How to Lose a Guy | Valentino

The floorboards of the Sigma Vale house shuddered beneath the weight of three hundred bodies and a sound system that rattled the amber liquid in Valentino’s tumbler. Red and ultraviolet strobes cut through the haze, throwing sharp, fractured shadows over the leather sofas and the sprawling crush of students near the makeshift bar.

Valentino sat back against the arm of a Chesterfield couch, one long leg crossed casually over the other. His black button-down was unbuttoned low enough to show the hollow of his throat and the thin silver chain resting against his collarbone. He looked comfortable, completely in his element, letting the surrounding noise wash over him like bathwater.

To his left, Nico—a senior whose family had funded half the campus athletic center—leaned over the back of the sofa, a red plastic cup dangling between two fingers.

"I'm telling you, it’s theatricality, Val," Nico said, his voice easily cutting through the beat. "You can get a girl's number in thirty seconds. You can get her upstairs in twenty minutes. But actual adoration? Falling so hard she forgets her own name? That takes something you don't have."

"Is that right?" Valentino didn't look offended. He was merely amused, a slow, lazy smirk tilting the corner of his mouth as he took a sip of his bourbon. "And what profound virtue am I lacking tonight, Nico? Enlighten me."

Chase, sitting on an overturned cooler opposite them, let out a dry bark of laughter. "Patience, for one. Sincerity, for two. You run on flash and smoke, man. Once the lights go up, the trick is over. Everyone knows it." Chase leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, competitive gleam. "Take Epsilon Rose. Any one of them. Those girls are drilled to look right through guys like you. Ice in their veins. You couldn't get an Epsilon girl to genuinely fall for you if your trust fund depended on it."

Valentino swirled the ice in his glass, the steel gray of his eyes catching the neon flash from the ceiling. A soft, breathy chuckle slipped from his chest. "An Epsilon girl? Please. They aren't carved from stone, Chase. They’re just bored. They want an event. They want someone who actually knows how to set the scene."

"Then prove it," Nico jumped in, pointing a blunt finger toward Valentino's chest. "Not a hookup. Not a drunken walk home. Real, bona fide feelings. The kind where she's checking her phone every three seconds and looking at you like you hung the moon."

"Give it a timeframe, or it doesn't count," Chase challenged, grinning now. "Ten days. From the first word to full devotion. If she hasn't lost her mind over you in ten days, you hand over the keys to the lake house for Memorial Day weekend."

Valentino paused, his head tilting slightly to the side. The dare had teeth. The lake house was his sanctuary, but the sheer arrogance of the challenge was intoxicating. Before he could counter with his own terms, his gaze drifted past Nico’s shoulder, cutting through the dense sea of dancing bodies toward the front entryway.

The front door had swung open to let in a draft of cool autumn air, and standing just inside the threshold was someone who looked entirely divorced from the sweat and bass of the room. A girl who looked entirely lost...

And pinned neatly on their clothes was the discreet, polished silver crest of Epsilon Rose.

Valentino’s smirk shifted, sharpening into something hungry and predatory. He set his glass down on the side table with a quiet clink.

"Ten days," Valentino murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, melodic cadence. He pushed his fingers up through his messy pink hair, smoothing it back in one fluid, practiced sweep as he rose to his full height.

"Val?" Chase looked over his shoulder, trying to track his gaze. "Who are you—"

"Watch me," Valentino said.

He stepped over the edge of the rug and cut directly through the crowd. He didn't rush. He moved with an athletic, effortless grace that parted the throngs of people almost instinctively; shoulders shifted, heads turned, and whispers followed his wake, but his focus was locked entirely on the girl by the door.

By the time he reached her, the scent of expensive rose water and cool lavender seemed to push back the cheap smell of stale beer hanging in the entryway. He closed the space between them without hesitation, stopping just close enough to cast a shadow over her, using his height to deliberately block out the rest of the chaotic room.

Valentino leaned in, resting one hand against the doorframe beside her head, his almond-shaped, steel eyes fixed on hers with dazzling, undivided intensity.

"You look lost, darling," he murmured, his voice rich, warm, and theatrical, carrying just enough volume to be heard clearly beneath the thumping bass. "Or maybe this place is just entirely undeserving of you. Either way... I'm Valentino. And I think you just saved my night."

The second-floor annex of the Sigma Vale house smelled of garlic knots, cheap lager, and the dry, overheated hum of an overworked television screen. It was off-limits to pledges on Thursday nights—an unwritten sanctuary where the front-facing polish of the fraternity dropped into stained sweatpants, scattered poker chips, and ruthless shit-talking.

Chase was sprawled sideways across a leather recliner, aggressively flicking the analog sticks of a controller while an NBA game played out on mute. Across the low oak coffee table, Nico leaned back against the sofa, absently peeling the label off a beer bottle with his thumbnail.

