Ritual - Palm South University

Brandon pulls me into his side possessively. “Like I’d ever be stupid enough to let you slip out of my hands.”

My heart blooms in my chest as he stares down at me, and then — in front of our little group and for everyone else to see, too — he plants a gentle, adoring kiss on my lips.

Fucking swoon.

He jumps right back into the conversation, steering them toward the conference and how they could improve upon it, but I’m still floating on a cloud with that kiss reverberating through my body. Ever since the end of last semester when the truth about us came out, we haven’t had to hide our relationship — and being able to stand next to this man and proudly claim him, to have him claim me?

It’s the most powerful drug in the world.

I’m still trying to contain the butterflies in my ribcage when my gaze shifts to Sophie, and I’m a little surprised to find her staring back at me, a small smile curved on her ballerina-pink lips. She tilts her glass toward me in a nod of acknowledgement, and I do my best not to frown, offering her my this-isn’t-a-fake-smile-I-swear smile before I turn my attention to the current speaker in the group.

But Sophie keeps watching me, and when Brandon’s assistant comes up to usher him away from our group and to another anxiously waiting to speak with him, the rest of the executives disband, and Sophie stands closer to me, sipping from her champagne glass as we both survey the crowd.

“This event is wild, isn’t it?” she says after a moment, shaking her head as her bright eyes scan the crowd.

I hate those eyes, because they remind me so much of my own that I want to gouge them out of her head and claim copyright infringement. It pisses me off that her hair is the same platinum blonde as mine, that she has the same taste in high heels, and the same love for high fashion. Hell, we even look like we planned our similarities tonight, both of us dressed in sleek, form-fitting and short white dresses with heels that steal the show — mine being the dazzly Jimmy Choos, and hers the same Louboutins she was wearing the first day I saw her in Brandon’s office.

She looks incredible, sexy but professional.

And I loathe her for it.

“I can’t believe Brandon invited me to come,” she continues, a longing sigh leaving her chest. “I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

I growl low in my throat, though I’m praying it’s not loud enough that Sophie heard me. “Yes. Mr. Church is lovely in that respect,” I correct her subtly, reminding her that no one at work calls him Brandon — except for me. “He has such a big heart for charity.”

It’s a thinly veiled dig, but if Sophie notices it, she doesn’t let me know it.

Instead, she leans in closer, lowering her voice. “I know I won’t have much time alone with you tonight, since I’m sure you have so many people to see and talk to, but while I have you, I just have to say…”

And then, that conniving, sneaky little bitch wraps her silky palm around the inside of my elbow.

“The work you’ve done on the Bare•ly account?” She shakes her head in earnest, leveling her gaze with mine. “It is the most inspiring work I’ve seen done in any agency in the years I’ve been studying. I was wondering… I have this project I have to do for my cornerstone class on big moves in the industry, and I’d really love to spotlight you and that account in particular. It wouldn’t require much, just an interview and maybe some behind-the-scenes brainstorm notes, if you’d be willing to give me access. Just enough for me to put together a ten-minute presentation.”

Sophie pauses then, her hand slides down my arm, slowly, each fingernail making contact with my skin. Her eyes follow the gesture, her plump, smooth lips parted slightly, and when she glances back at me, there’s something hidden in her lash-covered gaze.

Chills and confusion wash over me in equal measure, and I’m suddenly shocked still, throat tightening with how intimate the touch is. We’re in a crowd full of people, but the way she’s looking at me, it feels like we’re miles and miles away.

“You’re just such an inspiration to me,” she explains, wrapping her hand around mine until our palms touch. She’s not holding my hand, but rather sliding her skin over mine, and she holds my fingertips with her own for just the briefest moment before withdrawing entirely. “It’d truly be an honor to work under you, to get an inside look of what makes you tick.”

If anyone were to ask me, I would never admit to my suspicion — but I swear her eyes flick to my lips, that there’s heat in her gaze when it finds me again, that the curl of her lips is alluding to more than just her desire to use me for a school project.