Chapter 2: The Rules of Engagement

Chapter 2: The Rules of Engagement

The silence in the library stacks stretched taut between them, thick with the scent of old paper and Dane Blackwood’s impossible proposition. Ellie’s mind, usually so adept at analyzing art and history, was completely blank. A life for a life. He spoke of it like a business transaction, a soulless exchange of services rendered.

“You’re insane,” she finally managed to breathe, the words feeling small and inadequate.

“I’m practical,” Dane corrected, his voice a low rumble that wouldn’t carry past the shelves. “You want something you don’t know how to get. I know how to get it. You did something for me. Now I’ll do something for you. It’s the simplest contract in the world.”

His practicality felt more dangerous than insanity. Insanity was chaotic; this was calculated. She thought of the man crumpled on the alley floor, of the cold efficiency in Dane’s movements. He wasn’t just a brawler; he was a survivor. And he saw the world as a series of tactical engagements.

“Why would you even want to help me?” she asked, suspicion warring with a desperate sliver of hope. “What do you get out of this, besides clearing some imaginary debt?”

His grey eyes, cold as a winter storm, held hers. “I get to be free of it. I don’t like owing people. Especially people who use four-hundred-page art history books as a weapon. It’s… unpredictable. I don’t like unpredictable variables.”

Her heart was a frantic bird beating against the cage of her ribs. Common sense, the voice that had guided her from a working-class town to a scholarship at this prestigious university, was screaming at her to run. This was a deal with the devil, or at least his campus stand-in. But then her gaze flickered past his shoulder, to the distant, sun-drenched figure of Caleb Remington. The golden boy. The symbol of the life she desperately wanted to feel a part of, a life of belonging and effortless grace, so far from the constant struggle that defined her own.

Dane saw the flicker. Of course, he did.

“Last offer, Elara Vance,” he murmured. “Say yes, and the game begins. Say no, and I walk away. You’ll be safe in your library, and Caleb Remington will never know your name.”

The finality in his tone was absolute. This was it. The choice between the safe, invisible path she was on and a terrifying, unpredictable shortcut offered by the one person on campus everyone knew to avoid.

The shame of her own desire was what ultimately tipped the scales. She wanted it. She wanted to be seen by Caleb, to have that golden smile directed at her, just once.

Taking a shaky breath, she gave a single, sharp nod. “Okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched Dane’s lips, but it was devoid of warmth. It was the smile of a chess master seeing his opponent make the expected move. “Good. Lesson one starts now.”

He didn't move. He just tilted his head. “Observe,” he commanded softly. “Forget the crush. Analyze him. What do you see?”

Ellie forced herself to look, really look, at Caleb’s table. He was surrounded by two other football players and a girl from a prominent sorority. He was leaning back in his chair, laughing at something one of them said. His textbook was open, but his eyes hadn't glanced at it once.

“He’s… popular,” she said lamely.

“That’s not an analysis; that’s a label,” Dane countered, his voice sharp with impatience. “Look at his posture. Open, confident. He takes up space. Look at the others. They’re all angled toward him. He’s the center of gravity. He’s not studying; he’s holding court. This library is just another stage for him.”

Ellie blinked, her analytical brain finally kicking in. He was right. Caleb’s performance was as carefully constructed as a Rococo painting—all effortless charm on the surface, but built on a rigid structure of social dominance.

“Your problem,” Dane continued, his gaze intense, “is that you move like you’re apologizing for existing. You make yourself small. You’re invisible because you’re trying to be. We’re going to change that.”

He nodded toward the end of the aisle. “Your first task. Walk from here to the checkout desk. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Don’t look at the floor. Head up, shoulders back. Don’t rush. Walk like you own the ground you’re walking on. Like you belong here more than anyone else.”

It sounded so simple, yet the thought of it made her stomach clench. It was a performance, and she was terrified of an audience. But she had made a deal. Clenching her fists, she stepped out from behind the shelf. She kept her chin up, her eyes fixed on the far wall, forcing her shoulders back. Each step felt deliberate, unnatural. As she passed Caleb’s table, she risked a glance. His eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, a flicker of mild, impersonal curiosity before he turned back to his friends.

He’d seen her. He hadn’t seen her, not really, but her existence had registered on his radar for a fleeting moment. By the time she reached the checkout desk, her heart was pounding.

Dane was suddenly beside her, materializing from the stacks as silently as he always did. “Better. You still looked like a terrified rabbit, but it’s a start.” He gestured with his head toward the exit. “Lesson two. The Grind.”

