Chapter 68 Chapter 67
Harper POV
I am not a toy.
I repeat it in my head like a mantra as I cross campus with my chin up and my shoulders squared, like posture can hold a spine together when it’s splitting from the inside.
I am not a toy.
I am not a distraction.
I am not something you pick up when you’re bored and put down when you’re done.
The words still feel too thin to cover what happened, but I keep saying them anyway. Because if I stop, my brain will do what it’s been doing since I woke up—dragging me back into his room, into his bed, into that moment where I let myself forget every reason I should’ve walked away.
Twice.
That’s the part that keeps trying to ruin me.
Not once. Twice.
I slept with Logan Shaw twice, and now he’s acting like I’m a ghost he can avoid if he just keeps his eyes forward and his life loud.
It makes me want to scream.
It makes me want to laugh.
It makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The word playboy floats through my head and I almost choke on the irony.
Play.
Boy.
Of course that’s where it comes from.
Men like Logan don’t date. They don’t build. They don’t stay. They play—like hearts are toys and attention is a currency and consequences are for other people.
And women like me?
Women like me are supposed to know better.
I did know better.
That’s the part that burns.
I knew his reputation. I knew the puck bunnies who circle him like a damn orbit. I knew he’s allergic to feelings and addicted to control. I knew he likes what he likes and he’s never been subtle about it.
And I still walked into that house.
Still let him touch me.
Still let myself want.
It makes my stomach twist with humiliation so sharp it feels like nausea.
I adjust my bag on my shoulder and keep moving, because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking feels like pressing on a bruise just to prove it’s there.
⸻
By the time I get back to Alpha Chi, the house is humming with the usual midday noise—someone laughing in the hallway, a door slamming upstairs, music leaking through a wall. Vanilla candle and coffee and perfume. Warm. Familiar.
Safe.
I should feel safe.
Instead I feel like I’m wearing my own skin wrong.
I make it to my room and shut the door behind me, and the quiet hits like a wave. My desk is exactly how I left it—planner open, laptop charging, a neat stack of folders for the auction and gala. My life laid out in color-coded tabs like it has never, ever betrayed me.
I drop my bag and stare at the chair for a long second.
Then I sit down and open my laptop like routine can save me.
It doesn’t.
Numbers swim. Words blur. The cursor blinks at me like it’s waiting for a version of Harper who isn’t currently unraveling.
My phone buzzes once in my bag and my heart jumps before my brain catches up and remembers Logan hasn’t texted. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t even—
I pull the phone out anyway.
It’s an email reminder for the auction meeting.
Of course it is.
Business is always clean. Business doesn’t look at you like you’re something it wants and then act like you’re nothing the next day.
I shove the phone back into my bag too hard, like I can bruise the screen into shutting up.
⸻
I stand and pace because sitting still feels like losing.
Three steps to the mirror, three steps back. My heels click softly on the floor. I can’t decide if I want to throw something or cry or laugh until I choke.
I pass the mirror again and stop.
Really look at myself.
I look the same.
Same brown hair. Same eyes. Same mouth that he kissed like it mattered. Same body that betrayed every ounce of logic I’ve ever built.
But I feel different.
I feel exposed.
Like I handed someone something fragile and he set it down without even checking if it broke.
That’s what this is.
He broke something and he’s pretending he didn’t.
And the worst part?
Part of me still wants him to explain.
Part of me still wants him to look at me. Just once. Like I’m not something to avoid.
I hate that part of me. I hate her. The version of me that would’ve accepted crumbs in high school. The version of me that would’ve blamed herself for being “too much” or “not enough.”
I’m not her anymore.
I built myself into someone else on purpose.
But heartbreak has a cruel way of reaching backward, grabbing you by the throat and yanking you into old skin.
⸻
There’s a knock at the door.
Not a polite knock. A familiar one.
Before I can answer, the door opens, because Lila has never respected boundaries when she’s on a mission.
She leans against the frame, crosses her arms, and takes one look at my face.
“Oof,” she says. “You’ve got that ‘I’m about to commit a felony’ vibe.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She raises a brow. “Harper.”
I exhale. “I’m… functioning.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She steps inside, shuts the door behind her, and sits on the edge of my bed like she belongs there. Because she does. She’s one of the only people who can walk into my room and not feel like an intruder.
She watches me pace.
Watches me try to hold it together with sheer stubbornness.
Finally she says, softer, “Has he said anything to you?”
