

But Thea was already past her, a hurricane of excitement, shoving the glowing screen directly into Kaelyn's face. "Forget your tiny buildings. Look. Wincroft's Whisper just dropped the juiciest poll."

Kaelyn's eyes were forced to focus. The title of the post on the campus gossip app swam into view: "The Absolute Most Unlikely Couple on Campus." A sick feeling coiled in her stomach.

"Who is it?" Eleanor asked, peering over the arm of the sofa. She read the screen and snorted. "Number one: Kaelyn Berry and Clemente Whitaker. That's hilarious."

"It's not that weird," Beatrice pushed her black-framed glasses up her nose, not looking up from her textbook. "She's an artist. He's obsessed with money and numbers. They're just not in the same league."

The sound of Clemente's name was a physical blow. Kaelyn felt her heart clench, a sudden, tight fist in her chest. She forced the muscles in her face to remain rigid, a blank mask.

Thea scrolled down, her thumb flying across the screen. "Oh, listen to this comment! 'Clemente belongs with someone like Hilda Kramer. A fragile, noble swan. Not... whatever Kaelyn is.'"

Hilda.

The name was a splinter under Kaelyn's nail. Her fingers, which had been resting on her drafting pencil, tightened unconsciously. The knuckles turned white.

"So, Kae," Eleanor said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "What would you do if the great Clemente Whitaker actually asked you out?"

Kaelyn took a slow, deliberate breath. She shrugged, a carefully practiced gesture of indifference. "Please. The guy's an arrogant asshole."

It worked. Her roommates laughed, the suspicion vanishing from their eyes.

Just then, her own phone, lying face up on the drafting table, lit up. A notification from an encrypted app. No name, no number.

Just four words.

My penthouse. Now.

Her breath caught in her throat for half a second.

"Ooh, who's that?" Thea leaned over, her curiosity a tangible force.

Kaelyn's reaction was pure instinct. She slapped her hand over the phone, flipping it onto its face. The movement was too fast, too panicked.

Thea's eyes narrowed.

"It's, uh, my professor," Kaelyn lied, her voice a little too high. She scrambled for a plausible excuse. "Professor Davies. He wants me to pick up some materials from the studio. For the weekend."

"On a Friday night? What a slavedriver," Beatrice muttered without looking up.

The complaint gave Kaelyn the opening she needed. She started gathering her things, shoving her laptop into her backpack. With a swift movement, she opened her desk drawer and pushed the bag on top of a stack of papers, making sure the folded copy of a very specific, very heavy non-disclosure agreement was buried at the very bottom.

"Tell me about it," she said, forcing a sigh. "I'll see you guys later."

She pulled on her trench coat and slipped out the door, closing it on the sound of their chatter. In the sudden quiet of the hallway, she leaned against the wall and let out a long, shaky breath that she felt like she'd been holding for an eternity.

She pulled her baseball cap low over her eyes and walked quickly, sticking to the less-traveled paths that cut across the main quad. The autumn wind was sharp, and she tugged the collar of her coat tighter. The words from the gossip app echoed in her head. Fragile, noble swan. Her steps became faster, more agitated.

Three blocks from campus, she arrived at the gleaming glass facade of one of New York's most exclusive residential buildings. She didn't go through the main entrance with its doormen and glittering chandelier. Instead, she slipped into a side alley, heading for the discreet entrance to the private underground garage.

The security guard in the booth saw her face, gave a curt nod, and buzzed her through. No questions. No logbook. His silence was a well-paid part of the arrangement. He pressed a button, and the doors to a private elevator slid open.

As the elevator ascended, a wave of vertigo washed over her, or maybe it was just her heart hammering against her ribs. She caught her reflection in the polished steel walls-wind-blown hair, a haunted look in her eyes. She tried to smooth her hair down, to look less like she'd just run a marathon.

The elevator chimed softly and the doors opened, not into a hallway, but directly into the vast, silent expanse of the penthouse. The air smelled of him-cedarwood and expensive whiskey.

The Persian rugs muffled her footsteps. The place was empty.

"Clemente?" she called out, her voice sounding small in the cavernous space.

A frosted glass door slid open, and he emerged from the study. He was wearing a custom-tailored shirt, the top two buttons undone. A glass of whiskey was in his hand.

His deep blue eyes locked onto hers. He didn't say hello. He didn't smile. He just started walking toward her, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Kaelyn took an involuntary step back, but it was too late. His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pulled her forward, crashing her against the solid wall of his chest.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. His voice was a low, rough murmur against her ear.

"You're five minutes late."

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, laced with an ownership that made her skin prickle.

She looked up at the face that the entire campus had just declared was from another universe than hers. The absurdity of it all-the gossip, the secrecy, her own pounding heart-welled up inside her.

She didn't answer his question.

Instead, she fisted her hand in the front of his expensive shirt, pulled him down, and crushed her mouth to his. It wasn't a kiss of passion. It was a kiss to shut him up, to shut her own mind down, to drown out the voice that whispered she didn't belong here.