I’m going to have to remain strong, both physically and mentally, which is going to be fucking difficult because not even five days ago, I was so weak for these men. So fucking weak.
It’s only a breakup. My first one, really. I never broke up with Tray; it was more like I silently quit my job with him. Our relationship was based on fear and a twisted version of loyalty, not fluffy feelings, like kindness, compassion, and comfort.
I’ll get over it, eventually. It might take a while, since there are four of them to get over, but I can do it. I just need to focus on the goals I have for my life.
Working my way out of bed, I open my bedroom door and peek out into the shared space. Empty. Which makes sense. Oakley has a class to attend, and Xavier probably has one to teach.
I use the bathroom, then head back into my bedroom, spending exactly zero seconds looking at myself in the mirror. Last night, the bruise over my cheekbone and around the outside of my eye was overwhelmingly purple, with a very dark patch around the small cut. It may or may not leave a scar, but I don’tgive two fucks either way. That’s not the reason I can’t look at my reflection.
The girl in the mirror is broken, and I don’t want this version of me to become a core memory.
Grabbing the breakfast container and the spoon next to it, I climb back onto the bed and slip my laptop out from under the pile of things, catching Blue before he falls off the chair. I put him next to me as I sit, figuring I can use the moral support while I go through my emails and start coming up with a plan on how to catch up on my schoolwork.
As my inbox loads, I crack open the container, surprised to find a very artfully laid out mess of fruit, nuts, and other things layered on top of something white—yogurt? Whatever this is, it looks delicious. Picking up the spoon, I take a tentative scoop, capturing some of the strawberry and what looks like chocolate powder with some of the yogurt.
My mouth explodes with flavor, and I stare at the little bowl of yumminess. What the heck is this? Another mouthful goes in, and I could moan at how good it is.
But I don’t. Because that would be weird. It’s food. Not an orgasm. Really fucking amazing food that tastes like an orgasm in my mouth.
The brightness on my screen dims, and I drag my attention back to my laptop before it can lock, thankful I got that most recent mouthful swallowed all the way down before I saw the first two emails in my inbox.
Vandermere, Thayne. Dean of Newton University.
Private & Confidential: Request for meeting.
Padiachee, Margot. Senior Agent at Muse Collective.
Twisted Love modeling sessions – Info.
Dread pools in my stomach, awakening the nausea I was so pleased about not having. Neither email will have anything good in it, and while I should have been expecting the one from Darcy’s agent, I was definitely not expecting one from the dean of Newton University.
But…Derek said he’d spoken to him when we were standing in front of the elevator. Actually, wait. Did he say that they had been meeting with the dean at Obsession? Is—I glanced at theFromof the email—Thayne Vandermere a member of Club Obsession too?
A slightly hysterical laugh fills my small room, but I barely hear it over the sound of blood rushing through my ears.
What the fuck is going on right now? Is the dean of the university I literally live off of going to pressure me into continuing to fuck his friends? Is that what this is?
Like someone else is controlling my hand, I click on the email to open it up.
Ms. Nicholas,
Your attendance is requested at the office of Dean Vandermere on Friday at 4:30pm, for a welfare check after the events on the Newton University campus on Friday evening.
Please rest assured that the university and its staff will provide the support you need to work through your situation.
Regards,
Thayne Vandermere
His sign-off is followed by detailed instructions for locating his office and his official university email signature.
The rushing sound of blood has turned into a dull throb in both of my temples, and I am overcome with several urges at once—to snort, to laugh, to throw my laptop across the room, to pull the blankets up around my head and go back to sleep.
Instead, I click on the other ominous email and rip off the Band-Aid.
Darcy’s agent’s email fills the screen, and I scan the contents. Nothing earth-shattering, thankfully. Everything is as the contract said it would be. There is an address and session times—Saturday mornings and Tuesday afternoons. The first session is this Saturday. Details on what I need to wear and how I should have my hair and makeup done. Guidance on what to eat and drink in the twenty-four-hour lead-up to each session.
That last one surprises me, but when I think about it, it makes sense. I’d need to be hydrated but not overly so. If I’m going to hold a pose for a long period of time, it’s not like I can take multiple bathroom breaks.
