Chapter 4

I forced my face into a neutral mask, even though my pulse was racing. I had rehearsed this lie in my head a hundred times. It was the only way to keep him from digging deeper.

"They're archaeologists," I said, the words coming out smoothly. "They travel constantly. Mostly in the Middle East and Egypt. They're rarely stateside."

It was a half-truth. My real parents had been academics, but they were gone. This lie made them distant, unavailable, and most importantly, it made me independent. A lonely college student with absent parents wasn't unusual.

Hannah's eyes went wide. "Archaeologists? Like Indiana Jones? That is so cool!"

I smiled, a tight, practiced expression. "Something like that. It's mostly dust and old rocks."

Dean chewed his steak slowly, his gaze never leaving my face. He was analyzing every micro-expression, every breath I took. I kept my hands steady on my lap, fighting the urge to fidget.

"So you grew up alone?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. "While they were off digging up history?"

"Mostly," I said. "I lived with my grandmother until I was in high school. She passed away a few years ago. After that, I just... learned to take care of myself."

The memory of my real grandmother's funeral flashed in my mind, sharp and painful. I pushed it down, burying the emotion before it could show on my face. I needed to sound detached, like I was reciting a grocery list.

Hannah reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her eyes full of sympathy. "That must have been so hard. I'm so sorry, Chloe."

"It's fine," I said, pulling my hand back gently but firmly. "I'm used to it."

I took another sip of water, hoping the subject was closed. I had given them a tragic backstory, one that should make them pity me and leave me alone. People didn't usually push for details when it came to dead relatives.

But Dean wasn't most people. He stared at me for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. Then, his expression shifted. The hard lines of his face softened, just a fraction. He set down his fork and leaned forward.

"You're very resilient, Chloe," he said, his voice quieter now, less interrogating and more... direct. "But you're my sister's roommate, living under the same roof. That makes your safety a concern of mine."

I froze. This wasn't right. This wasn't the reaction I wanted.

"Here at Blackwood, you can run into trouble you aren't prepared for," he continued, his gaze locking onto mine. "You can consider this a guarantee: if you have a problem, anything you can't handle, you contact me directly. I'll take care of it."

My stomach twisted into a knot. I had tried to push him away with a sad story, and instead, I had triggered his savior complex. In the novel, Dean Gibbs was a fixer. He saw a problem, and he dominated it. And right now, he saw me as a problem that needed fixing.

"Thank you, Mr. Gibbs," I said, my voice stiff. "But I can take care of myself. I always have."

"It's Dean," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm sure you can. But even the strongest people need backup sometimes."

Hannah beamed, clearly delighted that her brother was being so welcoming. "See? I told you he was great!"

I picked at my pasta, my appetite completely gone. I had played myself. I had tried to build a wall, and I had accidentally handed him a ladder.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced small talk and Hannah's cheerful chatter. I kept my answers short and my eyes down, trying to project an aura of complete unapproachability. But Dean's gaze kept returning to me, heavy and assessing.

When the check came, Dean paid without even glancing at the total. He stood up, helping Hannah with her coat, then turned to me. "I'll drive you back."

We walked out into the cool night air. Hannah skipped ahead, her heels clicking on the pavement as she answered a call from a friend. Dean slowed his pace, falling into step beside me. The silence between us was thick, charged with something I couldn't identify.

We reached the parking garage. The echo of our footsteps bounced off the concrete walls. Dean stopped walking. I stopped too, turning to face him. He was standing too close, his tall frame blocking out the overhead lights.

"You tell a very compelling story, Miss Carrillo," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My blood turned to ice. The words hung in the air, a clear threat. Did he know? Had he seen through my lie?

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. His face was unreadable, half-hidden in shadow. He could be complimenting my storytelling skills, or he could be calling me a liar to my face.

I didn't wait to find out. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and quickened my pace to catch up with Hannah. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes burning into my back the entire way to the car.