Chapter 8
A month later, the score came back.
1600.
Perfect.
When I showed Cyrus the result on my screen, he didn’t smile.
He just looked at the number.
Then he looked at me.
Something dark and fiercely satisfied flashed in his eyes.
He crossed the room, pulled me in by the waist, and kissed me.
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t tentative.
It was consuming.
Possessive.
As if he was claiming the victory for both of us.
“Harvard is yours,” he murmured against my lips. “And so am I.”
Spring arrived, and with it came the Ivy League decisions.
I was officially admitted to Harvard.
The day the acceptance email arrived, Cyrus reserved a private dining room at one of Boston’s most exclusive restaurants.
I wore a stunning backless silk dress that he had, of course, chosen himself.
We were walking out of the restaurant after dinner, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back, when a shrill voice split the night.
“Cyrus!”
I froze.
I knew that voice.
So did he.
I turned and saw Stella standing on the sidewalk in a stained barista apron, balancing a tray of coffees.
She looked awful.
Her hair was frizzy, and the designer outfits she used to flaunt had been replaced by cheap jeans and worn sneakers.
Her eyes widened when she saw Cyrus.
Then they snapped to me.
Shock turned into pure rage.
“Clare!” she screamed, dropping the tray.
Paper cups burst open, coffee splashing all over the pavement.
“What the hell are you doing here? And what are you wearing?”
At that exact moment, the floating text exploded back into view in bright gold.
Yes. The reunion. The climax.
Stella is here. Now Cyrus will realize Clare is a liar.
He’s going to destroy Clare and sweep Stella off her feet.
Forced romance incoming.
Stella shoved forward, but Cyrus’s security stepped in before she could get close.
“Move!” she shrieked. “Cyrus, it’s me! Stella! I’m the girl you were talking to online! She stole my account. She’s a fraud. A gold digger. She dropped out of community college just to leech off you.”
Cyrus didn’t react at all.
He looked at her the way a person might look at something filthy on the bottom of a shoe.
“Lewis,” he said mildly, “why is there trash blocking my car?”
Stella gasped, her face turning red.
“Cyrus, listen to me! She stole my identity. I’m the one you liked. I’m the one you gave five thousand a month to.”
Cyrus stepped slightly in front of me, shielding me from her.
Then he looked Stella over, expression cold.
“I know exactly who you are, Miss Vance,” he said. “You are the idiot who thought five thousand dollars a month was both too little and yet somehow worth whining over. You gave my contact information to Clare because you believed I was a stingy, preachy old man. Isn’t that correct?”
Stella went pale.
“I—I didn’t—”
“Clare didn’t steal anything,” Cyrus said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet street. “You threw away a winning lottery ticket because you were too lazy to read the numbers. Clare picked it up, cashed it in, and earned her place.”
Stella stared. “Place where?”
“At Harvard,” Cyrus said.
Her mouth fell open.
“Harvard?”
He slid an arm around my waist and drew me against his side.
“Yes. Because while you were chasing frat boys and pouring coffee, my girl was studying ten hours a day. You are nothing to me, Stella. You never were. You were a passing distraction. Clare is my future.”