Chapter 3 The peonies arrived first. Then roses. Then orchids so expensive they made Emma gasp. "Our apartment looks like someone robbed a wedding venue," Emma said, shoving aside a crystal vase to make room for her coffee. "If Alex sends one more arrangement, I'm developing a pollen allergy out of spite." "He's persistent." I dumped yesterday's lilies into the trash, their sickly-sweet scent following me to the sink. "He's desperate." Emma pulled up a barstool. "The entire campus knows what he did. This is damage control." She was right. For two weeks, Alex had orchestrated a public apology tour that would have impressed a political campaign manager. Library coffees materialized whenever I studied. He'd started joining my morning runs-despite hating exercise-his breathing labored as he matched my pace through Riverside Park. "Hydration isn't redemption," I'd told him yesterday when he'd pressed a water bottle into my palm after mile three. And still, something cinched tight-he remembered my pace, my rhythms. It's part of why I love him. "It's a start," he'd replied, that easy charm still intact despite the sweat dripping down his temple. *** Thursday almost evening found me at Cannon's, the campus bar where my study group decompressed after Corporate Finance. Emma ordered our usual round while I scrolled through my phone, deliberately ignoring Alex's latest text. The door chimed and I didn't need to look up to know who'd entered-the shift in female attention was palpable. "Ladies." Alex materialized beside our table, his Columbia Business polo strategically casual. "Mind if I join?" "We're actually-" "Alex Whitmore?" Melissa from our finance group practically purred. "Of course you can sit." He slid into the booth, his thigh pressing against mine while I checked my phone. The location sharing icon glowed accusingly. We'd enabled it freshman year-for safety, we'd said. For convenience. I'd forgotten it existed because I'd trusted him. Now he was using it to track me like prey. "Celebrating Ruby's presentation today," Emma said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "She destroyed the Berkshire case study." "She always does." Alex's hand found my knee under the table. "My brilliant baby." I removed his hand. "We were just leaving." "Actually," Alex stood, addressing the entire table with his boardroom smile, "I'm hosting a private party tomorrow night. Apex-you know, the club in Meatpacking? VIP section, bottle service, the works. You're all invited." The table erupted in excitement. Apex had a three-month waiting list and a door policy that turned away minor celebrities. "Ruby?" His voice carried perfectly pitched hope. "You'll come, won't you?" Every eye turned to me. The setup was flawless-refuse and look petty, accept and validate his campaign. We'd been raised to win rooms exactly like this one. "Sure." I gathered my bag. "Numbers help with safety." I wasn't going for people; I needed to see if our we could still breathe in a crowded room. His smile flickered. Not the response he'd scripted. I left without looking back, turning off location sharing in the elevator. Two hours later, I slipped into Carroll Hall's seminar room where Professor Green's "Strategy Lab" was already in session. Not officially on any syllabus, these evening sessions had become legendary-where Aiden Green stopped being just a professor and became something more dangerous. He'd rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, abandoned his tie, and commanded the room with an energy that made the fluorescent lights seem warmer. Twenty students hung on his every word as he dissected a hostile takeover case, flipping a marker between his fingers like a magician warming up. "The mistake," he said, perching on the desk edge, "is thinking aggression equals strategy. Sometimes the smartest move is making yourself too valuable to attack." "But if everyone knows you're valuable," a grad student argued, "doesn't that make you a bigger target?" Aiden grinned. "Only if they think they can afford you." His eyes found mine across the room. I'd chosen my seat carefully-visible but not obvious, close enough to engage but far enough to maintain plausible deniability. "Miss Pearson." He pointed the marker at me. "You look like you have thoughts on strategic value." "I think," I said, letting my voice carry, "that value is subjective. What's worthless to one buyer might be priceless to another. The trick is knowing which buyer you're performing for." "Performing?" He tilted his head, amused. "Interesting choice of words." "Everything's a performance, Professor. Even authenticity." I leaned forward slightly. "The question is whether your audience appreciates the show." The room had gone quiet, that particular silence that preceded gossip. "Speaking of performance," he said, his tone shifting to something more playful, "anyone here know what I'm good at besides corporate strategy?" A few nervous laughs. Someone guessed golf. Another suggested poker. "Dancing," he said, his eyes still on mine. "I'm an excellent dancer." "Really?" I kept my voice light, conversational. "What kind?" "The kind that requires a partner who can keep up." He spun the marker once more. "Though time has a nasty habit of stepping on my toes these days." "That's a shame," I said, feeling reckless. "Some rhythms only reveal themselves when you find the right partner." The room collectively held its breath. Someone's laptop keys clicked too loudly in the silence. Aiden glanced at the clock with theatrical timing. "And on that note about timing, let's wrap up. Homework on hostile defenses due Monday. Try not to let it ruin your weekend plans." He distributed handouts with practiced efficiency, moving through the room until he reached me last. As he placed the paper on my desk, his fingers brushed mine-barely there, possibly accidental, definitely not. At the bottom of my handout, in his sharp handwriting: Footwork matters. - A "Interesting topic today," I said quietly as students filed out around us. "Interesting questions from the audience." He straightened, professional distance sliding back into place. "You should come more often." "To Strategy Lab?" "To wherever you think you'll learn something valuable." His smile was pure danger. "Though I should warn you-I'm a demanding teacher." "Good thing I'm an excellent student." "We'll see about that, won't we?" Emma was waiting in the hallway when I emerged, my pulse still racing. "That looked intense," she said, falling into step beside me. "It's just an academic discussion." "Right. And that dress from Tuesday was just clothes." She bumped my shoulder. "Be careful, Ruby. Aiden Green doesn't do anything halfway." My phone buzzed. Alex had added both our names to tomorrow's VIP list, the golden Apex logo gleaming against black. 'Thanks, see you there,' I typed back, already knowing tomorrow night would be anything but simple. "You're playing with fire," Emma warned as we walked toward home. I thought about Aiden's note tucked in my bag, about footwork and partners and rhythms that demanded perfect timing. "Maybe I want to burn."