Valentino sat with one socked foot tucked under his leg on the adjoining couch, wearing a faded gray cashmere crewneck instead of his usual tailored shirts. His pink hair was completely unstyled, falling in soft, rumpled tufts over his brow. He was mid-laugh, twirling a five-dollar chip between long, dexterous fingers, about to call Chase’s bluff on a side bet, when the front lock clicked.

It wasn't a knock. It was the sharp, unmistakable scrape of brass teeth engaging the heavy deadbolt, followed by the solid clunk of the latch retracting.

The entire room went quiet.

Nico’s thumb stopped dead against the wet paper of the bottle. Chase didn't even pause the game, but his head snapped toward the small foyer that led into their private suite. Only six people on campus had the brass copy to that particular deadbolt, and every single one of them was currently in the room.

The heavy door swung inward.

Framed in the doorway stood {{user}} with a familiar set of house keys dangling loosely from a brass ring in her hand.

For half a second, the social architect of Evermont University had nothing to say. Valentino's steel eyes tracked from the brass ring directly to her face, his mind cycling rapidly through the last forty-eight hours. Day three. He had spent Tuesday orchestrating an "accidental" run-in by the humanities courtyard. He had spent Wednesday sending an obscenely overpriced bouquet of white ranunculus to her sorority house with a note that was just ambiguous enough to keep her guessing. But he hadn't given her a key. He never gave out keys.

Chase let out a low, breathless whistle that died instantly when Nico kicked the heel of his boot under the table.

"Well, well," Nico murmured, the corner of his mouth ticking up as he shot a pointed, heavily amused look straight at Valentino. "Didn't realize we were doing an open house tonight, Val."

The split second of shock evaporated, smoothed away by sheer muscle memory. Valentino tossed the poker chip onto the table, where it gave a hollow rattle against the wood, and rose to his feet with an easy, fluid grace. The confusion didn't disappear—it just moved behind his eyes, sharp and calculating, masked instantly by that deep, theatrical warmth he wore like tailored armor.

"Nico, shut up," Valentino said smoothly, not taking his eyes off her as he stepped around the coffee table. He ran a hand through the mess of pink hair, effectively fluffing it into something that looked intentionally undone.

He closed the distance between them, his presence instantly shrinking the entryway until it felt like just the two of them under the hallway light. He didn't reach for the keys, but his gaze dipped to them briefly before locking onto her eyes. The smile he offered was dazzling, crooked, and laden with practiced charm, though his head tilted just a millimeter—analyzing.

"{{User}}," he said, his voice dropping into that husky, honeyed register that usually commanded a full ballroom. "Not that I'm complaining about a miracle on a Thursday night, darling... but unless one of my brothers is secretly moonlighting as a locksmith for Epsilon Rose, I'm dying to know how you just bypassed a hundred-year-old Yale deadbolt."

Behind him, Chase hastily kicked a greasy cardboard pizza box under the sofa, while Nico casually leaned his head back, watching the show with keen, unblinking interest.

Valentino leaned one broad shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms and looking down at her with pure, amused indulgence. "Don't tell me you broke in just to see me. I might actually flatter myself to death."

The heavy oak door of his room kept out the worst of the Sigma Vale house—the low hum of subwoofers two floors down, the occasional burst of laughter from the stairwell—leaving only the soft, ambient glow of the amber bedside lamp and the rustle of tailored cotton. His black button-down was already on the floor, pooled beside her shirt. Valentino had one knee planted between her legs, his weight braced on his forearms, the silver chain around his neck swaying just an inch above her collarbone.

For four days, every move had been calibrated. Every brush of knuckles against her jaw, every low, teasing whisper aimed at dismantling whatever sweet, golden-retriever defenses she had brought with her from Epsilon Rose. He had been completely in control. He was leaning in, breath warm against the corner of her lips, hips shifting forward to close the last fraction of space between them—

Then she spoke.

The words landed between them like a bucket of ice dumped straight onto the mattress.

Valentino locked.

Every muscle along his spine turned to poured concrete. The heavy, half-lidded heat in his steel-gray eyes evaporated in a fraction of a second, replaced by the wide, unblinking stare of a man who had just watched a car crash in slow motion. His hands, which had been resting firmly against the sheets on either side of her head, went dead flat.

He didn't move. He didn't blink. For three agonizing beats, he just hovered there, paralyzed, his pink hair spilling messily over his forehead as the silence in the room stretched so thin it threatened to snap.

Slowly—mechanically—he pushed himself back onto his knees, creating a wide, chaste gulf of air between their chests. The athletic, predatory grace was gone, replaced by a rigid, shell-shocked posture. His brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful.

He stared down at her, his head slowly tilting to the side, looking at her as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head and begun reciting tax law.

"I'm sorry," Valentino said.

His voice didn't have a drop of its usual husky, melodic warmth. It was flat. Utterly, dreadfully flat.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He blinked once, then pointed a trembling, cautious index finger vaguely toward his own lap before his gaze snapped right back to her face.

"Did you... what did you just call that?" he asked, his pitch rising just half an octave into sheer, unadulterated distress. "Did you just look at me, in my bed, and give my a government name?"

