Chapter 11
The campus was still buzzing with the news of the Parston family's downfall and the miraculous recovery of Lyra's family fortune.
It had been three days since Remy delivered that USB drive, and the story had been seeded and exploded across social media and local news outlets.
Victor Parston had been arrested at the airport trying to flee to the Cayman Islands.
His father had resigned from the board of three companies.
The SEC had frozen their assets. It was a spectacular, public destruction that people would talk about for years.
But as Remy walked toward the arts building on Thursday afternoon, with his leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder, he felt a different kind of energy in the air, one that was calculated, predatory, and smelled of expensive perfume.
It was the feeling of being watched, being hunted, and being sized up as prey.
The air itself seemed to change as he approached the building's entrance.
Students parted like the Red Sea, creating a clear path that led directly to the marble steps where she stood waiting.
Indigo Sinclair.
The third member of the Trinity. The most dangerous of the school belles.
She was an upcoming model who'd already graced the covers of three regional fashion magazines and had been scouted by agencies in New York and Paris.
She stood five-foot-nine in bare feet, with an athletic, curvy body that seemed designed to drive men insane, long legs, perfect proportions, the kind of figure that made clothing designers weep with joy
But it was her colouring that made her truly unforgettable.
She had deep indigo eyes, an unusual shade that seemed almost purple in certain light, a genetic lottery winning that no contact lens could replicate.
Her hair was long and flowing, dyed a rich purple that complemented her eyes perfectly, cascading down her back in waves that moved like silk with every gesture.
She wore a crop top that showed off her toned midriff, designer jeans that fit like they'd been painted on, and heels that brought her to nearly six feet tall.
She was flanked by her usual entourage, five girls who lived to affirm her beauty, who laughed at her jokes before she finished telling them, who existed in her orbit like planets around a sun.
They were attractive in their own right, but next to Indigo, they might as well have been background extras.
"So, you're the one everyone is talking about," Indigo said, stepping forward with practised grace.
Every movement was calculated for maximum visual impact, the way her hair swung, the way her hips swayed, the slight arch of her back that emphasised her figure.
She'd been modelling since she was fourteen, and it showed in every gesture.
Her entourage giggled on cue, whispering to each other:
"He's even more handsome up close..."
"Look at those eyes..."
"Indigo's going to eat him alive..."
"You're handsome," Indigo continued, her voice a purr that she'd practised in front of a mirror a thousand times.
"Well-built..." Her eyes travelled deliberately down his body and back up, a visual assessment that was meant to make him feel both desired and objectified.
"And you have a certain mystery about you. I like mysteries."
She expected a reaction—the usual stammering, blushing, immediate infatuation that she got from every other man on campus.
She expected him to try to play it cool and fail.
She expected to see the moment his defences crumbled, the instant she hooked him like every other boy she'd decided to collect.
Remy stopped walking, but he didn't smile. He didn't blush.
His golden-amber eyes met her indigo ones with perfect calm, and thanks to his Foresight and the extensive rumours that had circulated through the halls, he knew exactly who she was.
Indigo Sinclair. Twenty years old. Psychology major with a minor in business.
Daughter of Thomas Sinclair, who owned a chain of luxury boutiques.
She had broken seventeen hearts in the past two years. He'd heard the exact number from multiple sources.
She prided herself on making boys obsessed with her, collecting their devotion like trophies, then discarding them publicly and cruelly once she got bored.
There were stories. A sophomore who'd transferred schools after she dumped him in front of the entire cafeteria.
A junior who'd failed all his classes because he'd spent every waking moment trying to win her back.
An athlete who'd quit the football team because seeing her at games was too painful.
To Indigo, men were not people. They were challenges to be conquered, toys to be played with, and validation for her beauty and power.
She kept a private Instagram with photos of every boy she'd broken, captioned with inside jokes that her friends understood, mockery disguised as memories.
She was, in many ways, everything Remy had learned to despise.
"I'm busy, Indigo," Remy said simply, his voice flat and uninterested. He began to walk past her, not around her, through the space she occupied, forcing her to step aside or be brushed against.
The entourage gasped in perfect unison, their mouths forming identical O's of shock.
"Did he just...."
"No one walks away from Indigo...."
"Is he gay? He must be gay...."
Indigo herself stood frozen for three full seconds, her brain struggling to process what had just happened.
No one had ever dismissed her so casually. No one had ever looked at her with such complete disinterest, like she was furniture that happened to be in his way.
Her pride took an immediate hit, a crack appearing in the perfect facade she'd constructed over years of constant validation.
But it only fueled her desire to break him, to add him to her collection. The challenge made it more interesting. The difficulty made the eventual conquest more satisfying.
She'd never wanted someone more.
Over the next week, Indigo launched a full-scale campaign to woo Remy Beaumont.
She appeared everywhere he went, each appearance carefully choreographed for maximum impact.
She showed up at his gym, Warrior's Path, the MMA place on the south side, dressed in expensive athletic wear that looked like it had never seen actual sweat.
She positioned herself on the treadmill next to his, running at a pace that made her chest bounce in ways that drew every male eye in the building.
Remy ignored her, focusing on his training with Coach Martinez, practising combinations until his knuckles ached.
"You know that girl's been staring at you for forty minutes straight?" Coach said during a water break. "The purple-haired one. She's fine as hell, son. You hitting that?"
"Not interested," Remy said simply.
"You sure you ain't gay? Because if you ain't interested in that, you might need to have a conversation with yourself."
Remy just smiled and went back to the heavy bag.
Indigo "accidentally" bumped into him in the cafeteria during lunch, spilling her drink, carefully chosen to not stain on both of them, giving her an excuse to touch his chest while apologising profusely.
"Oh my God, I'm so clumsy!" she exclaimed, her hands on his abs, looking up at him through her lashes. "Let me buy you lunch to make up for it?"
"No thanks," Remy said, grabbing napkins and cleaning himself off before walking away without a backwards glance.
She sat near him in the library, wearing a low-cut top and leaning forward whenever he might glance her way, her perfume, something called Poison by Dior, $250 a bottle, creating a cloud around her.
Remy packed up his books and moved to a different floor.
She joined the same Econ 301 class he had with Nyx and Lyra, even though it conflicted with her schedule, and she had to drop another course to make it work.
She sat in the front row, crossing and uncrossing her legs, playing with her hair, every gesture designed to draw his attention.
Remy looked through her as if she were made of glass, as if she were a projection that didn't actually exist in three-dimensional space.
Each rejection was more frustrating than the last. Each time he looked away, her need to break him intensified.
This wasn't how it was supposed to work. This wasn't how men were supposed to respond to her.
She was Indigo Sinclair. She was perfect. She was irresistible.
Except to him.
By Friday, she was desperate. Her friends had started to whisper quietly, carefully, but she heard them.
"Maybe he really is gay."Maybe he's just not that into you." "Maybe you're losing your touch."
Unacceptable. Impossible. She was Indigo Sinclair, and no man resisted her for long.
She needed to escalate. She needed to use her ultimate weapon.
Frustrated and desperate to regain her status, Indigo sent Remy a text from an unknown number on Friday evening.
She'd gotten his contact from a friend who'd hacked the student directory.
"Meet me in the arts building. Room 237. I need help with a project. Please? It's urgent."