Chapter 8

Three weeks of Gabriel’s suffocating supervision and I’m ready to commit a felony.

Or several.

The man has turned stalking into an art form—morning runs at ass o’clock, supervised study sessions, meal plans that would make a nutritionist weep with joy.

I’m basically a show pony with a Harvard ID.

So when Jake mentions the warehouse party—the one administration’s been threatening expulsion over, the one that makes our usual ragers look like tea parties—I’m sold before he finishes talking.

“You sure about this?” Jake asks, watching me pregame with the dedication of someone training for the Olympics. “Gabriel’s gonna be pissed. Like, a concerned friend turned intervention specialist levels of pissed.”

“Good.” I knock back another shot, the burn a welcome distraction from the constant weight of being watched. “Maybe if I’m enough of a disaster, he’ll finally get the hint that I don’t need a self-appointed life coach.”

“Harsh, dude.” Jake shakes his head. “The guy clearly cares about you. Even if he’s weirdly intense about it.”

I don’t respond because what would I even say? That Gabriel’s ‘caring’ comes with a paycheck? Instead, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

The warehouse is calling, and I plan to answer with every bad decision in my arsenal.

It throbs with bass heavy enough to rearrange internal organs. It’s everything parents have nightmares about—no security, questionable substances, decisions so bad they’ll echo through generations.

Perfect.

I dive in headfirst, accepting drinks from people whose names I’ll never remember, dancing with bodies that blur together under strobing lights.

My usual calculated charm? Gone. Replaced with something sharper, meaner, designed to hurt anyone watching.

And someone’s definitely watching.

Gabriel’s tucked against the far wall, nursing what’s probably water, eyes tracking my every stumble. Professional distance maintained, concern growing with each terrible choice I make.

It’s the concern that pisses me off most—like he has any right to care after lying to my face for weeks.

“Your boyfriend’s looking stressed,” some girl shouts over the music, nodding toward Gabriel. “Maybe you should—”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I grab another drink from a passing tray, not even checking what it is. “He’s just paid to give a shit. Big difference.”

She backs away from whatever she sees in my face, and honestly? Smart move.

The night spirals. Each drink makes the next easier, each bad decision justifies the next. I’m flirting with anyone who’ll stand still, accepting shots from strangers, dancing until the room spins.

My laugh is too loud, too sharp, cutting through conversations like broken glass. Even my party friends—people who’ve seen me at my messiest—are shooting worried glances.

“Leo, maybe slow down?” Ashley materializes at my elbow, concern written across her face. “You’re not looking great, and that guy you came with keeps—”

“Fuck him.” The words come out slurred, angrier than intended. “Fuck his concern and fuck his reports and fuck—”

“We’re moving!” Someone shouts. “Cops are sniffing around. After-party at the docks!”

The crowd surges toward exits, carrying me along until Gabriel’s hand closes around my arm, steering me toward a shadowed corner away from the chaos.

“We’re leaving. Now.” His voice cuts through my drunk haze, brooking no argument. “This is non-negotiable.”

“Non-negotiable?” I wrench away, stumbling but catching myself on pure spite.

The corner’s relatively private—just us and the pounding bass.

“That’s rich, coming from you. Was lying to me for weeks negotiable? Was pretending to be interested in me part of the contract?”

Gabriel’s jaw tightens, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing attention.

“Leo, you’re drunk and making dangerous choices. We can discuss this tomorrow when you’re—”

“Don’t pretend you care about me!” The words explode out, raw and too honest. “We both know this is just an assignment. Just another spoiled brat to babysit, another paycheck to cash. So stop acting like you give a fuck beyond your professional obligations.”

Something cracks in Gabriel’s expression. For the first time since that shitty meeting with my father, I see genuine emotion bleed through—pain, frustration, and something deeper I’m too drunk to parse.

“You think I don’t—” He cuts himself off, hands clenching at his sides. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?” The alcohol makes me brave and stupid in equal measure. “Then prove it. Show me this isn’t just about the job. Show me something real for once in your lying—”

I don’t finish the thought. Instead, I seize his face and slam our mouths together.

This isn’t a soft kiss; it’s a clash. Teeth grind with urgency and frustration, all aimed to wound, to make a statement. His lips taste of shock, his body stiffens under the surprise of it all. But then he responds.

In those fleeting seconds, three or maybe four, it’s genuine. His hand cradles my jaw, tender in spite of everything else, and he kisses me like he means it.

As if there’s more beneath the lies and obligations—

He jerks away abruptly, breath coming hard and fast, internal struggle etched into every crease of his expression. The sudden absence feels like an icy plunge, leaving me off-balance and bewildered.

“Is this going in your report too?” The words come out broken, pathetic. “Subject exhibited self-destructive behavior, culminating in sexual assault of operative?”

Gabriel’s face crumbles, reaching for me, but the ground’s already tilting. My knees buckle, vision graying at the edges, and the last thing I feel is his arms catching me.

Again. Always catching me.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and I’m too far gone to wonder if that’s personal or professional.

* * *

Death would be preferable to this hangover.

My mouth tastes like a crime scene, my head’s hosting a construction site, and someone’s definitely stabbing my eyeballs from the inside.

“Get up. We’re going for a run.”

I crack one eye open to find Gabriel perched on Jake’s desk chair, looking exhausted but determined.

He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, which means—fuck. He stayed all night. Jake’s bed is empty and perfectly made, because of course my roommate has a morning class like a functional human being.

“I would literally rather die.” I burrow deeper into my pillow, praying for a swift end. “Actually, I might already be dead. Is this hell? It feels like hell.”

“It’s Harvard, so close enough.” His voice carries an edge of something—amusement? “But you’re not getting out of this. Up.”

“Gabriel, I swear to every god listening, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll—”

“Here’s the deal then.” He cuts me off, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “For every productive, well-disciplined day you give me—completing your tasks, staying active, eating right—I’ll cross one of your screw-ups off the report to your parents.”

That gets my attention. I peer at him through the one eye that might function.

“You’re blackmailing me with my own bad behavior? That’s either genius or deeply fucked up.” My voice sounds like gravel in a blender. “What’s the catch?”

His expression shifts, something almost like a smile ghosting across his features.

“No catch. Just motivation. And if you get up and go now…” He pauses, meeting my bloodshot gaze directly. “I’ll even cross off the part about you kissing me at the party, Your Highness.”