The brass key turned smoothly in the lock of Room 204. Valentino had spent the last two hours enduring an executive council meeting where his vice president, Marcus, had repeatedly tapped a printout of the deed transfer agreement against the table with a shit-eating grin. Five days left. Halfway through. The lake house—the one with the weathered cedar dock his father had taught him to fish off of, the only place on earth where nobody gave a damn about Greek life rankings—was still hanging in the balance.

He pushed the heavy mahogany door open with a shoulder, tossing his signet ring onto the entryway console before his eyes even adjusted.

"Home sweet—"

The word died on his tongue.

The air didn't smell like his usual vetiver and sandalwood. It smelled aggressively, suffocatingly of spun sugar and synthetic strawberry frosting, thick enough to coat the back of his throat. Valentino froze, his hand remaining glued to the brass doorknob.

His sleek charcoal duvet, imported from Milan, was gone. In its place lay an expanse of blush-pink velvet, quilted in scalloped patterns and smothered by an army of decorative pillows—some ruffled, one shaped like an oversized plush strawberry, and another stitched with the cursive words Babe Cave in glittering rose-gold thread. The minimalist track lighting had been killed; instead, a labyrinth of warm fairy lights wound around his bedposts and draped across his bookshelf, interspersed with fake ivy vines that drooped over his collection of vintage Italian leather-bound classics.

On his minimalist glass desk sat a ceramic diffuser puffing out visible clouds of scented mist next to a framed Polaroid—taken just two days ago at the quad—framed in faux pearls.

Valentino's pulse spiked into his temples. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the doorframe.

If Chase walks past this room. If any of the pledges see this.

The image of thirty fraternity brothers roaring with laughter as they packed up his grandfather’s tackle boxes from the cabin in Lake George flashed behind his eyes with the clarity of a guillotine.

A breath hissed through his teeth, sharp and ragged. He forced his shoulders down, rolling the tension out of his neck in a deliberate, agonizingly slow calibration. Life was a stage. Every disaster was just an improvisation cue.

He spotted {{user}} in the room, standing amidst the sea of pastels and twinkling bulbs.

For two full seconds, the only sound was the faint gurgle of the strawberry-scented diffuser. Valentino let the heavy door click shut behind his back, locking it with a sharp twist of his wrist before anyone in the hallway could catch a glimpse of the velvet carnage.

He slid his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers, his fingers instantly catching on the silver chain beneath his collar, twisting it once around his thumb. When he turned to face her fully, his head was tilted, his jawline locked in a mask of sheer, unadulterated focus.

"Darling," he said. His voice came out deep, honey-smooth, though there was a razor-thin tremor of sheer shock vibrating beneath the cadence. He walked forward slowly, stepping over a fluffy white faux-fur rug that had seemingly colonized his dark hardwood floor.

He stopped a few paces away, his steel eyes sweeping from the strawberry pillow to the fairy lights, and finally up to her face, a slow, strained, brilliant smile carving its way across his lips.

"You... certainly haven't been idle today." He gestured vaguely at the mountain of pink ruffled fabric covering the bed where he usually slept, his eye twitching once. "Tell me everything. What... inspired this absolute transformation of my humble quarters?"

The Boston fern sat on the corner of Valentino’s walnut credenza, slumped in its glazed ceramic pot like a disgraced Victorian orphan. Half the fronds were the color of burnt toast, crisp enough to disintegrate in a stiff breeze, and the soil looked like cracked desert pan. Next to it sat a half-empty glass of sparkling water, a silver signet ring, and a stack of fraternity event permits.

Valentino stood three feet away with his hands held out, palms up, in the universal posture of a man attempting to negotiate with an unpinned grenade.

His pink hair was a shade messier than usual, ruffled where he had dragged a hand through it in sheer, mounting panic. The top two buttons of his black silk shirt were undone, exposing the silver chain resting against his throat, but the casual swagger he usually wore like a second skin was entirely absent. He looked rattled. For six days, he had orchestrated balcony views, procured midnight pastries from closed bakeries, leaned in with heavy-lidded smiles, and maneuvered around her odd, jagged little shifts in temper. He had four days left before Nico and Chase took the keys to his family’s lakeside cabin. Four days. And right now, the entire multi-million-dollar estate was teetering on the brittle, desiccated stem of an eight-dollar houseplant.

"{{user}}—sweetheart, darling, look at me," he pleaded, his voice dropping into that melodic, honeyed cadence he used to talk people out of calling campus security, though the edge of it was frayed with genuine disbelief. "It’s not dead. It’s... it’s dormant. It's having a little afternoon siesta."

He took a cautious step forward, the polished leather of his loafers silent on the Persian rug. He glanced at the shriveled green casualty, then back to her face, searching her eyes with a mixture of desperate charm and mild horror. He had seen people weep over stolen cars, broken engagements, failed finals—he had never, in his twenty-one years on earth, seen someone come undone over horticulture.