The campus coffee shop was social warfare in a microcosm. The air was thick with the smell of burnt espresso and ambition. Dane led her to a small, two-person table in a corner that offered a panoramic view of the entire room.

“This is the ecosystem in its natural habitat,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Tell me what you see.”

This time, she knew what he was looking for. She saw the Sigma Chi fraternity brothers occupying the prime real-estate—the comfortable armchairs by the window. The theater kids were loud and dramatic near the counter. The studious loners were tucked away in the corners, just like her and Dane. Power and influence radiated outwards from the most desirable spots.

“It’s mapped out,” she said, a flicker of understanding dawning. “It’s a social hierarchy based on real estate.”

“Exactly,” Dane said, a hint of approval in his tone. “And look who just walked in.”

Caleb Remington entered, and the energy in the room subtly shifted. Conversations paused. Heads turned. He didn’t seem to notice, but it was impossible that he didn’t. He moved with the easy confidence of a king entering his court.

“He won’t sit with his team,” Dane murmured, almost to himself. “Too predictable. He needs to spread his influence.”

As if on cue, Caleb bypassed the jocks and slid into a booth with the student government president and the editor of the campus newspaper. A strategic political maneuver disguised as a coffee break.

“Now,” Dane said, leaning forward, his voice dropping. “Here’s your next move. That girl he’s with, the editor, is in your Baroque and Rococo class.”

“She is?” Ellie had never noticed. She was too focused on the professor.

“Pay attention to your surroundings, Vance. It’s always the first rule of engagement,” he chided. “You’re going to go over there. You’re going to ‘accidentally’ drop your pen near their table. When you pick it up, you’re going to look at the editor—not at him—and say, ‘Hey, you’re in Doctor Albright’s 305, right? I’m Ellie. That lecture on Bernini’s use of light was brutal, wasn’t it?’”

Ellie’s blood ran cold. “No. Absolutely not. I can’t just go up to them.”

“You can, and you will,” he said, his voice hard. “You’re not asking for anything. You’re creating a shared experience. A moment of connection. You’re not a random student anymore; you’re ‘Ellie from Art History.’ You’re building a profile. Now go.”

Her feet felt like lead. This was a hundred times more terrifying than walking through the library. This was direct contact. But one look at Dane’s unyielding face told her there was no backing out. This was the price of the contract.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, she stood up and began the long walk across the coffee shop floor. Her mind raced, rehearsing the line. Brutal lecture. Bernini's use of light. It sounded stupid. She felt stupid.

She neared the table, her pulse hammering in her ears. She fumbled in her pocket for a pen, letting it slip from her trembling fingers. It clattered on the floor, rolling to a stop right by the editor’s foot. Perfect.

She bent to retrieve it, her face burning. As she straightened up, she forced herself to meet the editor’s eyes.

“Hey,” she squeaked, her voice an octave too high. She cleared her throat. “You’re in Doctor Albright’s 305, right? I’m Ellie. That lecture on Bernini’s use of light was brutal, wasn’t it?”

The editor, a polished brunette named Madison, looked surprised. “Oh, god, tell me about it. I thought my hand was going to fall off from taking notes.” She smiled. A genuine smile.

And then, the unexpected happened. Caleb Remington turned his head, that million-dollar smile now directed not just in her general vicinity, but at her.

“You’re an Art History major?” he asked, his voice even smoother than it sounded from a distance. “That’s cool. I can barely draw a stick figure.”

“I—uh—yeah,” Ellie stammered, feeling like a complete idiot.

“Well, good luck with Bernini,” he said with a chuckle, before turning back to his conversation.

It was over in ten seconds. Ellie practically fled back to her table, her whole body shaking.

“Well?” Dane asked, one dark eyebrow raised.

“He spoke to me,” she whispered, sinking into her chair.

“And you folded like a cheap suit,” Dane observed dryly. “But you did it. He knows your name. He knows your major. You’re on the map.”

She looked at him then, truly looked at him. The boy from the alley, the campus cautionary tale, had just orchestrated a piece of social theater with the precision of a military strategist. He understood the nuances of this gilded world, its unwritten rules and hidden currencies, in a way she never could. He wasn’t just a bad boy. He was a fallen prince who knew exactly how the kingdom worked.

“What’s next?” she asked, a strange new current of nervous energy replacing her fear.

Dane leaned back, a flicker of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. “Next, we get you an invitation to the lion’s den.” He took a slow sip of his black coffee. “The Sigma Chi party this Friday. It’s time to stop observing and start playing. The game, Elara Vance, is officially on.”