Chapter 4 Sep 12, 2025 Apex throbbed with manufactured exclusivity-black walls, gold accents, and bass that penetrated bone marrow. Alex had outdone himself, securing the elevated VIP section that overlooked the main floor like a throne surveying subjects. "Another champagne for my beautiful girl!" Alex's voice boomed over the music as he pressed a fresh flute into my hand, his arm snaking around my waist for the dozenth photo of the night. "Smile, Ruby!" Melissa thrust her phone at us. "You two are literally a couple goals!" I arranged my face into the expression I'd perfected at a hundred charity galas while Alex's grip tightened possessively. His cologne-doubled tonight-mixed with alcohol and desperation. Let's see if this has a chance, I think. If there's any version of us that can still burn. I leaned in, letting the camera catch the smile and not the words. "Alex, let's get out of here," I whisper, letting the syllables slide like an invitation. "Just us. No photos. I'm in new lingerie, and I can try to show you what I actually want." I watch him-really watch him-and every fear I've had materializes. There it is in his eyes: panic. God, he truly doesn't know what to do with me unless there's a script. "Everyone's here. I set this up. If we leave, it looks bad," he said too quickly, eyes flicking to the watching faces, to the bottles, to the lights. It lands like a door closing. I wore the good lingerie for him-black, sheer, the kind that would've made him forget the room. If you saw it, you'd change your mind, I think. You'd take my hand and run. But he doesn't even try. He chooses the audience over me, and the hurt is small and mean and very real. "Having fun?" He spoke directly into my ear, lips brushing skin that wanted to recoil. "It's perfect." The lie came easily. Everything about tonight was a performance-Alex playing the devoted fiancé, our friends playing the audience, and me playing the forgiving girlfriend. "Dance with me." He pulled me toward the VIP floor space where our group had claimed territory. "Like we used to." "We never danced, Alex. You hate dancing." "I'm trying to change." His hands found my hips, pulling me against him with graceless insistence. "For you. For us." The song pounded through my chest-synthetic beats and auto-tuned vocals about desire and danger. He moved like a man grabbing levers at random-shots, photos, dancing-as if one of them might unlock forgiveness. The desperation made my chest ache in a way that wasn't tender. It was awkward. It was not us. "I need air." I extracted myself from his grip. "And a real drink." "I'll come with-" "Alone." The word came out sharper than intended. "Just five minutes." His jaw tightened, but Zoey chose that moment to squeal about shots, and his attention fractured. I escaped before he could protest. The main bar sprawled along the entire back wall, a glowing amber monument to expensive liquor. I ordered whiskey neat-something that would burn going down, something real in this fabricated night. That's when I saw him. Corner booth. Shadows and danger. Professor Aiden Green lounged like a predator at rest, black button-down open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that had no business looking that good. A tumbler of whiskey dangled from his fingers as he surveyed the crowd with detached amusement. Our eyes locked across the chaos. The air between us combusted. He raised his glass in a mock toast, one eyebrow arched in challenge. I picked up my whiskey and walked toward him, each step a decision I couldn't take back. "Professor Green." I slid into the booth across from him. "Studying nightlife sociology?" "Miss Pearson." His eyes traveled down my dress-black, backless, chosen for war. "You look different outside the classroom." "Different how?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance between us. "Like you're finally stopped playing the perfect princess." "You don't know anything about my true self." "Don't I?" He swirled his whiskey, watching me over the rim. "You're allergic to slow replies, impatient with small minds, and cruel-mostly to yourself-when you miss the mark you set. You collect gold stars you no longer care about and lie awake wishing someone would make you stop being the sensible one for five minutes." He set the tumbler down, soft. "You're not reckless, but you're starving. And you keep confusing restraint with virtue when what you want is permission." "That's quite the analysis, Professor." "Please." His smile turned wicked. "We're not in class. Call me Aiden." "That seems inappropriate." "Says the woman who winked at me in front of forty students." He stood suddenly, moving around the table to slide in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. "Let's talk about inappropriate, Ruby." The way he said my name-low, deliberate-sent heat straight through me. "Your little games," he continued, his voice dropping as he leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. "The dress on Tuesday. The questions in Strategy Lab. The way you look at me like you're imagining things that would get us both expelled." "You're imagining things." My voice came out breathless. "Am I?" His hand found my thigh, just above my knee, fingers splaying against bare skin. "Then why is your pulse racing?" "The music. The alcohol-" "Liar." He shifted closer, his chest brushing my shoulder. "You want to know what I think about your games?" "I didn't ask-" "I think," he interrupted, his lips nearly touching my ear, "you're a brilliant, beautiful woman who came over here because you want someone to see through your performance." "And you see me?" The challenge escaped before I could stop it. "Every inch." His hand slid higher on my thigh. "The question is-what are you going to do about it?" "What are you going to do about it?" He laughed, dark and promising. "Dangerous question, Ruby." In one fluid movement, he stood and pulled me with him, backing me against the bar. His body caged me in, hands braced on either side, leaving nowhere to run. Not that I wanted to. "You want to play games?" His eyes burned into mine. "Fine. But know that I don't play fair, and I always win." "Maybe I don't want you to play fair." My hands found his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing to match mine. "Maybe I want-" "What the fuck is this?" Alex's voice shattered the moment like a brick through glass. He stood three feet away, swaying slightly, his face flushed with alcohol and rage. For a beat, I saw past the rage: the panic I'd tried to diffuse upstairs with let's just go . He hadn't known how to say yes. Now he didn't know how to stop. Shame pricked again-his and mine. Aiden didn't move, didn't even turn when Alex stepped closer, his hands clenching. "You're way too close to my woman." "Your woman?" Aiden finally turned, his body still shielding me. "Interesting pronoun choice. Very evolved." "We should go." Alex grabbed my wrist, his grip too tight. "Now." "Let go." My voice carried enough ice to freeze hell. "The lady said let go." Aiden's playful tone evaporated, replaced by something genuinely dangerous. Alex's grip tightened. "Stay out of this. This is between me and her." "Actually," Aiden stepped closer, his height advantage suddenly obvious, "when you grab a woman who's telling you to let go, it becomes everyone's problem." They stood chest to chest, testosterone and alcohol creating a combustible mixture. The music pounded around us, but our corner of the bar had gone silent, patrons sensing violence brewing. "Ruby." Alex's voice cracked with desperation and rage. "We're leaving. Now." I looked between them-Alex, drunk and desperate. Aiden, controlled but coiled, ready to strike if pushed. "Fine." I yanked my wrist free. "Let's go." "Ruby-" Aiden started. "It's fine." I said, reestablishing distance. Alex's hand found the small of my back, pushing me toward our VIP section with unnecessary force. But I looked back once, meeting Aiden's eyes across the crowd. His smirk was knowing, patient, certain. The game had changed indeed. And we both knew it was far from over.