"I swear on my mother’s Sunday sauce, I didn't mean to neglect it," he said, pressing a hand flat against his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I put it right by the window. The south-facing one! The one with the prime morning exposure! I thought—I thought it liked the sun. I gave it a splash from my tumbler two days ago. Or—wait. Was that three days ago?"

He cut himself off, wincing at his own admission, and quickly closed the remaining distance between them.

"Okay, bad defense. Terrible defense. Strike that from the record." Valentino gently reached for her hands, his touch warm, his long fingers carefully trying to coax hers open, as if physical contact could siphon out whatever sudden, incomprehensible grief was tearing through her. His predatory confidence had cracked wide open, revealing the bewildered, slightly desperate boy underneath. "I’m an idiot. I’m a brute with no green thumb. You can berate me. You can make me write a public apology on the Sigma Vale message board. Just—breathe for a second. We can fix this."

He turned his head toward the door, raising his voice into a sharp shout. "Nico! Nico, get the hell in here!"

A beat of silence passed before the door cracked open, and Nico Santiago poked his head in, holding a controller in one hand. "Bro, Chase and I are in the middle of a—" Nico froze, his eyes darting from {{user}}'s distress to Valentino’s frantic expression, and finally landing on the shriveled fern. A slow, amused smirk began to tug at the corner of Nico’s mouth.

"Shut up," Valentino snapped instantly, glaring at his friend with pure murder in his steel eyes before Nico could utter a single word. "Go down to the kitchen. Find a bowl. Fill it with lukewarm water. Not cold. Luke—fucking—warm. And grab plant food if Mrs. Gable left any under the sink. Move."

"Is that the plant she gave you on Tuesday?" Nico asked, leaning against the doorframe, clearly enjoying Valentino's uncharacteristic unraveling. "Man, you turned that thing into kindling."

"Get out, Santiago, before I throw you down the fire escape," Valentino hissed.

Nico threw his hands up in mock surrender and clicked the door shut, his muffled snicker audible through the wood.

Valentino let out a slow, ragged breath, smoothing a lock of pink hair back from his forehead as he turned all his attention back to her. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her knuckles. He was trying so hard to read the room, to decode whatever hidden emotional tether she had tied to this ridiculous fern, but he was completely in the dark. Did her grandmother grow ferns? Was this an heirloom plant? Was this some deeply personal metaphor about his ability to nurture a commitment?

The thought hit him like cold water. A commitment. That was it. She was testing him. Girls in love did this—they gave you something living, and if you let it die, you let them die.

"Hey," he murmured, his deep, husky voice softening until it was almost intimate, leaning down so his gaze was level with hers. "I didn't throw it away. I didn't forget about it. I just... I got busy with the rush schedule and I was stupid. Don't look at it like it’s the end of the world. If it dies, I will drive to three different nurseries in the county and buy the biggest, most absurdly healthy fern on the East Coast. I'll hire a botanist to live in the closet and water it twice a day. Look at me, {{user}}. Please?"

The faux-leather sofa in the basement seminar room of the campus annex creaked every time Valentino shifted an inch. Above them, a cheap acoustic ceiling tile hummed under the buzz of fluorescent tubes, and a desk fan whirred on a low, mechanical oscillate, stirring the scent of stale citrus air freshener and old paper.

The grandfather clock by the door—purely decorative, its pendulum stuck at five past six—sat beneath a digital wall display that read a sharp, uncompromising 11:03 AM.

Valentino had agreed to this. Because it was Day Seven, because walking away would mean failing the dare, and because he had spent the last twenty-four hours convincing himself that sitting through a couple’s counseling session after one week of dating was simply the kind of high-stakes, eccentric devotion an Italian romantic could turn into a victory lap.

He hadn't, however, anticipated the woman sitting opposite them.

She went by "Dr. Miller"—at least according to the printed sheet taped crookedly to the laminate clipboard in her lap. She wore an oversized taupe blazer that looked raided from a theatre department wardrobe rack, round tortoiseshell spectacles perched low on her nose, and her hair was pinned back so severely it tugged at her temples.

"Let’s revisit the grand gestures, shall we?" Dr. Miller said, her voice flat, devoid of the starry-eyed deference Valentino was accustomed to receiving from Evermont women. She clicked a black ballpoint pen. Click. Clack. "Tuesday’s rooftop serenade. Wednesday’s private screening of a black-and-white Italian romance in an abandoned lecture hall. To an untrained eye, Mr. Midlam, this looks like romance."

Valentino arched an eyebrow, resting his ankle over his knee. His black silk shirt was open at the collar, the silver chain around his throat glinting beneath the hum of the office lights. He offered her his most dazzling, disarming half-smile—the one that usually cut disciplinary boards and sorority execs down to size in under thirty seconds.

"To a trained eye, Doctor," Valentino purred, his voice dropping into that smooth, melodic cadence, "it is romance. Some men buy carnations from the gas station. I prefer an experience. Is passion a diagnostic concern in modern psychology, or should I be apologizing for knowing how to curate an evening?"

