Chapter 10
1291 Words
~Caspian~
The phantom warmth of Darren’s lips against mine refused to leave my skin.
Even as I sat in the silent, cold back seat of my father’s town car, my hand kept drifting up toward my collar, my thumb lightly touching my lower lip.
“We aren't backing down,” he had said. His voice hadn't trembled. His grip on my shirt had been fierce, pulling me out of my structured, clinical mind and grounding me in the present moment.
For my entire life, every interaction was a transaction. My father calculated people by their leverage; my peers judged me by my family’s name; my instructors treated me like a pristine trophy for the university’s reputation. But Darren didn't care about leverage, name, or reputation. When he kissed me in that narrow, quiet study room, he wasn't taking anything from me.
He was giving me permission to exist.
My phone chimed in my lap. I picked it up, expecting another furious string of memos from my father’s public relations team.
Instead, it was an encrypted notification from our shared university server:
System Notice: Thesis_Final_Draft_Vance_Darren.pdf has been formally flagged for review by the Department Head following public media inquiries.
I opened the document log. Beneath the system flag, Darren’s active green dot was still glowing on the screen. He was awake, likely sitting on his worn bed in his cramped apartment after a late shift, monitoring the file just as obsessively as I was.
I tapped the text field in the document margin:
Caspian: The department head has flagged the submission. It will trigger an administrative hearing before the board of regents on Monday.
Darren: Good. That means they can't delete it off the server without a formal vote. We bought ourselves three days.
Caspian: My father will attempt to pressure the Dean over the weekend to suppress the hearing.
Darren: Let him try. I backed up the raw data onto three separate drives and emailed a copy to the student newspaper editor. If your dad buries the university report, the local paper prints the whole thing on Tuesday morning.
A breathless, quiet laugh escaped me into the darkened sedan.
He had covered the flanks before I had even thought to structure a legal defense. Darren didn't play by corporate rules; he played like someone who had spent his whole life navigating a system stacked against him. He didn't build defenses—he laid traps.
Caspian: You are thoroughly dangerous, Darren.
Darren: I'm practical, Golden Boy. Go to sleep. You look like a ghost when you don't get eight hours.
Caspian: I am currently in transit. I will sleep when the hearing is secured.
Darren: ...Fine. Text me when you get to your apartment. Just so I know your old man didn't throw you in corporate prison.
I stared at his words, a deep, steady warmth spreading through my chest.
Caspian: I will.
The penthouse apartment was dark when I stepped inside, the city lights reflecting off the marble floors like cold, distant stars.
I unbuttoned my collar, setting my glasses on the kitchen island, and pulled my phone out to send the
text.
Caspian: I have arrived safely.
The typing bubble appeared instantly, as if he had been holding his phone in his hand waiting for the chime.
Darren: Good. Now lock your doors and sleep. I have an early shift at the coffee shop tomorrow.
I stood in the center of my silent, immaculate kitchen. The apartment felt vast, sterile, and suffocatingly empty. For months, this silence had been my comfort—a sanctuary away from my father’s booming presence and the endless demands of the Vance-Vane legacy.
Tonight, the silence felt like an enemy.
I picked up my phone and dialed his number directly.
He picked up on the second ring. "Caspian? Is everything okay? Did your dad—"
"Everything is fine," I cut in softly, my voice echoing slightly off the high ceiling.
A pause stretched over the line. I could hear the faint, ambient sound of a ticking clock in his room, the distant rumble of city traffic outside his window, and the soft, rhythmic sound of his breath.
"Then why are you calling at one in the morning?" Darren asked, his tone dropping from sharp alarm into something lower, gentler.
"My apartment is very quiet," I admitted quietly. It was a rare, vulnerable truth, stripped of any corporate polish.
On the other end of the line, I heard the rustle of bedsheets as Darren adjusted his position. "Yeah. Big fancy penthouse gets lonely when you aren't filling it with financial charts, huh?"
"It appears so," I murmured, walking over to the window and resting my hand against the cool glass. "I am unaccustomed to... stillness after a conflict."
"That's because your whole life is a battleground, Caspian," Darren said softly. "You're always waiting for the next attack."
"And you aren't?" I countered gently.
Darren let out a short, dry breath. "Fair point. But right now? We won the first round. Your dad is scrambling, the paper is safe, and we're still standing. Take the win, Golden Boy."
"I am not used to taking wins," I said, looking down at my reflection in the dark glass. "I am used to calculating risks."
"Then calculate this," Darren said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet murmur that felt like a physical touch against my ear. "In about five hours, I have to drag myself out of bed, put on a stupid black apron, and make drinks for angry morning commuters. But tonight, I'm lying here thinking about how you looked when you kissed me in that study room."
My throat went dry. My grip on the phone tightened. "Darren..."
"I'm serious," Darren continued, his tone carrying that raw, unvarnished honesty that always disarmed me. "You spent three weeks looking at me like I was a problem you had to solve. But when you pulled me in... you didn't look like an heir. You just looked like a guy who was tired of hiding."
I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
"I am tired of hiding," I whispered into the quiet room.
"Then don't," Darren replied firmly. "Not with me."
Silence settled over the line again, but this time, it wasn't heavy or cold. It was full, warm, and comforting.
"Stay on the line," I said softly, stepping away from the window and walking toward my bedroom. "Until you fall asleep."
I heard a soft chuckle from his side. "You're soft, Vance. Underneath all that wool and posture, you're just soft."
"I am pragmatic," I corrected, unbuttoning my shirt and sliding under the crisp sheets of my bed. "I am simply utilizing available audio resources to reduce environmental quiet."
"Riiiight," Darren drawled, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "Whatever you say, Boss."
We kept the line open. For the next twenty minutes, neither of us said much. I listened to the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing slow down as sleep finally claimed him, grounding me in a way my wealth and status never could.
For the first time in twenty-one years, as I closed my eyes in the dark, I didn't feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage.
I felt like a man preparing for a fight—and for once, I had everything to win.
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