Chapter three

The afternoon sun beat down on the brick pathways of Westridge University. I had finally decided to come to school today after spending most of the morning talking myself out of it. The mark on my wrist where my father had hit me was still an angry shade of red, so I wore a long-sleeved shirt to keep it hidden.

I walked into the freshman dorm lounge. The space was beautiful, with plush leather couches and floor-to-ceiling windows, but it felt less like a dorm and more like the lobby of a luxury hotel.

I sank into an empty armchair in the corner and pulled out my battered laptop. I needed to focus. The mysterious email I had received last night was still in my mind, and I was determined to uncover more details about it.

"Elena, right?"

I blinked, looking up from my blank document. A girl with dark, perfectly styled hair and a vibrant smile was standing in front of my chair, holding two iced coffees.

"I'm Chloe," she said, offering one of the cups toward me. "I saw you in Psychology earlier. And, well, I think everyone saw you outside the student center afterward."

My stomach tightened instantly. The campus rumor mill was already spinning. "If you are here to ask me about Damien Blake, I really do not have anything to say."

Chloe laughed, a genuine sound that did not hold the usual mockery I expected from Westridge students. She sat down on the sofa opposite me. "Relax. I am not a member of his fan club. Honestly, watching someone actually stand up to him was the highlight of my week. The guy acts like he owns the hockey rink and the entire student body."

"He certainly thinks he does," I murmured, tentatively taking the iced coffee. The cold cup felt good against my palms. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Just consider it a welcome to Westridge gift," Chloe replied, leaning back. "But seriously, be careful. Damien's family practically funds the athletic department, and his father is on the board of trustees. People who cross him tend to disappear from social circles very quickly."

"I am not interested in his social circles," I said softly. "I am just here to get my degree."

"Good. Because he looks at everyone like they are beneath him." Chloe checked her watch and stood up with a sympathetic smile. "I have to run to an economics lecture, but see you around?"

"See you around," I nodded.

As she walked away, the brief warmth of the interaction faded. Damien had power here, the type of influence that could ruin my fresh start before it even truly began.

My phone vibrated on the armrest, cutting through my thoughts. It was a message from the hospital back home.

Billing Update: Outstanding balance for Room 402 is past due. Please submit the next installment of 45 dollars by Friday to ensure uninterrupted care.

Forty-five dollars. It sounded like a small amount to anyone at Westridge, a single lunch bill or the price of a textbook. To me, it was the difference between my mother getting her medication or facing a medical crisis. The scholarship covered my tuition and housing, but it did not cover the mounting medical bills that kept me awake every night.

I stared at the screen, I was starting to believe that this job was fake. It was From a freaking private firm. Might be a scammer or kidnapper, who somehow got hold of my mum.

I closed my laptop, packed my bag, and walked straight to the student employment office near the main quad.

The administration building was quiet. A woman behind the front desk looked up as I approached.

"Hello," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I am looking for any available student employment positions. Anything on or near campus."

The woman adjusted her glasses, typing something into her computer. "Name?"

"Elena Reyes. I am a transfer student."

She scrolled through a list, frowning slightly.

"Most of the library and dining hall positions were filled during the first week of the semester, dear. Let me check the off-campus postings that came in this morning."

After a while, she responded. "You indicated on your financial aid application that you were looking for immediate placement in the off-campus work-study program. A private residential position just opened up, and given your background references, the donor requested you specifically."

After a long pause, she pulled a printed sheet from the tray behind her and handed it to me. "This one just arrived. It is a private residential assistant position for an estate just outside the campus boundaries. It pays significantly higher than standard campus jobs due to the flexible hours required."

My brow furrowed. "A private position? What kind of work?"

"Something related to personal assistance for one of our university benefactors," Mrs. Vance said, tapping her screen.

I looked down at the paper. This sounds exactly like the one I received, which felt like they deliberately wanted me to see this. The pay rate was more than enough to cover my mother's weekly medical installments with room to spare. It felt like a miracle.