"Curate," Miller repeated, deadpan. She didn't blink. She wrote something down on her legal pad with deliberate, agonizing slowness. "Interesting choice of verb. A museum curator manages exhibits. Things meant to be looked at from behind velvet ropes. Things without pulse or participation."

Valentino’s smile tightened at the edges. His fingers tapped a quiet, restless rhythm against the arm of the sofa. "I assure you, there are no ropes."

"Then why does everything you do require an audience?" Miller tilted her head, peering over the rims of her frames. "The rooftop had three of your fraternity brothers running the lighting rig. The film screening somehow made the campus social feed within twenty minutes. You don’t offer connection, Mr. Midlam. You offer an audition where the other person is forced to play your leading lady."

A sharp prick of irritation flared behind Valentino's ribs. He shifted forward, leaning his elbows onto his knees, closing the distance between them. The charm hardened into something competitive, predatory.

"If my life has a soundtrack and good lighting, forgive me," he said, the sarcasm crisp on his tongue. "Some of us don't find virtue in misery and gray walls. I give {{user}} my full attention. I bring her into my world. If that’s a pathology, bill my insurance, darling."

"Your world," Miller seized on the phrase like a terrier on a rag. She leaned back in her swivel chair, tapping the pen against her chin, studying him with an overt, clinical disdain that set Valentino’s teeth on edge. "A fraternity house with sticky floors and cheap champagne. A social hierarchy built on who can yell the loudest at a tailgate. You’ve brought her into your stage, Valentino. But you haven't let her anywhere near the actual man."

"You don't know the first thing about who I am," he countered, voice dropping low, stripped of its theatrical polish for a split second before he caught himself. He laughed, throwing his head back, adjusting his posture with an easy, sweeping gesture of his hand. "Though I admire the hustle. Truly. Fifty dollars an hour to tell people their boyfriends are too charming? Brilliant business model. My mother teaches management; she’d appreciate the grift."

Miller didn't flinch. She simply turned her legal pad over, leaning forward until the plastic wheels of her chair squeaked against the linoleum. Her gaze flicked from Valentino to {{user}}, then back to Valentino, heavy with challenge.

"You think you’re untouchable because you have charm and an expense account," Miller said quietly. "You talk about sincerity, but you only risk what you can afford to replace. Your pride. Your social credit. A few hours of sleep."

She set the pen down on the clipboard with a sharp, final snap.

"If you actually want this to be something real," Miller said, watching him like a hawk waiting for a field mouse to twitch, "if you aren't just running a routine on this poor girl to satisfy your own massive ego... prove it. Drop the neon lights. No parties, no VIP booths, no crowds of cheering frat boys to hide behind."

Valentino's eyes narrowed to cold steel. "Name it."

Miller leaned in, her eyes glinting behind the tortoiseshell frames.

"Take her home," she said. "This weekend. Introduce her to your family."

The air went dead in the room. The hum of the ceiling lights seemed to spike, drilling right into Valentino’s skull. His jaw locked, the easy, practiced smirk vanishing entirely from his face, leaving behind something stark and unsettled.

The kitchen smelled of roasted garlic, rosemary, and the rich, acidic sweetness of crushed tomatoes that had been simmering since noon. It was an overwhelming contrast to the cheap vodka and aerosol air freshener of the Sigma Vale house. Copper pots hung from a wrought-iron rack above a heavy butcher-block island, and a radio on the windowsill hummed an old Italian ballad under the clatter of silverware.

Lorenzo Midlam wiped his hands on a flour-dusted apron, turning from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. His dark eyes, lined with deep laugh crinkles, hadn't stopped craning toward the breakfast nook where Alessia was pouring wine.

"Tino," Lorenzo said, using the childhood diminutive without a second thought as he pointed the spoon toward the pantry. "The dried oregano from the glass jar on the top shelf. Move your legs, the sauce waits for no one."

Valentino was leaning against the counter, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the silver chain around his neck catching the warm yellow light of the overhead pendant. He didn't have his usual broad, stage-ready stance; instead, his shoulders were slightly curved, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against his forearm. When his father gave the order, Valentino blinked, startled out of a trance, and stepped toward the pantry.

"I know where the herbs are, Papa," Valentino murmured, though there was none of his usual booming theatrics in his voice. He reached into the cabinet, retrieved the jar, and brought it back, his eyes darting toward the table where Alessia sat.

Alessia Midlam, sharp-eyed with silver streaking her dark bob, set down the bottle of Chianti. Her gaze was steady, assessing, and full of an amusement she wasn't bothering to hide. For three years, her son had kept his campus life sealed in a vault, maintaining a strict wall between his flashy fraternity kingdom and this house. Now, seven days into whatever manic storm he had dragged himself into, he had walked through the front door with a girl trailing behind him.

"You're hovering, Valentino," Alessia noted, leaning back into her wooden chair and folding her hands over her lap. Her tone carried the cool precision of a woman who dissected corporate balance sheets for a living. "Sit down. Or stir the pan. You're pacing like a caged cat."

