ʀᴏɴᴀɴ ᴠᴀʟᴇ

The Vices Penthouse sat above Saint Marrow like a cathedral of glass and steel, its windows drinking in the city lights below as if they were offerings. The skyline reflected in the floor-to-ceiling panes—jagged, electric, merciless. Inside, the party was already burning at a low, dangerous heat. Music thumped like a pulse through speakers hidden in the marble walls, crystal glasses clinked, and laughter curled through the smoke of expensive cigars someone had lit on the balcony.

Ronan Vale was exactly where you expected him to be—leaning against the bar like a statue carved from stone and shadows, silent, commanding, and entirely untouchable. His penthouse might have been filled with people, but the gravity of the room bent toward him anyway, as if every guest had been drawn here to orbit his dark star.

Ronan was Saint Marrow’s most carefully kept myth: heir to the Vale fortune, which was old enough and vicious enough to own half the city’s coastline, a lineage written in courtrooms and blood. His father’s empire was shipping, steel, and ruthless litigation. His mother’s side had been senators and oil barons. Ronan was the sharpened product of both legacies—a boy raised with too much wealth, too much expectation, and far too little softness.

They called him “the Winter Prince” when they thought he couldn’t hear, a nickname whispered across dorm hallways and in the back rows of lecture halls. He dressed like winter too: black suits cut within an inch of severity, silver watch gleaming, hair always falling into his eyes as though he’d just stepped in from a storm. Ronan Vale was beautiful in the way that hurt to look at—angular, distant, ice carved into the shape of a boy. And he had perfected the art of never, ever letting anyone see past that frost.

Not even you. Especially not you.

You weren’t one of The Vices—not really. But by now, you’d been pulled into their circle so often you may as well have been. Adrian with his razor smile, Matteo with his charm that could talk a locked door into opening, Atticus with his endless disdain and perfectly tailored coats, Cruz with his dark gravity that matched your own, Julius with that grin that always promised trouble. They were Ronan’s closest allies and his worst influences, and they filled the penthouse with the kind of decadence that could only come from old money and too much boredom.

Tonight, they’d decided to play. Not cards, not roulette—those had grown stale. Tonight, the Vices had turned to the oldest and cruelest of games: spin the bottle, dressed up in the glittering language of truth or dare.

It started innocently, if such a thing could be said of them. Matteo spun first, dared Julius to kiss someone he shouldn’t. Adrian lied through his teeth during truth, smirking when everyone knew it. Atticus drank instead of answering anything personal. Cruz dared Matteo into something reckless and loud, and the circle roared with laughter.

And then the bottle pointed to you.

You felt the eyes of the room sharpen, all gleaming like knives in candlelight. The Vices loved bloodsport, and you? You’d always been their favorite to throw to the lions.

It was Julius who leaned forward first, grin flashing. “I’ve got one,” he drawled. “Something impossible.”

Matteo raised his brows. “Nothing’s impossible.”

“Oh, this will be.” Julius’s gaze slid, deliberate, toward Ronan, who hadn’t moved from his place by the bar. He hadn’t joined the circle, hadn’t so much as acknowledged the game. He stood apart, arms folded, profile cold against the city lights. “I dare you,” Julius said, turning back to you, “to make Ronan Vale flustered. You’ve got ten minutes.”

The room erupted—cheers, laughter, wicked speculation.

Your stomach flipped. Ronan didn’t fluster. He didn’t even blink out of turn. If Adrian was Saint Marrow’s wildfire, if Matteo was its storm, Ronan was the glacier no one could chip at. You’d argued with him, insulted him, tried to break through that wall of ice more times than you could count, but all you’d ever gotten was a slow glance, a colder silence, or the faintest curl of his lip when he knew he’d outmaneuvered you.

You glanced at him now, expecting him to wave it off, to ignore the dare entirely. But to your surprise, Ronan’s head tilted—just slightly. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met yours across the room. The corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“If they fail,” he said, voice like velvet pulled taut over a blade, “I win.”

“And what do you win?” Adrian asked, his tone almost amused.

Ronan finally pushed off the bar, straightening to his full, imposing height. His gaze never left yours. “Anything I want.”

The room hushed for a beat, as though even the city below was listening. Then laughter broke out again—raucous, delighted, anticipating carnage.

You forced yourself to breathe. Fine. Ten minutes. You weren’t about to lose to Ronan Vale. Not when the whole of Saint Marrow seemed to believe he was untouchable. Not when you’d been trading barbs and cold wars with him since the first day of term.