Chapter 2His Amber Eyes Were Lies

Wyatt had grown comfortable giving me orders.

He treated me like a glorified assistant, someone he could beckon with a snap of his fingers, rather than the woman who had built his throne. He had forgotten I was his girlfriend, and more importantly, he had forgotten I was his boss.

I suppose it was my fault. I had been too good to him.

Back in college, I was famous for two things: my family’s quiet wealth and the speed at which I cycled through boyfriends.

I had a "type," but no one could figure out the pattern. I dated guys with beautiful hands, guys with gentle eyes, guys with a specific, sharp profile. I once dated a guy for two weeks just because he had a tiny mole on the left side of his nose.

I’d fall fast, or at least pretend to, and then end things just as abruptly.

There were threads on the campus forum about me, claiming I was "collecting" parts of people, like a scavenger hunt with no prize. But despite the turnover, no one had a bad word to say about me. I was generous, I was kind, and I never made a scene.

Then came Wyatt Beckett.

He was the jackpot. He had every single feature I had been hunting for. Long, elegant fingers with prominent knuckles. Amber eyes that looked cold until he smiled. The perfect height. And there, on the bridge of his nose, the exact same mole.

I dove into "loving" him like a woman possessed. I became the girl who would do anything for him.

To be fair, Wyatt was a challenge. He was colder than the others, more guarded. He held the record for the longest I’d ever pursued someone without success.

The first time I introduced myself, he frowned and told me flat-out: "Look, rich girl, I’m not interested in being your flavor of the month. Go find someone else to play with."

I remember looking into his eyes—those amber eyes—and feeling a chill go down my spine. "You’re special, Wyatt," I whispered. "You’re not like the others."

He wavered then.

After that, the "collection" stopped. I didn't look at another man. I stayed by his side, but I didn't crowd him. I played the long game. I showed up at group dinners as a friend. I kept a respectful distance. I gave him birthday gifts that weren't expensive, but were exactly what he needed.

When he ended up in the hospital during junior year, I was the one who cleared my schedule to stay with him. He didn't want to worry his parents, and his roommates had finals.

I hired the best private nurses, but I sat in the corner of the room every single day.

One afternoon, while he was napping, the room was bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun. I sat there for hours, just watching his silhouette against the pillow. For a split second, I let myself believe the ghost had finally come home.

When Wyatt woke up and saw me still there, his expression shifted. "Sylvia," he said, his voice raspy. "Do you actually love me this much?"

He’d seen how I treated my exes—the casual indifference, the easy goodbyes. With him, I was different. I was devoted.

I blinked, coming out of my trance. He was looking at me with a mix of confusion and something that looked like guilt.

"Sylvia," he said, his tone sharpening. "Love isn't a debt. You can't force it with kindness. If this is just a game to you, pick a different target."

I almost laughed. I looked at him softly and said, "Don't worry, Wyatt. I'm not asking for anything."

He looked away, his ears turning a deep shade of red. As I stood up to leave, he spoke to the wall, his voice muffled like a stubborn child admitting defeat.

"If you're serious... then fine. Let's try it. Let's be together."

And that was it.

The campus forums went wild, taking bets on how long we’d last. Three months? Six? A year? But as the months turned into years, everyone eventually decided I had finally found "The One."

The truth was, we did have good moments.

Wyatt had a streak of stubborn pride that I admired. In the beginning, he never let me pay for anything. He’d put his hand over mine when I reached for my phone at a restaurant and say, "I've got it," with a finality that brooked no argument.

Once we were official, he took his role seriously. He went everywhere I wanted to go. He wore the clothes I picked out for him. He replied to my texts within five minutes, every single time.

Eventually, we fell into the rhythm of a normal couple. We studied together, ate together. I learned to hide price tags so he wouldn't feel uncomfortable. I started memorizing his specific likes and dislikes—the things that were actually him, not just the man he reminded me of.

I’m a creature of habit. I don't like change. If things had stayed stable, I probably would have stayed with him forever.

But then, he met Tinsley Hart.