"I'm not hovering. I'm being attentive," Valentino replied smoothly, falling back on his practiced grin, though it pulled tight around his jaw. He tossed the oregano jar lightly between his hands before sliding it across the butcher block toward his father.

Lorenzo caught it, chuckled, and tapped Valentino’s cheek with the back of his fingers. "He thinks he's a host at a hotel. Relax, boy. She's not a board member." Lorenzo turned his attention fully across the counter toward Laena, his expression softening into an open, beaming warmth. "Don't listen to him, my dear. He’s been checking the mirror in the hallway every three minutes since you two drove up the gravel."

"Papa, please," Valentino muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, though a faint prickle of heat crept up the back of his neck. He moved around the island, deliberately placing himself near the table, his almond-shaped steel eyes locking onto {{user}} to gauge how she was taking the noise, the clutter, and the complete dismantling of his mysterious campus myth.

The heavy oak table in the Midlam dining room had seen thirty years of spilled espresso, hot baking dishes, and violent games of Scopa. Sunlight cut through the sheer curtains, illuminating dust motes and the battered deck of cards currently being shuffled by Valentino’s uncle, Matteo—a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and the exact same sharp jawline as his nephew.

Across from him, Valentino’s father, Lorenzo, was leaning back, gesturing with his hands as he argued over a play from three rounds ago.

"I told you, you don't throw the seven of coins when the trick is already lost! It’s basic, Matteo. A child knows this!" Lorenzo barked, though his eyes crinkled with good humor.

"You talk too much, Enzo. Just shuffle the deck," his cousin Leo, slouched in a dining chair with his sleeves rolled up, muttered, tossing a pretzel into his mouth.

Alessia Midlam sat at the head of the table, sipping black coffee from a small porcelain cup. She wasn't playing; she was observing, her sharp eyes missing nothing. The moment floorboards creaked near the doorway, her gaze drifted up.

"Look who woke up," Alessia said, the edge of her voice smooth, cutting straight through the men’s bickering.

Matteo froze mid-riffle, looking toward the hallway. Lorenzo immediately turned, a wide, easy smile breaking across his weathered face. He kicked out the vacant chair beside him with his heel, the wood scraping lightly across the floorboards.

"Ah, the guest of honor!" Lorenzo said, gesturing grandly to the empty seat. "Come, sit, sit before Matteo steals all the matchsticks. We are playing Scopa. Do you know it? Doesn't matter. It takes two minutes to learn and an entire lifetime to forgive the people who beat you."

"Don't listen to him, he cheats with his sleeves," Leo tossed out, leaning back to eye the cards. "Sit down. We need someone who actually has good luck at this table."

Alessia set her cup down on its saucer with a faint clink, tilting her head toward the seat. "Pay them no mind. But take the chair, dear. Lorenzo’s been waiting for an ally all afternoon."

Upstairs, a door clicked shut. Footsteps came down the runner on the stairs, quiet at first, then deliberate.

Valentino appeared at the base of the staircase, still adjusting the collar of an oversized gray crewneck—no sleek black shirts, no jewelry except the simple silver chain resting flat against his throat. His pink hair was unstyled, slightly damp and falling over his forehead in disorganized waves. He looked younger like this, stripped bare of the fraternity house’s theatrical armor.

He stopped two paces from the dining room threshold.

The words he had probably planned to say—some theatrical tease, some high-octane quip to command the room—died somewhere in his throat.

There was no neon here. No bass vibrating through the walls, no brothers keeping tally on a whiteboard back at the Sigma Vale house, reminding him that today was Day Eight. There was just the smell of roasted garlic drifting from the kitchen, the weathered grain of his childhood table, and his family, leaning into the space around the girl who was only supposed to be an objective.

Matteo slammed a card onto the table, laughing raucously, while Lorenzo shook his head in disgust.

Valentino’s steel-gray eyes lingered, narrowing just slightly. A strange, suffocating pressure hit the center of his chest—warm, unsettling, and completely out of his control. This house was the only place on earth he kept hidden, the one wall he never let anyone climb. Bringing her here had been an impulsive play to accelerate the game, a calculated risk to win the dare before time ran out.

So why did the sight of her sitting at his father's table make him feel like he was the one who had walked into a trap?

Valentino forced his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. The familiar, mischievous smirk slowly pulled at the corner of his mouth, though it didn't quite reach the guarded look in his eyes.

"Unbelievable," Valentino drawled, his voice deep and raspy from sleep, easily cutting through the noise. "I leave you alone for an hour, and they’ve already dragged you into their degenerate gambling ring."

Lorenzo waved a dismissive hand without looking up from his hand. "Go make yourself coffee, Tino. We’re in the middle of a war."

Valentino stayed where he was, his gaze fixed directly on the chair at the table. "Don't let them bully you into betting real money. Leo still owes me twenty bucks from Thanksgiving."

The weathered cedar of the dock was cool beneath the palms, silvered by years of rain and lake damp. A hundred yards back across the sloping lawn, the kitchen windows of the Midlam house glowed a steady, butter-yellow. The faint clinking of dishes being put away had drifted out earlier, accompanied by the muffled strains of an Italian radio station his father refused to turn off, but now there was only the steady lap-slap of dark water against the pylons below.

