THE CAPTAIN'S FAKE GIRLFRIEND

The first time I met Damon Hayes, I drenched four hundred and fifty dollars worth of pristine white leather in sticky red punch. The second time I met him, I called him an arrogant jerk to his face.

The real problem? The second time happened exactly three seconds after the first.

"Watch where you're going!"

The deep, velvet voice cut through the thumping bass of the Westbridge University welcome gala just a fraction of a second too late. The plastic cup flew from my slick fingers, executing a tragic, slow-motion arc before emptying its sugary crimson contents directly onto a pair of crisp, immaculate sneakers.

Dead silence settled in the immediate air around us.

I stared down at the dark red stain spreading across the leather like blood on snow. Then, slowly, painfully, my eyes dragged upward.

Big mistake.

The man standing before me didn't look like a college student. He looked like a dark, beautiful sin carved out of shadow and bronze. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a dark fitted shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal corded muscles and intricate black ink mapping his forearms. A heavy silver watch glinted at his wrist. But it was his face that made my heart hammer against my ribs—sharp cheekbones, a jawline so defined it looked lethal, and eyes an icy, crystalline blue that seared right through me under the dim golden lights.

His gaze dropped to his ruined shoes. When it returned to my face, the air between us practically crackled with friction.

"Oh," I breathed. Brilliant, Amelia. Absolute lyrical genius.

"Oh?" he echoed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He took one step closer, invading my space until I was suffocated by the scent of expensive cedarwood, rain, and raw testosterone. "That’s all you have to say after committing premeditated murder on my shoes?"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" I snapped, my defensive instincts overriding my sheer panic. "And who wears four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar shoes to a crowded college keg party anyway?"

The corner of his sculpted mouth twitched, a fleeting shadow of amusement crossing his lethal features before his eyes narrowed. "Someone who didn't expect a tiny tornado in a cheap dress to crash into him."

My jaw dropped. "Cheap?!"

He stepped even closer, bending his head down until his lips were inches from the shell of my ear. The sudden warmth of his breath sent a shiver straight down my spine. "You're new here, aren't you, red?"

"My name isn't red," I hissed, leaning back against the nearest pillar to escape the magnetic pull of his body. "It's Amelia."

"Amelia," he murmured, testing the syllables on his tongue. The way he said it felt like a caress and a threat all at once. "Well, Amelia. Try not to destroy the rest of the campus tonight."

He turned on his heel, leaving me breathless and furiously angry. "Arrogant jerk," I muttered under my breath.

He stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder with a dark, breathtaking smirk that sent a jolt of pure fire straight to my stomach. "I heard that, Carter. And trust me... you haven't seen arrogant yet."

"Do you have any idea who that was?!" my roommate, Chloe, hissed twenty minutes later, shoving a glass of lemonade into my hands.

"Some self-absorbed billionaire with bad shoe choices," I grumbled, fanning my flushed cheeks.

"That was Damon Hayes, Amelia! The Damon Hayes!" Chloe gripped my arms, her eyes wide with frantic awe. "Captain of the Westbridge hockey team, heir to the Hayes enterprise fortune, and absolute royalty on this campus. He doesn't just play hockey—he owns this school. Girls literally line up outside his fraternity house just for him to breathe in their direction, and he discards them in weeks. He's heartless, untouchable, and dangerous."

I looked across the glittering ballroom. Damon was standing at the center of a dense crowd, effortlessly commanding the room. A stunning blonde in a painted-on dress was leaning heavily against his arm, but his icy blue eyes weren't on her.

They were locked directly onto me across the sea of people.

My chest constricted. Heartless. Good. Because I was at Westbridge on a razor-thin academic scholarship. I couldn't afford distractions, especially not six-foot-two of pure, unadulterated trouble.

Escaping the suffocating heat of the room, I slipped out onto the quiet stone balcony. The crisp midnight air offered instant relief, but it lasted less than ten seconds.

"Following me, Amelia?"

I spun around. Damon was leaning against the heavy archway, shadows dancing across the hard angles of his face. The blonde was nowhere to be seen.

"In your dreams, Hayes," I said, leaning back against the stone railing. "I came out here for air."

He sauntered toward me, slow and deliberate like a predator stalking its prey, until he stopped right in front of me. The sheer weight of his presence made it hard to breathe. "You don't look like the type of girl who belongs at a party like this."

"And what type is that?"

"The kind who cares about superficial noise," he said softly, his blue eyes softening just enough to reveal a captivating, raw sincerity beneath his cold exterior. He reached out, his long fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles grazed my skin, sending a current of pure electricity straight to my core. "You look like someone who has something to prove."

I froze, mesmerized by the sudden depth in his gaze. "I have everything to lose," I admitted before I could stop myself.

For a heartbeat, the banter faded. The air between us grew impossibly thick, heavy with an electric gravity that terrified me. His eyes lowered to my lips, his chest rising and falling in sync with mine. He leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, his heavy gaze holding me captive.

"Damon!"

A sharp, shrill voice shattered the spell. Victoria—the blonde from earlier—strutted onto the balcony, her eyes flashing with venom as she took in our proximity. She practically threw herself against Damon's side, marking her territory. "There you are, babe. Who is this?"

Damon didn't look at Victoria. His eyes lingered on mine for an agonizing second longer before he stepped back, the guarded, arrogant mask sliding effortlessly back into place. "Nobody, Victoria. Just a girl leaving."

Nobody.

The word stung worse than it should have. I held my chin high, masked my hurt with a cold smile, and walked away without looking back.

The next morning was a disaster.

I sprinted into Advanced Macroeconomics ten minutes late, my lungs burning and my hair a windblown mess. Professor Miller gave me a look that could curdle milk.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Carter," the professor droned. "Take a seat."

I ducked my head, rushing toward the only empty desk in the back row. I threw my bag down and collapsed into the chair—only to freeze completely solid.

Sitting in the desk right next to mine, slouched effortlessly with a gold pen balanced between his long fingers, was Damon Hayes.

He wasn't wearing his hockey jersey or party clothes. He wore a crisp gray sweater that made his broad shoulders look broader, and his dark hair was charmingly rumpled. He slowly turned his head toward me, a slow, predatory grin curving his lips.

"Miss me, red?" he whispered, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet classroom.

"In your wildest nightmares," I muttered, opening my notebook with aggressive speed. "Don't talk to me."

Professor Miller cleared his throat, clapping his hands together. "Before we begin today's lecture, an announcement regarding your semester capstone project. This project accounts for fifty percent of your final grade. No exceptions. And to ensure real-world collaboration, I have paired you up myself."

A collective groan echoed through the room. I felt a sudden, icy knot twist in my stomach.

Professor Miller pulled up a slide on the projector screen. "The pairings are final. Look for your name."

My eyes scanned the list frantically, searching for Carter, Amelia.

When my gaze landed on my name, the air was ripped completely out of my lungs.

Amelia Carter & Damon Hayes

"No," I whispered out loud, terror lancing through me. "No, no, no."

Beside me, Damon leaned over until his warm chest brushed against my shoulder. He reached out, sliding a folded piece of notebook paper onto my desk.

I looked down at his clean, sharp handwriting:

I told you that ruined shoe debt would come due, Amelia. Looks like you're mine for the rest of the semester. Don't worry... I promise to make it hurt.

Before I could even process the threat, Damon reached down under the desk, grabbed my chair, and dragged it two inches closer to his until our knees locked together. His icy eyes caught mine, burning with a dangerous, inescapable promise.

"Partner," he purred softly, his thumb sliding up to caress the inner skin of my ankle through my jeans. "Welcome to my world."