My laugh comes out sharp and humorless. “No.”
Lila’s mouth tightens. “Like… nothing? Not even hello?”
“Nothing,” I repeat. “Not a text. Not a ‘you good.’ Not a ‘sorry I wrecked your brain and your pride.’ Just—” I throw my hands up. “Avoidance.”
Lila’s eyes narrow. “Okay. That’s not even FWB behavior.”
I stop pacing.
The words snap my attention like a whip.
“What?”
Lila sits up straighter. “FWB usually talk, Harper. They at least acknowledge each other exists. They don’t act like one of them is contagious.”
I swallow hard, heat crawling up my throat. “I’m not an FWB.”
“I know you’re not,” she says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “Because if you were, this wouldn’t be bothering you like this.”
That hits harder than anything else she could’ve said.
Because she’s right.
If it was just sex, I wouldn’t be sitting here feeling like my lungs are full of broken glass.
If it was just sex, I wouldn’t care that he can’t look at me.
If it was just sex, I wouldn’t be furious that he gets to decide what we are while I’m the one left holding the emotional bill.
My voice comes out quieter, rougher. “Why does Logan get to decide what… what our relationship is?”
Lila doesn’t interrupt. She lets me say it.
I wrap my arms around myself like I can hold my ribs together.
“I never wanted to be an FWB,” I continue, words tumbling out now. “I never wanted to be… whatever the hell he thinks this is. I didn’t ask to be a secret. I didn’t ask to be something he can pretend didn’t happen.”
Lila’s expression goes sharp, protective. “That’s the part that’s messed up.”
I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “He gets to act like this is nothing and I’m supposed to just… what? Be cool? Be quiet? Pretend I didn’t—”
I cut myself off before I say his name like it’s a weakness.
Lila exhales through her nose, eyes dark. “You know what’s unfortunate?”
“What?”
“If a woman did what Logan’s doing,” she says, voice blunt, “she’d be branded. Instantly. She sleeps with a guy twice and doesn’t want commitment? Slut. Easy. ‘She just sleeps her way through men.’”
My stomach twists because I hate how true it is.
“But when a man does it,” Lila continues, “it’s fine. He’s a player. He’s living his best life. He’s just being a man.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “And I don’t know what to tell you other than—Logan gets away with it because people let him.”
I sink onto the edge of my desk chair, suddenly tired in my bones.
Lila’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge. “And you? You’re not built for that kind of game, Harper.”
“I didn’t ask to play,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m saying this.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I don’t think you could survive a third time.”
The words land like a warning bell.
Not because I think she’s exaggerating.
Because my body betrays me with the truth: part of me still wants him.
And that scares me more than anything else.
Lila takes my silence as the answer it is. She nods once. “You just gotta get through this auction.”
My throat tightens. “And after?”
“After, you don’t talk to him again,” she says simply. “You do your job. You keep it professional. You don’t give him another inch to take.”
I stare at my planner on the desk, the neat tabs, the neat dates, the neat life.
And I want to believe I can do that.
I want to believe I can cut him out like he never mattered.
But then my brain flashes a memory—his mouth on my neck, his voice in my ear, the way he looked at me like he was terrified of himself—
And anger floods back in, saving me from softness.
I lift my chin. “Fine.”
Lila’s gaze narrows. “Fine?”
“Fine,” I repeat, louder this time. “I’ll get through the auction. I’ll be civil. I’ll do my job. And then Logan Shaw can go play with someone else’s emotions.”
Lila stands, walks over, and squeezes my shoulder once. “That’s my girl.”
I swallow hard. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” she says, voice firm. “You’re human. And he’s… Logan.”
Like that explains everything. Like his name is a warning label.
Lila heads for the door, then pauses. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“If he tries to pull you back in,” she says, “you remember how this feels.”
My chest tightens.
“I will,” I whisper.
Lila nods and leaves.
The door clicks shut behind her and the silence rushes in again.
I stare at my laptop.
At my planner.
At my hands.
I am not a toy.
I repeat it again, softer this time.
I am not a toy.
And I don’t know if I’m saying it to convince myself… or to remind my heart what my body keeps forgetting.
Outside my window, campus life keeps moving. People laugh. People flirt. People fall into and out of love like it’s easy.
Inside my room, I sit very still and try to rebuild the walls I let Logan Shaw tear down—twice.
And this time, I swear to myself, I’m going to make them higher.