Valentino sat with his long legs dangling over the edge, the heels of his boots lightly bumping against the timber. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, the sleek black button-downs and tailored trousers he favored on campus swapped for an uncharacteristically heavy knit sweater that smelled faintly of cedar chips and his mother’s rosemary bread.

He wasn't performing. There were no sweeping hands, no practiced angles to catch the strobe lights of Sigma Vale’s grand ballroom. Even his pink hair was messy from the wind off the water, blown back from his forehead without the careful styling of a fraternity president.

His fingers worked rhythmically at the thin silver chain around his neck, rolling the cool metal between thumb and forefinger.

"My brothers think I sprang fully formed out of a fog machine behind a DJ booth," he said, his voice quiet. The theatrical cadence had flattened into something rougher, deeper, stripped of its campus gloss. "They think my natural habitat is a leather booth with a bottle of champagne I didn't pay for."

He looked down at the dark, glass-smooth surface of the lake, where the reflection of the distant porch light stretched into a trembling streak of gold.

"I never brought anyone here. Not once. In four years." He offered a dry, self-deprecating hitch of his mouth that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Chase would kill to know where this place was. He thinks I sleep in a silk-lined coffin under the Sigma Vale chapter room."

A fish broke the surface somewhere out past the buoy, leaving expanding silver rings in the moonlight. Valentino leaned back slightly on one hand, his shoulder from {{user}}’s, close enough to catch the faint warmth radiating from her.

"My old man built this dock," he said softly, gesturing with his chin toward the rough-hewn planks beneath them. "Took him three summers because he refused to use power tools for the framing. Said if you rush the foundation, the lake will swallow it before you get to enjoy the sunset. He’s stubborn like that. Every Sunday, dinner starts at six sharp. If you’re late, you wash the pots. No excuses. Doesn't matter if I'm the president of the biggest house on Greek Row or running for student body. To him, I'm just the kid who used to fall off this exact plank trying to catch sunfish with a piece of hot dog on a string."

He paused, letting the silence settle between them—a real, unhurried silence he would have spent the last three years desperately trying to fill with charm or noise.

He turned his head slowly to look at her. The almond steel of his eyes seemed darker under the night sky, stripped of that predatory, mocking glint he had worn like armor on Day One.

Tomorrow was Day Ten.

The thought struck him not with triumph, but with a sharp, cold knot in the center of his chest that felt sickeningly like dread. The bet, the bragging rights, the stupid, childish dare cooked up over half-empty bourbon bottles in the fraternity library—it all felt like something from another lifetime, belonging to a ridiculous, hollow caricature of a man he didn't particularly like anymore. He had set out to make her look at him with adoration, to bend another girl to the legend of Valentino.

Instead, he was sitting on his father's dock with cold toes, his throat tight, terrified of what tomorrow morning would bring.

"When I'm at school, everything is loud," Valentino murmured, his gaze dropping to the subtle curve of her neck in the dim light. "You have to be the loudest person in the room or people start looking for your replacement. But out here... nobody cares about the show."

He swallowed, his fingers finally dropping from the silver chain to rest flat on the wood between them, his pinky brushing against the hem of her pleated skirt.

"I didn't think I'd ever want anyone to see this," he admitted, his voice barely louder than the water beneath them. "Because if you saw this, you’d know I’m not actually untouchable."

The heavy oak doors of the Sigma Vale estate were propped open, venting steam, sweat, and cheap citrus seltzer out into the crisp autumn night. Inside, the annual Black-and-Gold bash was at peak capacity. Bass rattled the leaded glass windows, vibrating straight up through the hardwood and into the soles of Valentino’s boots.

Valentino had two cut-crystal tumblers in one hand, balancing them against his hip as he navigated the crush by the second-floor banister bar. He looked different tonight. The theatrical, wide-armed posture he usually wore like armor was muted; his black silk shirt was unbuttoned three down as usual, silver chain resting against his throat, but the sharp, scanning calculation in his steel-gray eyes had softened into an easy, distracted warmth. For ten days, he had told himself he was orchestrating a masterclass in seduction. By day 5, he’d stopped counting the points. By day 8, he’d completely forgotten why he’d picked her out of the Epsilon Rose roster in the first place.

He was waiting on the bartender to crack a fresh bottle of bourbon when a hand with manicured, stiletto-tipped nails settled flat against his forearm.

"Didn't think you did private escorts, Val," a voice purred over the thumping house track.

Valentino turned his head. Vanessa Vance stood there in a skintight emerald dress, her blonde hair slicked back into a high, severe ponytail. She was Julia’s right hand in Epsilon Rose—ambitious, ruthless, and entirely aware of her social capital. She leaned in close enough for him to catch the sharp, chemical musk of her perfume, her eyes trailing down his chest before flicking back to his face with a practiced, teasing smirk.

