Chapter 3 THE SIX-INCH NO-MAN'S LAND
POV SYLVIE
The "Conference of Academic Excellence" sounded like something that involved a lot of tweed and polite nodding. In reality, it was just a bunch of rich donors in a Hilton ballroom and me, trying to breathe in a corset that was definitely designed by someone who hated women.
And then there was the Room Situation.
“One bed,” I said, staring at the king-sized mattress like it was a crime scene. “Nathaniel, there is literally one bed. With one duvet. And two very different people who want to kill each other.”
Nathaniel dropped his leather weekender on the luggage rack, not even looking up. “My grandfather’s ‘assistant,’ Silas, is staying three doors down, Sylvie. He checked us in. He saw the keycard. If I ask for a cot, he’ll be on the phone with Arthur before I can say ‘trust fund.’ So, unless you want to sleep in the bathtub, I suggest you get over it.”
I walked over to the window. The view of the city was great, but the air in the room was stifling. “The bathtub is marble. I’d wake up with a permanent curve in my spine. I already have enough of those from carrying our GPA for the last three years.”
“Hilarious,” he muttered, stripping off his suit jacket.
I turned around and immediately looked at the ceiling. He was unbuttoning his shirt. Why did he have to have so many buttons? And why was the light in this room so aggressive? It made his skin look like bronzed silk, which was a very inconvenient thing to notice.
“Keep your shirt on, Cavill. We aren't in a romance novel.”
“I’m going to shower, Belrose. My skin feels like it’s covered in the fake smiles I had to give those deans downstairs. If you’re so worried about the bed, build a wall of pillows. Use your constitutional law textbooks. They’re heavy enough to stop a bullet.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, and a second later, the sound of the shower filled the room. I sat on the edge of the bed. It was too soft. The kind of soft that makes you sink into it until you can’t get out—kind of like this entire fake engagement.
I opened my suitcase. I’d packed my "safe" pajamas: an oversized t-shirt with a faded print of a cat and some flannel pants that had seen better days. Not exactly "fiancée of a billionaire" material, but if Nathaniel wanted a fashion show, he could hire a model.
When the shower stopped, I froze. The door opened, and a cloud of steam billowed out, smelling like that sandalwood soap that was starting to haunt my dreams. Nathaniel walked out with a towel wrapped around his waist and droplets of water clinging to his chest.
I looked at my phone so hard I thought the screen would crack.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice a bit raspy from the steam. “And try to hurry up. We have the ‘Young Scholars’ gala in an hour, and apparently, we’re expected to dance. My grandfather wants a photo for the alumni magazine.”
“I don’t dance,” I said, still staring at a notification about a 20% discount on pizza I’d never get to eat. “I calculate. I analyze. I do not twirl.”
“You’ll twirl if I tell you to twirl, Sylvie. It’s in the contract. Section four: Public Displays of Affection and General Compliance.”
I stood up, grabbing my t-shirt like a shield. “Section four can suck it.”
An hour later, we were in the ballroom. It was a sea of champagne flutes and forced laughter. My ring—the ‘golden handcuff,’ as I called it—caught the light every time I moved my hand. It was heavy. It felt like a lead weight pulling me down into a life I didn't belong in.
“Smile,” Nathaniel whispered, his hand sliding onto the small of my back. His touch was warm, burning through the thin fabric of my dress. “Dean Reynolds is watching. He still thinks you’re a ‘risk,’ so try to look like you’ve never even heard of the internet, let alone a scandalous photo.”
“I am smiling,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “This is my ‘I’m totally not thinking about poisoning your champagne’ face.”
The music shifted to something slow and orchestral. Nathaniel led me to the center of the floor. He pulled me close—too close. I could smell the gin on his breath and the lingering scent of his shower. My hand was on his shoulder, feeling the hard muscle beneath his tuxedo.
“You’re stiff,” he murmured, his breath tickling my ear.
“I’m a statue. Statues are stiff.”
“Relax, Sylvie. Just follow my lead. Think of it as a physics problem. Momentum and torque.”
I looked up at him, intending to give him a sarcastic retort, but the words died in my throat. He wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking at me. His grey eyes were dark, shadowed by something that didn't look like acting. For a second, the room vanished. The noise, the lights, the donors—it was all gone. It was just the pressure of his hand on my waist and the way my heart was doing a frantic, rhythmic beat against his chest.
“Nathaniel?” I whispered.
“Don’t,” he said, his grip tightening just a fraction. “Don’t say anything. Just for two minutes, can we just be two people who don't hate each other?”
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just rested my head against his shoulder and let him lead me through the crowd.
When we finally got back to the room, the tension was thick enough to cut with a steak knife. The "one bed" was still there, mocking us.
Nathaniel went to his side of the bed and climbed in, propping himself up with a pillow. I went to the bathroom, changed into my cat t-shirt, and spent ten minutes staring at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed. My eyes looked too bright.
“Get out here, Belrose,” Nathaniel called out. “The cat shirt won't protect you from the fact that it's 1:00 AM and we have a 7:00 AM breakfast with the board.”
I walked out, feeling incredibly small. I climbed into the other side of the bed, hugging the very edge of the mattress. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. It was like lying next to a furnace.
“Goodnight, Nathaniel,” I said to the wall.
“Goodnight, Sylvie.”
I closed my eyes, but sleep was miles away. Every time he moved, every time the sheets rustled, I felt a jolt of electricity. Six months. I just had to survive six months of this.
But as I lay there in the dark, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, I realized the biggest danger wasn't the scandal or the scholarship. It was the fact that the "no-man's land" between us was starting to feel a lot smaller than six inches.