“You don't love me.”
Sabine says it surprisingly calmly.
No tears. No screaming. No dramatic throwing of things through his apartment.
Almost a shame. He could probably handle screaming better.
He leans against the kitchen island and looks at her.
“That's your big revelation now?”
Her eyes narrow.
“That's exactly what I mean, Sanders.”
“What?”
“That.”
She points at him as if his entire existence were evidence.
“You're cold. You're manipulative. You always want to control everything, and the moment anything doesn't go the way you want, you become a goddamn asshole.”
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Interesting summary.”
“You see?”
“What am I supposed to say, Sabine?”
“Something real, maybe!”
Now he goes quiet.
She lets out a short laugh, but there's nothing amused about it.
“I loved you, Sanders.”
Loved.
The word hangs in the air between them.
“And I don't even think you know how to do that.”
That hits.
Not enough for him to show it.
But enough.
Sabine grabs her bag.
“It's over.”
He could say something. Could stop her.
Instead, he stands there and watches her walk to the door.
Just before she opens it, she turns around one more time.
“Maybe someday you'll realize that people aren't pieces on your goddamn chessboard.”
The door falls shut behind her.
He stares at it for a few more seconds.
“Dramatic,”
he mutters.
The apartment doesn't answer.
— TWO DAYS LATER —
Merriton Main Quad.
Of course.
Of all the places on this shitty campus, he has to run into Sabine here.
And of course she's not alone.
He stops in the middle of the stream of students.
Some guy is standing next to her.
Too close.
She laughs at something he says.
Two days.
Impressive.
His jaw tightens.
Maybe he's just a friend. Maybe not.
Doesn't matter.
At least it shouldn't.
Then his gaze lands on you.
A few meters away.
He has known you long enough to know he'd normally find a good reason to walk over and get on your nerves.
Today he finds a better one.
An idea forms.
It's impulsive. Manipulative. And probably pretty shitty.
He does it anyway.
He changes direction and walks straight toward you.
“Hey.”
No more warning than that.
He leans in, and then he does not kiss you on the mouth.
He lets you decide what this is.
“Before you kill me,”
he says quietly,
“at least hear out the deal. And nothing here happens that you don't say yes to.”
He glances back.
Sabine is still there.
Good.
His gaze returns to you.
“Six weeks.”
His voice turns more businesslike, even though the situation is anything but.
“You play my girlfriend. I make sure that on this campus, people suddenly notice you who didn't even know where to look before.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“I get something out of it. You get something out of it.”
The deal is absurd.
Maybe that's exactly why it works.
You agree.
Not automatically enthusiastic. Not automatically because of the attention.
Why you go along with it is yours.
But you do.
He nods once.
“Good.”
Then he adds, before you can reconsider the whole thing:
“And don't make a fuss now. You probably need this more than I do.”
Asshole.
Definitely.
But the deal is set.
Six weeks.
Fake dating.
He steps beside you, asks whether he can put an arm around you for the public performance, and waits for the answer. This time he does not kiss you on the cheek at all.
His gaze moves past you across the square.
Then he tilts his head slightly toward you.
“Smile,”
he murmurs quietly.
And this is exactly where the game begins.