"The employer requested an immediate interview if an applicant met the academic requirements," the woman added, stamping the top of the page. "You can head over to the address now if you are free."

"I am free," I said. "Thank you so much."

Two hours later, a sleek black car sent by the anonymous family arrived and requested for me, since the school knew them, I had no choice than to enter.

The tree-lined avenue lead away from the main campus gates.

The neighborhood changed quickly, transitioning into massive gated estates hidden behind stone walls and manicured hedges. I was dropped me off in front of a massive, modern mansion hidden behind heavy iron gates. It was located just forty minutes past the university’s athletic facilities.

The wrought-iron gates were open, revealing a breathtaking, modern mansion made of dark stone and glass. It looked imposing and incredibly expensive. This place looks familiar.

I walked up the long stone driveway, my heart hammering against my ribs. This job was my lifeline. I could not afford to mess it up.

I reached the front door and pressed the intercom button. A moment later, the lock clicked open, and the door swung inward.

The entry hall was cavernous, featuring white marble floors and a sweeping staircase. An older woman in a gray suit stood near the base of the stairs, holding a tablet.

"Elena Reyes?" she asked, with a professional tone.

"Yes, ma'am. I am here about the residential assistant position."

"Follow me, please. The master of the house is waiting in the study," she said, turning without waiting for an answer.

I followed her down a long hallway lined with abstract art. The older woman stopped before a set of double doors, knocking twice before opening them.

"The applicant is here, sir," she announced, stepping aside to let me pass.

I stepped into the room, my eyes adapting to the dimmer light of the study. A large desk stood in front of a wall of books.

Sitting behind it was a man in his late forties, wearing a navy suit. He possessed a sharp jawline and cold grey eyes that looked terrifyingly familiar.

"Sit down, Miss Reyes," the man said, with a commanding tone. "I don't know if you still recognize me, I'm Richard Blake."

My breath caught in my throat. Damien's father.

"Thank you, Mr. Blake," I managed to say, sitting in the leather chair opposite him. My hands clamped tightly over my purse to keep them from trembling. Did he know who I was? Did he know about the past, or was this a horrible coincidence?

Richard Blake closed the folder on his desk and leaned forward. "Your credentials from your previous institution are excellent, and the university placement office speaks highly of your work ethic. I require someone discreet, organized, and capable of managing a demanding schedule."

"I am very organized, sir," I replied, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "And I understand the value of discretion."

"Good." A cold, humorless smile touched his lips. "Because you will not be working for me. You will be managing the residence, schedules, and daily needs of my son, the house maid would take it from here."

"So when am I starting?"

"Now!" he handed me a folder.

My eyes caught the bold lettering at the top of a document.

CONDITIONAL TRUST AGREEMENT: DAMIEN BLAKE.

. The document outlined a massive corporate contract, a partnership between Blake Industries and a major European sports franchise. But at the bottom, a handwritten note from Thomas Blake read:

The contract remains unsigned until Damien demonstrates emotional stability and public maturity. Find a way to unlock his cooperation, or the succession fails.

Attached to the back of the agreement was a separate page with my name on it, along with a signed guarantee to fund my mother’s medical treatments in full for the next three years.

My breath caught. Richard Blake wanted a handler. He wanted me to use my past connection to Damien to force him out of his shell and make him cooperate with the family business.

Before I could process the words, the study door open behind me.

"Father, the athletic director needs your signature on the—"

Damien’s voice cut off abruptly.

I turned around slowly. Damien stood in the doorway, his hockey gear bag slung over one shoulder, his jaw tight as his gaze shifted from his father to me. The shock in his dark eyes lasted for only a fraction of a second before hardening into pure, unadulterated fury. Damien dropped his athletic bag to the floor with a heavy thud. He marched into the room, closing the distance between us until he was towering over me, invading my personal space.