Unwanted Secret Lover: Now Watch Me Shine

"Oh my God, you guys have to see this."

Thea burst through the door of their suite's common room, her phone held up like a trophy. The Friday afternoon quiet shattered.

Kaelyn flinched. The tip of her X-Acto knife skittered across the foam core of her architectural model, narrowly missing a load-bearing wall she'd spent three hours constructing. Her breath hitched.

"Thea, what the hell?"

But Thea was already past her, a hurricane of excitement, shoving the glowing screen directly into Kaelyn's face. "Forget your tiny buildings. Look. Wincroft's Whisper just dropped the juiciest poll."

Kaelyn's eyes were forced to focus. The title of the post on the campus gossip app swam into view: "The Absolute Most Unlikely Couple on Campus." A sick feeling coiled in her stomach.

"Who is it?" Eleanor asked, peering over the arm of the sofa. She read the screen and snorted. "Number one: Kaelyn Berry and Clemente Whitaker. That's hilarious."

"It's not that weird," Beatrice pushed her black-framed glasses up her nose, not looking up from her textbook. "She's an artist. He's obsessed with money and numbers. They're just not in the same league."

The sound of Clemente's name was a physical blow. Kaelyn felt her heart clench, a sudden, tight fist in her chest. She forced the muscles in her face to remain rigid, a blank mask.

Thea scrolled down, her thumb flying across the screen. "Oh, listen to this comment! 'Clemente belongs with someone like Hilda Kramer. A fragile, noble swan. Not... whatever Kaelyn is.'"

Hilda.

The name was a splinter under Kaelyn's nail. Her fingers, which had been resting on her drafting pencil, tightened unconsciously. The knuckles turned white.

"So, Kae," Eleanor said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "What would you do if the great Clemente Whitaker actually asked you out?"

Kaelyn took a slow, deliberate breath. She shrugged, a carefully practiced gesture of indifference. "Please. The guy's an arrogant asshole."

It worked. Her roommates laughed, the suspicion vanishing from their eyes.

Just then, her own phone, lying face up on the drafting table, lit up. A notification from an encrypted app. No name, no number.

Just four words.

My penthouse. Now.

Her breath caught in her throat for half a second.

"Ooh, who's that?" Thea leaned over, her curiosity a tangible force.

Kaelyn's reaction was pure instinct. She slapped her hand over the phone, flipping it onto its face. The movement was too fast, too panicked.

Thea's eyes narrowed.

"It's, uh, my professor," Kaelyn lied, her voice a little too high. She scrambled for a plausible excuse. "Professor Davies. He wants me to pick up some materials from the studio. For the weekend."

"On a Friday night? What a slavedriver," Beatrice muttered without looking up.

The complaint gave Kaelyn the opening she needed. She started gathering her things, shoving her laptop into her backpack. With a swift movement, she opened her desk drawer and pushed the bag on top of a stack of papers, making sure the folded copy of a very specific, very heavy non-disclosure agreement was buried at the very bottom.

"Tell me about it," she said, forcing a sigh. "I'll see you guys later."

She pulled on her trench coat and slipped out the door, closing it on the sound of their chatter. In the sudden quiet of the hallway, she leaned against the wall and let out a long, shaky breath that she felt like she'd been holding for an eternity.

She pulled her baseball cap low over her eyes and walked quickly, sticking to the less-traveled paths that cut across the main quad. The autumn wind was sharp, and she tugged the collar of her coat tighter. The words from the gossip app echoed in her head. Fragile, noble swan. Her steps became faster, more agitated.

Three blocks from campus, she arrived at the gleaming glass facade of one of New York's most exclusive residential buildings. She didn't go through the main entrance with its doormen and glittering chandelier. Instead, she slipped into a side alley, heading for the discreet entrance to the private underground garage.

The security guard in the booth saw her face, gave a curt nod, and buzzed her through. No questions. No logbook. His silence was a well-paid part of the arrangement. He pressed a button, and the doors to a private elevator slid open.

As the elevator ascended, a wave of vertigo washed over her, or maybe it was just her heart hammering against her ribs. She caught her reflection in the polished steel walls-wind-blown hair, a haunted look in her eyes. She tried to smooth her hair down, to look less like she'd just run a marathon.

The elevator chimed softly and the doors opened, not into a hallway, but directly into the vast, silent expanse of the penthouse. The air smelled of him-cedarwood and expensive whiskey.

The Persian rugs muffled her footsteps. The place was empty.

"Clemente?" she called out, her voice sounding small in the cavernous space.