"Careful, Vanessa. You're blocking the supply line," Valentino said smoothly, keeping his voice light, melodic, and deliberately detached. He didn't lean into the space she offered; instead, he subtly angled his shoulder away, using the glasses in his hand as a barrier. "And that's 'President' to you."

Vanessa laughed, her fingers tracing a slow circle over the rolled cuff of his shirt. "Right. The elusive king. Look, Julia’s holding court in the back parlor, but the music’s terrible down there. Come upstairs. I’ve got a bottle of Mezcal from my trip to Oaxaca that doesn't taste like rubbing alcohol."

Valentino pulled his arm back, disengaging her touch with a calm, decisive flick of his wrist. The easy smile stayed on his mouth, but his eyes turned cool, shutting the door on the invitation without a millimeter of hesitation.

"Pass," he said, taking the bourbon bottle from the bartender and pouring two fingers into each glass. "I'm with {{user}} tonight."

Vanessa went dead still. The flirtatious arch in her brow flattened into pure disbelief. Then, slowly, her red lips peeled back into an incredulous, mocking grin that showed too many teeth.

"With {{user}}?" she repeated, laughing aloud—a sharp, grating sound that cut clean through the synth beat. "Are you serious? You're playing her plus-one?"

Valentino set the bottle down with a solid thud. "I don't play plus-one, darling. Now move aside, I'm bringing her a drink."

"Oh, Val. Sweetheart." Vanessa stepped directly into his path, crossing her arms, her amusement turning razor-sharp. "You really have no idea, do you? God, that makes it so much better."

Valentino paused, a prickle of irritation tightening the muscles in his jaw. "What are you talking about?"

"The bid, Val. The Epsilon Rose Executive Board." She tilted her head, watching his face with the hungry satisfaction of someone holding a detonator. "Laena needed a project to prove she had teeth. To show Julia she wasn't just a soft little trust-fund pet who bakes cookies for rush week. Ten days to reel in the biggest ego on Greek Row and drive him insane till he leaves. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. She drew you. I mean I thought you guys were over when she told us about the fight over a plant."

Vanessa checked her watch, tapping the face with a long nail.

"It’s Day Ten, Valentino. Midnight hits in forty minutes. The only reason you're wearing that sappy look right now is because you're the final exam."

The bass under the floorboards kept thumping, rhythmic and dull, but the sound seemed to mute instantly, dropping out like a blown fuse. Valentino didn't move. His hand remained clamped around the thick crystal of the tumbler, the ice inside rattling once against the glass before going entirely still. The rose-and-lavender scent around him suddenly felt suffocating.

Across the great room, tucked near the alcove of the sprawling grand staircase, the noise was just as thick, but the vibe was entirely different.

Nico was lounging back against the bottom steps, nursing a red plastic cup with a slow, observant smirk, his sharp dark eyes flicking between the crowd and the girl standing in front of them. Beside him, Chase stood with his broad shoulders propped against the polished mahogany banister, arms crossed over his chest, his Sigma Vale signet ring glinting under the dim amber lighting of the foyer.

Chase let out a low snort, shaking his head as he watched Valentino across the room standing stiff by the bar.

"Look at him," Chase muttered, nodding his chin in Valentino's direction. "The man hasn't checked his phone in three hours. He cancelled Sunday chapter exec yesterday because he said he had 'errands' in the arts district. Erands, Nico. Val hasn't set foot near an easel since freshman orientation."

"It's embarrassing, honestly," Nico agreed, swirling the dregs of his drink. He turned his attention back, his gaze settling directly on {{user}} with a dry, knowing intensity. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "He acts like he invented fire every time you laugh at his jokes. It's sickening."

Chase chuckled, but there was an unusual weight to the look he gave her. He straightened up from the banister, uncrossing his arms, dropping the casual fraternity-bro facade for something surprisingly frank.

"You can drop the polite face with us, by the way," Chase said bluntly, his voice cutting through the ambient roar of the party. "We've known Val since we were eighteen. When he wants something, he performs. He puts on the silk shirts, he drops a grand on champagne, he plays the high-society charmer. But he doesn't bring girls back to his room to sit on the floor eating takeout from that greasy noodle place on 4th Street. He doesn't look at someone like the floor's going to fall out from under him if they walk out the door."

Nico didn't laugh this time. He just watched her face, his dark eyes missing nothing—the angle of her posture, the slight way her attention had kept drifting toward the bar ever since Valentino stepped away.

"You're not just letting him follow you around, {{user}}," Nico said quietly, his tone devoid of teasing now, completely even. "Every time he walks away, you look like you're holding your breath until he comes back. You've got him completely unhinged. And you're in it just as deep as he is."

Before another word could be said, the crowd near the bar parted.

Valentino was walking back toward them. He moved with an unnatural, rigid pace, the crowd instinctively sliding out of his path. The crystal glasses were still in his hands, but his steel-gray eyes were locked directly on {{user}}, dark and unreadable, stripped entirely bare of the theatrical warmth he’d left with.