Page 55 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

The car ride is quiet besides the sounds of me eating and some smooth music in the background, but the ride is not awkward at all. There’s something electric about it, like neither of us knows what to say after last night but we’re both too stubborn to bring it up. His presence fills the space, his cologne wrapping around me like a second skin.

When we pull up to campus, Vincent turns to me, pulling something from the seat beside him—a sleek black garment bag with gold detailing.

“What’s that?” I ask warily, eyeing it like it might explode.

“Your outfit for Damien’s game tonight.” His tone is casual, but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes as he hands it to me. “Take a look at it later. You’ll wear it tonight.”

I grip the bag like it’s radioactive. “Do I get a say in this?”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “No. But I’m sure you’ll look stunning. Don’t be late.”

Before I can argue, he’s stepping out of the car, walking around to open my door. As I step out, his hand brushes my lower back, sending a jolt through me that I’m sure he notices.

I swallow hard, clutching the garment bag as I head into the building, my boots clicking against the pavement. I don’t dare open it yet. Whatever Vincent picked out for me can wait.

When my last class finally lets out, I find myself in the bathroom, staring at the bag like it’s a wild animal about to pounce. The gold zipper gleams under the fluorescent lights, daring me to open it.

With a deep breath, I pull it down.

The first thing I see is red and black—Damien’s colors. It’s a cropped jersey with “D. Sterling” printed across the back in bold letters, the hem frayed just enough to look deliberate. Beneath it, a pair of low-rise jeans, the kind that cling to every curve and threaten to reveal too much. But it’s the last piece that makes my stomach drop: a black thong with “Sterling” spelled out in rhinestones along the strings.

My face flames.

This has to be a joke. There’s no way I’m wearing this.

I pull out my phone, frantically texting Cast and Vincent.

Me: What. The. Hell? Damien hates me! This will only make it worse!

Cast: One word. Contract.

Me: I’m not parading around in this! It’s humiliating!

Vincent: You’ll look good. Stop overthinking. Damien’s got thick skin.

I stare at the outfit, my reflection in the mirror looking pale and panicked. My pulse pounds in my ears as I run my fingers over the jersey.

Me: I don’t though. Also other people are going to see me.

Vincent: Don’t remind me.

Cast: And they’ll know who you belong to.

“This is insane,” I whisper to myself, but deep down, I know I have no choice.

Me: You two are ridiculous.

Cast: Stop pouting and follow instructions.

I let out a frustrated cry, throwing my phone onto the bathroom counter as the texts from Cast and Vincent glare back at me.

"I can’t wear this," I mutter, staring down at the outfit like it’s some sort of punishment designed to humiliate me. My reflection doesn’t help; my pale, panicked face looks like it belongs to someone about to walk into an execution.

But deep down, I know I don’t have a choice. The contract is clear. I either play by their rules or... well, I don’t even want to think about the consequences, because I can’t afford it anyway.

Taking a shaky breath, I peel off my oversized sweater and denim skirt, slipping into the low-rise jeans first. They fit like a second skin, clinging to me in ways that leave little to the imagination. The rhinestone-studded thong feels like the cherry on top of a very mortifying sundae.Finally, I pull the cropped jersey over my head, the frayed hem brushing against my ribs. I glance at myself in the mirror, smoothing my hands down the jersey. My cheeks are flushed, my dark curls already starting to slip from their clip.

“You can do this,” I whisper, trying to convince myself. “It’s just one night.”

---