A frosted glass door slid open, and he emerged from the study. He was wearing a custom-tailored shirt, the top two buttons undone. A glass of whiskey was in his hand.

His deep blue eyes locked onto hers. He didn't say hello. He didn't smile. He just started walking toward her, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Kaelyn took an involuntary step back, but it was too late. His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pulled her forward, crashing her against the solid wall of his chest.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. His voice was a low, rough murmur against her ear.

"You're five minutes late."

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, laced with an ownership that made her skin prickle.

She looked up at the face that the entire campus had just declared was from another universe than hers. The absurdity of it all-the gossip, the secrecy, her own pounding heart-welled up inside her.

She didn't answer his question.

Instead, she fisted her hand in the front of his expensive shirt, pulled him down, and crushed her mouth to his. It wasn't a kiss of passion. It was a kiss to shut him up, to shut her own mind down, to drown out the voice that whispered she didn't belong here.

He responded instantly, taking control. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other slid around her waist, lifting her effortlessly. The kiss turned from her desperate attempt at silence into his brand of punishment. He backed her against the cold, smooth wall of the entryway, his body pinning hers.

Her baseball cap fell to the floor. A small gasp for air was swallowed by his mouth. His scent, his heat, was everywhere, and the rational part of her brain began to shut down, one circuit at a time.

With a soft clink, he set his whiskey glass down on the console table behind them. He scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing and strode down the long hallway toward the master bedroom.

Her head was thrown back over his shoulder. Her gaze drifted across the living room and snagged on something. On the low marble coffee table sat a large, glossy book. The cover showed a ballerina mid-leap. The title was in stark, elegant print: The Bolshoi Ballet: A History.

The image was a punch to the gut. Fragile, noble swan. The words from the gossip app screamed in her head.

Clemente kicked the bedroom door open and tossed her onto the massive bed. The silk duvet was cool against her skin as he followed her down, his body a heavy, welcome weight.

His lips trailed from her mouth down the line of her jaw, but her body was suddenly stiff. A traitorous chill ran through her.

He noticed immediately. He always did.

He lifted his head, his intense blue eyes searching hers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied, her voice thin. She couldn't look at him. "Just... stressed. Midterms are killing me."

He seemed to accept it. His thumb brushed gently across her cheek, a rare, tender gesture that was completely at odds with the raw possession of moments before. "Relax, Kae. You're here now."

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to sink into the warmth of his body, into the practiced way his hands moved over her. She tried to use the physical sensations to burn away the image of the ballet book, to forget the name Hilda.

Two hours later, the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Clemente was propped against the headboard, a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled in the dim light, obscuring the sharp lines of his face.

Kaelyn lay on her side, facing away from him, the silk sheet clutched in her hand. She traced the embroidered edge with her finger, her mind anything but calm.

A vibration buzzed against the marble of the nightstand. Clemente's personal phone. The screen lit up, showing a call from a number with no contact name saved.

He glanced at it. A flicker of something-annoyance? -crossed his face before his expression went smooth again. He reached over, picked up the phone, and flipped it screen-down on the nightstand. The movement was too quick, too deliberate.

It was a defensive gesture, and it set off every alarm bell in Kaelyn's head. The cloud of suspicion she'd been trying to ignore began to swell, dark and heavy.

She tried to sound casual. "Who was that?"

He took a slow drag from his cigarette. "Family trust lawyer," he said, his voice flat. "It can wait."

He was lying. She knew he was. His family's lawyers used a dedicated, encrypted line that showed up with a specific corporate ID. Not a random, unsaved number.

She didn't call him on it. The knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach.

Silently, she slipped out of bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She walked into the master bathroom and locked the door behind her.

She turned on the faucet, the rush of water a welcome noise to drown out the silence. Gripping the edges of the marble vanity, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, and there was a darkness in her eyes that hadn't been there this afternoon.

What are you doing? she asked the girl in the mirror. Why are you letting yourself be a secret for a man who won't even be honest about a phone call?

When she finally emerged, wrapped in one of his plush robes, he was already dressed. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, talking on the phone. His voice was low, but the apartment was so quiet she could still catch fragments.

"...don't cry... I know it's hard... I'll handle it."

The tone. It was a tone she had never, ever heard him use. It was patient. Gentle. Soothing. It was everything he wasn't with her.

Her feet stopped moving. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, tight and painful.

He heard her and immediately ended the call. When he turned around, the mask was back in place. His face was a cool, unreadable sculpture.

