Throne of Sin

College Life

Eve Pov

The lecture hall smells like coffee and stress.

I sit three rows from the front in Strategic Business Management, my laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard as Professor Chen discusses market positioning and competitive advantage. Around me, students slouch in their seats, half-asleep or scrolling through their phones. But I'm locked in, absorbing every word.

This is my future. Every lecture, every assignment, every late-night study session—it's all building toward something real. Something mine.

"Ms. Hartley," Professor Chen says, and I glance up. "Your thoughts on the case study?"

I don't hesitate. "The company failed because they prioritized short-term profits over long-term brand loyalty. They cut costs in areas that directly impacted customer experience—quality control, customer service—and their reputation suffered. By the time they tried to course-correct, the damage was done."

Professor Chen nods, a slight smile on his face. "Exactly. Brand trust is everything. Once you lose it, it's nearly impossible to rebuild." He turns back to the projector. "Remember that when you're running your own businesses someday."

When, not if.

I like that.

The lecture ends at 11:45, and I pack up quickly, slinging my bag over my shoulder. My phone buzzes as I step into the hallway.

Marco: Lunch? I'm starving and I miss your face.

I smile despite myself.

Me: Library in 10?

Marco: Perfect. Bringing sandwiches.

Marco Castellano walked into my life six months ago like he belonged there. Charming, confident, with an easy smile that made me feel seen in a way I hadn't felt in years. He's a year older than me, finishing his degree in finance, and he comes from money—the kind of money that doesn't need to be discussed because it's just always there.

He doesn't know about The Vault. He thinks I work part-time at a high-end lounge serving drinks to wealthy clients. It's not exactly a lie, just... an edited version of the truth.

I find him at our usual spot in the library—a corner table near the windows overlooking the quad. He's already there, two wrapped sandwiches and two iced coffees laid out like an offering.

"You're a saint," I say, dropping into the chair across from him.

"I know." He grins, sliding a sandwich toward me. "Turkey and avocado, extra pickles, because you're a psychopath."

"Pickles are underrated."

"Pickles are a crime against nature."

I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite, groaning softly. "God, I needed this."

Marco watches me with that look—the one that makes my chest tighten in a way I'm still not used to. Like I'm the most interesting thing in the room. Like he actually gives a s**t.

"Long morning?" he asks.

"Chen's class. Market analysis case study. But I think I nailed it."

"Of course you did." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at me like I've just solved world hunger. "You're going to graduate top of the class, aren't you?"

"That's the plan."

"And then what? Open your own business?"

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "Something like that. Hospitality industry. High-end clientele. Exclusive services."

It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth.

Marco nods, impressed. "You're going to be incredible. I can already see it—Eve Hartley, CEO, running some luxury empire while I'm stuck in a cubicle crunching numbers for my uncle's company."

"Your uncle's company is a multi-million dollar enterprise. I don't think you'll be in a cubicle."

"Still." He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "I'm proud of you. You work harder than anyone I know."

My throat tightens. I'm not used to this—someone being proud of me. Someone seeing my ambition as something admirable instead of desperate.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the library buzzing softly around us with the sound of turning pages and muted conversations. Marco tells me about his morning class, some disaster involving a group project where no one did their part except him. I laugh at his exaggerated frustration, and for a moment, everything feels normal.

Easy.

Safe.

"Hey," Marco says suddenly, his tone shifting. "I was thinking—spring break is coming up. My family has a place in the Hamptons. Private beach, huge house. I want you to come with me."

I blink. "Spring break? That's like... two months away."

"I know. But I wanted to ask early. Give you time to plan." He squeezes my hand. "I want you to meet my family. Officially."

My stomach flips. "Your family?"

"Yeah. My parents, my uncle, a few cousins. Nothing crazy. Just... I want them to know you. I want them to see what I see."

There's something in his voice—something serious. Something that makes my pulse quicken.

"Marco..."

"I know it's a big step," he says quickly. "But we've been together six months, Eve. I'm not playing around here. I'm serious about you. About us."

The words settle over me like a blanket—warm, heavy, suffocating in the best way.

He's serious.

He wants a future.

With me.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Yeah. I'd love to meet your family."

His face lights up, and he leans across the table to kiss me—quick and sweet and full of promise.

When he pulls back, he's grinning like he's just won the lottery. "You're not going to regret this. I promise."

I smile back, ignoring the small, nagging voice in the back of my mind that whispers liar.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes and study sessions. By the time I get home to my tiny apartment, it's almost 5 PM, and I have exactly two hours before my shift at The Vault starts.

I shower quickly, scrubbing away the day, and stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. My college clothes—jeans, oversized sweaters, sneakers—hang on one side. My Vault clothes—tight dresses, heels, leather—hang on the other.

Two lives. Two versions of myself.

College girl by day. Bottle girl by night.

I pull on the black dress, zip up the heels, and stare at myself in the mirror.

This is temporary, I remind myself. Just until I graduate. Just until I have enough saved to start my own business.

Marco doesn't need to know. No one does.

I grab my bag and head out the door, locking my apartment behind me.

As I drive toward The Vault, my phone buzzes with another text from Marco.

Marco: Dinner tomorrow night? I'm cooking.

Me: You? Cooking? This I have to see.

Marco: I'm full of surprises, babe. 7 PM. Don't be late.

I smile, setting the phone down.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm building something real. Something stable. Marco is good for me—he's kind, he's supportive, he sees a future with me.

And maybe, just maybe, I can have both. The business degree, the career, the relationship.

Maybe I can have it all.

I pull into The Vault's parking lot, the neon sign glowing red against the night sky.

Two more hours until my shift ends.

Then I can go home, crawl into bed, and dream about spring break in the Hamptons with a man who actually wants me.

For the first time in years, the future doesn't feel like a fight.

It feels like a promise.