CHAPTER 6 ~ PARTY

​"On our way, Miller," Michael said, his voice perfectly steady.

​I brushed past Miller without looking at him, my face feeling like it was on fire. I didn't stop until I reached the meeting room, where a woman in a sharp blazer was waiting with two folders and a look of grim determination.

​The Contract: Rules of Engagement

​The PR rep, a woman named Vanessa who looked like she ate scandals for breakfast, didn't waste time.

​"Here is the narrative," she said, sliding two sheets of paper across the table.

"You’ve been 'discreetly' seeing each other since the summer training camp. The kiss tonight was a 'moment of emotional overflow' because you were tired of hiding.

It’s romantic. It’s brave. It’s exactly what the fans will eat up."

​I looked at the list of 'Rules' on the paper:

​Public Affection: Frequent but tasteful.

Hand-holding, arm-draping, the occasional 'lingering look.'

​Social Media: You will tag each other in 'candid' photos once a week.

​The Party: You arrive together. You stay together. No talking to the exes.

​No Contradictions: If asked, the timeline is six months.

​"Six months?" I whispered, looking at Michael.

​"Long enough to be serious, short enough that people don't wonder why you haven't moved in together yet," Michael said, already signing his name at the bottom of the sheet with a flourish.

​I picked up the pen. My hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. If I signed this, there was no going back.

​I signed.

​The house was packed. The smell of cheap beer and loud music hit us the second we stepped onto the porch. Usually, I love these parties. Tonight, I felt like a lamb walking into a den of wolves.

​"Breathe, Golden Boy," Michael muttered, his hand reaching out and sliding firmly around my waist.

​The touch was a shock. It was heavy, warm, and possessive. I stiffened, but he squeezed my hip, a silent warning.

​"Relax your shoulders," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

"Look like you want to be here. Look like you want me."

​We walked through the door.

​The music didn't stop, but the vibe changed instantly. People started nudging each other. Heads turned. A sea of whispers followed us as we moved toward the kitchen.

​And then, I saw them.

​Liam and Chloe were by the keg. Liam had a red solo cup in one hand and Chloe’s hand in the other. When they saw us, saw Michael’s arm draped over my shoulder, saw the way he was leaning into me, Liam’s smug expression didn't just fade. It crumbled.

​

Chloe’s eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open.

​"Keep walking," Michael murmured, his fingers dancing along the edge of my waistband. "Don't look at them. Look at me."

​I turned my head to look at him, and for a second, I forgot to pretend. He was looking at me with an intensity that felt real. He reached up, his thumb brushing a stray hair away from my forehead, his touch lingering just a second too long.

​"There they are," Michael said loud enough for the circle around us to hear.

"The happy couple."

​He leaned in, kissing my temple. "You doing okay, babe?"

​The 'babe' nearly made me gag, but the look on Liam’s face, pure, unadulterated shock, made it all worth it.

​"Never better," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I reached up and mirrored his touch, my hand resting on his bicep.

The muscle was rock hard under his shirt. "I think I need a drink."

​"Let's go get one," Michael said, leading me away.

​As we passed Liam, Michael didn't even look at him. He just kept his eyes on me, acting like I was the only person in the room.

​For the first time in weeks, the knot in my stomach loosened. It was working.

​But as Michael’s hand slid lower, resting just above the curve of my ass, I realized the plan had one major flaw.

​I was supposed to be hating this.

The party was a humid, sensory overload. The bass was a physical entity, thumping through the floorboards and rattling my teeth.

Every time the back door opened, a gust of winter air tried to cut through the heat, but the sheer volume of bodies in the kitchen won out.

​I was standing against the counter, trapped between the marble edge and Michael’s frame. He wasn't just standing near me; he was consuming my space. His hand was a heavy, branding iron on my waist, his fingers digging into the denim of my jeans.

​"Rossi, people are looking," I breathed, trying to keep my voice low enough that the nearby sophomores wouldn't hear.

​"That's the point, Axel," he murmured. He leaned in, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. "They need to see that I can't keep my hands off you."

​He didn't give me time to argue. His lips found the cord of my neck, sucking a sharp, stinging mark right over my pulse point.

I let out a soft, broken sound, half-gasp, half-moan, that I didn't recognize.