He walked toward her, pulling something from his wallet. It was a sleek, black credit card. An Amex Centurion. The infamous black card.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her. "For this weekend. Since I'll be busy."

She stared at the card. It wasn't a gift. It was a transaction. A payment for services rendered and a down payment for her silence. She was a line item in his budget. A secret he paid to keep.

She didn't take it.

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time since he'd lied about the phone call. The question she'd been swallowing for months, the one she was terrified to ask, finally broke free.

Kaelyn ignored the black card hovering in the space between them. Her gaze was sharp, her voice tight with a tension that had been building for months.

"When does this end, Clemente?"

His hand froze mid-air. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his features. He wasn't used to her pushing back.

He slowly withdrew his hand, tossing the card onto the mahogany dresser. It landed with a sharp, plastic clatter that echoed in the suffocating silence.

He took a step back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The physical distance was a statement. His tone became cool, corporate. "It's not the right time."

"Not the right time?" The detached, business-like response ignited her anger. She closed the distance he had just created, her voice rising. "When will it be the right time? When you graduate? When your family finally picks out your perfect, pure-blood wife?"

His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing in his cheek. "My family is in the middle of a major asset restructuring. I can't afford any personal scandals right now."

Kaelyn let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Scandals? You mean like the one plastered all over Wincroft's Whisper? The one about you and Hilda Kramer? Your family doesn't seem to mind that one."

At the mention of Hilda's name, his eyes turned to ice. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "Don't bring her into this," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

That unconscious, instinctual defense of another woman-it was a physical blow. It felt like a fist slamming into her sternum, knocking the air from her lungs.

She sucked in a ragged breath, fighting to keep her composure. Her voice trembled, but she forced the words out. "Why? Is it because she's one of you? Is it because my father is just a professor and not a titan of industry? Am I not good enough to be seen with the great Whitaker name?"

In a flash, he was in front of her, his hands gripping her shoulders. The force of it made her wince. "Don't be ridiculous," he bit out, his face inches from hers. "You have no idea how complicated my situation is."

"No, I don't!" she cried, shoving against his chest to break his hold. She stumbled back, putting a safe distance between them. Tears blurred her vision. "I don't understand any of your secrets, Clemente. And I'm starting to think I don't want to."

They stood there, locked in a standoff, the air thick with unspoken accusations. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time. He looked frustrated, trapped.

He was about to say something, his mouth opening to form words, when the phone on the dresser began to vibrate again. It was a frantic, insistent buzzing, a sound that felt like a death knell.

His eyes darted to the phone. He tried to hide it, but she saw the panic in his gaze.

The phone rang for ten agonizing seconds. Finally, with a curse under his breath, he snatched it up and answered.

Even from a distance, Kaelyn could catch the suppressed, sharp cries leaking from the earpiece. While the exact words were muffled, the sheer, hysterical despair pierced the quiet air, heavy and inescapable.

Clemente immediately turned his back to her, shielding the phone with his hand as he walked to the far end of the room, by the windows.

Kaelyn stood frozen, watching his broad shoulders tense. The sight of him, so powerful and controlled, now hunched over, placating the person on the other end of the line, made her own defenses crumble.

Then she heard it. A few words, spoken in a low, urgent plea.

"Put the knife down. I'm coming over now."

The blood in Kaelyn's veins turned to ice water.

He hung up. When he turned around, his face was ashen. He didn't even look at her. He just strode toward the closet, grabbing his coat.

She moved to block his path. "Clemente. Give me one good reason."

He roughly pushed past her, shrugging on the jacket. "A friend is in trouble. I have to go."

"What friend?" she pressed, her voice hard. "Is it the 'person who has nothing to do with this'? Is it Hilda?"

He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He looked at her then, and his eyes were filled with an exhaustion so profound it made him a stranger. "Kaelyn," he said, his voice flat. "Don't be unreasonable right now."

Unreasonable.

The word was a razor blade, slicing through the last thread of her dignity. She froze, unable to move, unable to speak.

He took her silence as acquiescence. He opened the door, paused for a fraction of a second. "I'm sorry," he muttered to the empty hallway, and then he was gone.

The heavy door slammed shut, the sound booming through the empty penthouse.

Kaelyn stood alone in the dim entryway, the strength draining out of her body. She slowly walked to the console table and looked at the whiskey glass he'd left behind. The ice had completely melted.

She picked up her bag, leaving the black card on the polished surface where he'd tossed it. Without a backward glance, she walked out of the opulent cage and called the elevator, leaving the lies and the secrets behind.