Page 21 of Safe Place

“I don’t know. Low effort.” He tilts his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

Something about his tone makes my skin prickle. It’s so familiar.

I swallow, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed.

Carter moves closer, casual but intentional, hands in his pockets. “Let me pitch you something,” he says, like this is a business transaction. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every orgasm this semester. Yours. Mine. Doesn’t matter. As long as you put that pretty body of yours to good use, and maybe let me help you relax a little too. I’m very generous.”

He pauses, like he’s waiting for a laugh or a blush. I feel my face heat, but it’s not from embarrassment—it’s horror.

“I’m serious,” he continues. “You look like you could use the money. I mean, the sweatshirt? The cafe job? Now this? You’re clearly desperate. And I’m offering you a better deal. You can play tutor for the books, but have fun with me during the time and actually make money. Real money. Hell, I’ll even let you be on top if that helps you pretend you’re in control. I love a cowgirl.”

Every word feels like a blade. My hands are cold, my chest tight. He’s still talking.

“You don’t have to say anything now. Think it over,” he says. “I’ll let you collect your tutoring fee for the hour. Consider it a gift. But I’ll sweeten the deal if you’re smart enough to take it. It’s not just the money, Sophie. I’m really fucking good. You’ll enjoy it. Probably more than you’ll want to admit.”

He moves toward the door, but pauses—just long enough to twist the knife. “My family’s loaded. Just putting that out there. So I’d think twice before making a scene. You don’t want to go pissing off the wrong people.”

I can’t speak. Can’t move. I’m frozen in place, my pulse roaring in my ears.

He smirks over his shoulder, and looks at me up and down. “Oh, and I’m sure you’ll be smart enough not to mention this to your boyfriend—if he even is your boyfriend. That guy from the cafe? Please. I’m certain someone who looks as polished as he did isn’t going to be dating a basic girl like you.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I just sit there, frozen, my breath shallow. The room blurs at the edges. His voice still echoes. Just like my stepfather’s when he was drunk and circling. He used to trap me in corners, beer in hand, breath reeking of alcohol, eyes glazed over with something far worse. He’d chip away at me, slowly killing whatever confidence I managed to build. But then add something like you’re filling out or just a few more years and I can finally pop that sweet cherry.

Like I was some prize he was owed. Like my eighteenth birthday was his fucking green light.

That’s what this feels like. The same menace. And once again, I can’t move.

MICAH

I’m completely losing it. This girl—Sophie—is taking up way too much of my thoughts and time. There’s a stack of reports and documents waiting for me at home; all things I need to prep for my dad to prove I’m capable of handling the business. And yet, here I am, parked outside the student center.

I saw her running in earlier, backpack bouncing behind her like it weighed more than she did. It was almost endearing—no, it was endearing. She's not short, maybe around five four, but she always looks like she's sprinting from one thing to the next, like slowing down isn't an option. I catch myself making a mental note to ask if she's eaten today.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I watch as a guy walks into the building. And not just any guy—the creep who harassed Sophie at Boston Brews. My shoulders stiffen. It’s been a few weeks, but I don’t forget faces like his. Or how terrified Sophie looked that day. My instinct is to go in, right then and there, just to make sure he’s not pulling anything again.

But he’s back out less than five minutes later.

I don’t even know if Sophie would tell me if something was wrong—or if she’d seen him again. She’s really nothing like the other girls I know. To be fair, most of them fall into two categories: the casual kind who don’t ask for much beyond a night or two, or the polished, upper-crust girls my dad would love to see beside me—powerful last names, perfectly curated LinkedIns, already shopping for matching estate portfolios.

But Sophie is unpredictable. Real. She’s quiet but makes the inside of my head loud. She doesn’t like to make a scene. And I can’t stand not knowing what her deal is.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll through my phone and find Nico Raines’ contact. The guy’s our family’s unofficial fixer—private investigator, problem solver, maybe even cleaner, depending on who you ask. I don’t know all the details of what he does, and it’s probably better that way. I’m almost certain most of his real estate and yachts have been funded by The Vale Group over the years.

He picks up after three rings. “Micah. Everything alright?”

“Hey, Nico. Yeah, everything’s great. I was just hoping you could find some information on someone for me. Her name’s Sophie Lennox. She’s a sophomore at Westcliffe University. Works three jobs. I want to know what her deal is—her background, family, anything you can get, really.”

There’s a pause. “Is she a threat?”

“No. Not at all,” I say quickly. “She’s a friend. I want to help her. I just don’t know how. Not yet, at least.”

Another pause. Then, “Got it. I’ll see what I can find. And don’t worry. I’ll keep this quiet—between us.”