The home crowd erupted into a deafening roar. Vesper sat in the back row of the crowded bleachers, her hands pressed over her ears. The noise was physically painful.

But her eyes weren't on the scoreboard. They were locked on the VIP section across the court.

Julian Hayes stood there, clapping politely. He wore a navy cashmere sweater that made his shoulders look broad and soft.

Vesper's chest tightened. She remembered the rainy afternoon freshman year when she had dropped her groceries in a puddle. Julian had stopped, handed her his umbrella, and helped her pick up the bruised apples. He had smiled at her like she actually mattered.

Down on the court, Slade was being swarmed by teammates. He had just hit a buzzer-beating three-pointer to win the game.

Vesper didn't wait for the celebration to end. She grabbed her bag, squeezed past the screaming fans, and hurried down the narrow concrete stairs to the basement level.

The air down here was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and bleach.

She found the men's locker room and pressed her back against the wall, hiding in the dark shadow of a broken vending machine.

She waited. Her legs ached.

Half an hour later, the heavy metal door finally swung open for the last time.

Slade walked out. His dark hair was wet, dripping water onto the collar of his jacket. He had a massive black duffel bag slung over one shoulder and was staring down at his phone, his brow furrowed.

Vesper stepped out of the shadows and planted herself directly in the middle of the hallway.

Slade stopped short. He looked up. Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes.

He didn't say anything. He just shifted his bag and tried to step around her.

Vesper mirrored his movement, blocking his path again.

Slade clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I told you to find someone else. Don't make this weird and stalker-ish."

"September fourteenth. Flight 402 from Chicago," Vesper said, her voice deadpan and cold.

Slade froze. His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.

Vesper pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and shoved the screen inches from his face.

The photo displayed a crushed, vintage brass suitcase. Scattered around it on the airport floor were dozens of hand-forged, custom woodcarving knives, their delicate wooden handles splintered.

"Those tools were forged in the eighteenth century," Vesper said softly, her eyes locked on his. "They belonged to my grandfather. They were appraised at over ten thousand dollars."

Slade's pupils dilated. He stared at the photo, then looked at Vesper's face. Recognition finally dawned in his eyes. He remembered the crying girl on the floor.

"If you don't show up to Cromwell's studio," Vesper said, her voice trembling slightly with adrenaline, "I will file a formal property damage claim with the university."

Slade didn't move.

"Once the claim is filed," Vesper continued, pushing her advantage, "the athletic board will flag your file for disciplinary review. You'll be suspended pending investigation. You'll miss the NCAA playoffs."

The silence in the hallway was suffocating. Vesper could hear the faint dripping of water from his wet hair hitting his jacket.

Slade's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "You think you can blackmail me?" he demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. The sudden shift in his demeanor sent a cold shiver down her spine, but she held her ground, refusing to let him see the way her pulse hammered against her ribs.

He shifted his heavy bag to his other shoulder and took a slow step forward. He was so close now that Vesper could smell his body wash-something sharp and minty.

"Alright, art girl," Slade said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll be your model."

Vesper exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

"But," Slade added, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. "You're going to do something for me in return."

Chapter 3

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