Chapter 18 THRESHOLD OF MAYBE
POV SYLVIE
The drive from the loft back to the university gates should have been filled with the dread of the impending meeting with Arthur Cavill. But instead, the air inside the car was thick with something else. Something electric. Every time Nathaniel shifted gears, his hand brushed against my knee, and every time it happened, my heart did a little somersault that had absolutely nothing to do with fear.
He didn't take me straight to the estate. Instead, he pulled over near a secluded part of the campus lake, where the weeping willows dipped their branches into the dark, moonlit water.
"Nathaniel? Silas said your grandfather was—"
"Silas can wait five minutes," Nathaniel interrupted, turning off the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of our breathing. He turned in his seat to face me, his eyes dark and searching. "I’m not ready to go back to being the 'Heredero' yet. I’m not ready to let go of... whatever just happened in that loft."
I felt a flush creep up my neck. "What happened in the loft was a temporary lapse in legal judgment, Cavill."
"Was it?" He leaned in closer, his arm resting on the back of my seat. He started twirling a loose strand of my hair around his finger, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Because I’m pretty sure it was the first honest thing we've done since we met."
I leaned back, trying to maintain my composure, but it was impossible with him this close. "Honesty is dangerous. It’s not in the contract."
"Then let's make a new one," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that made my skin prickle. "One where we're allowed to flirt without it being a PR stunt. One where I can tell you that you look incredibly distracting in that oversized hoodie."
"Distracting? I look like a marshmallow that fell into a pile of textbooks."
"A very brilliant, very beautiful marshmallow." He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, sending sparks shooting through my entire body. "I’ve spent three years trying to outsmart you, Sylvie. But I think the real challenge is trying not to kiss you every time you open your mouth to argue with me."
I let out a shaky breath, my hand finding the collar of his leather jacket. "You're very bad for my GPA, Nathaniel."
"And you're very bad for my reputation as a cold-hearted billionaire."
He leaned in, but he didn't kiss me. Not yet. He stopped just inches away, his nose brushing against mine. It was a taunt. A slow, agonizing tease. He was waiting for me to close the gap.
"What are you doing?" I breathed, my eyes fluttering shut.
"Testing the limits of our 'rivalry'," he murmured. "Are you going to stop me, Belrose? Are you going to file a motion for a restraining order?"
"The court is currently out of session," I whispered, reaching up to tangle my fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
I pulled him closer, and this time, the kiss was different. It wasn't the deep, soul-searching confession from the loft. It was playful. It was light. It was the kind of kiss that belonged to two teenagers who were discovering each other for the first time. He nibbled on my lower lip, causing a small gasp to escape me, and I felt him smile against my mouth.
His hand slid down to my waist, pulling me as close as the center console would allow. The leather of his jacket was cool, but his skin was burning. I felt alive. I felt seen. I felt like the "Virginity Vortex" girl was finally, finally being replaced by someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
"You're a menace," I murmured between kisses.
"And you're obsessed with me," he teased, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. "Admit it. You've wanted to do this since the first time I corrected your Econ notes."
"I wanted to stab you with my pen, Nathaniel. There's a fine line."
"A very fine, very blurry line." He leaned in and nipped at my earlobe, making me shiver. "I think I prefer this version of the debate."
For a few minutes, we just existed in that bubble. He told me about how he used to watch me in the library, not because he was checking his competition, but because he liked the way I bit my lip when I was focused. I told him about how I used to memorize his coffee order just so I could judge him for it (double espresso, no sugar—"Like your soul," I’d joked).
It was effortless. It was the kind of coquetry that made the world feel small and manageable.
But then, his phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a text. It was a call from Arthur Cavill himself. The screen lit up the interior of the car, a harsh reminder that our little bubble was about to burst.
Nathaniel stared at the phone, the playful glint in his eyes dying instantly. He looked at me, his expression full of a sudden, sharp regret.
"Showtime?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly as I smoothed down my hair.
"Not yet," he said, reaching out to cup my face one last time. He kissed me, hard and fast, a desperate anchor before we drifted back into the storm. "Whatever happens in there, Sylvie... whatever he says... remember the loft. Remember the lake. It's not just a game anymore."
"I know," I whispered.
He started the car, the roar of the engine sounding like a war cry. We drove toward the Cavill estate, leaving the peace of the lake behind. As the massive iron gates swung open to admit us, I felt the silver ring on my finger. It felt heavier than ever.
We weren't just two teenagers flirting in a car anymore. We were two rebels heading into the lion's den. And as I looked at Nathaniel’s profile, set in that cold, aristocratic mask once again, I realized that I wasn't afraid of Arthur Cavill. I was afraid of losing the boy who had just called me a "beautiful marshmallow."
The front doors of the mansion were opened by a grim-looking Silas. The house was silent, but the air felt charged, like the moments before a lightning strike.
"He's in the study," Silas said, his eyes lingering on my slightly swollen lips for a fraction of a second too long. "He is... displeased."
Nathaniel took my hand, his grip firm and steadying. "Let's go, Belrose. Time to show him that the 'brand' has a mind of its own."
We walked toward the study, the sound of our footsteps echoing on the marble. I didn't feel like a scholarship girl anymore. I felt like a weapon. And as we reached the heavy oak doors, I realized that the "unwritten rules" were about to be rewritten in blood and ink.