Wrong move

George Harmeston could buy anything—cars, companies, entire buildings in downtown Chicago—but right now, the one thing he wanted, Fiona friend, as proving more complicated than any merger.

He stared at his phone, jaw tight, eyes narrow.

She had lied to him. Again.

It wasn't even about the party. Not entirely. It was about the fact that she said she was going home early to study for the Lit midterm, then hours later, pictures of her surfaced on almost every campus gossip page—dancing at Tyler Cain's birthday bash like she had nothing to lose.

Wearing that red dress.

The one he told her not to wear around Cain.

George tapped the side of his phone and pulled up her last text:

> Fiona: Heading back to the dorm, I'll call you later. 💕

That was at 8:14 PM.

The pictures were timestamped at 9:07 PM.

She hadn't even lasted an hour before breaking his trust.

---

At 10:40 AM the next morning, Fiona strolled into Lincoln Hall like nothing had happened. Her oversized sunglasses covered half her face, and her auburn curls were in a loose bun that screamed "I woke up late." A large iced coffee in hand, she slid into the seat next to her roommate, Lila.

"Oh my God," Lila whispered. "You survived."

"Barely." Fiona dropped her bag with a thud. "Tyler's party was insane."

Lila blinked. "Wait, I thought you told George you weren't going."

Fiona pulled her sunglasses down and gave her a look. "Yeah, and I also told my mom I'd never skip class in high school. Sometimes you gotta say what people need to hear."

Lila raised an eyebrow. "Except your boyfriend isn't your mom, Fee. He's George Harmeston. The George Harmeston "

Fiona shrugged. "Exactly. He's too busy running his trust fund empire and making sure his Tesla is parked just right to care if I dance at a party for twenty minutes."

Lila didn't look convinced. "You danced with Tyler."

"It was harmless."

"Tyler had his hand on your waist."

Fiona sipped her coffee and glanced at her phone, ignoring the red notification badge on George's contact.

---

George didn't come to class that day.

He didn't need to—he paid private tutors, and most professors gave him automatic extensions without asking why. But this time, Fiona knew it wasn't about skipping. It was a message.

So, she made a move.

She texted him.

> Fiona: Hey. You okay? You weren't in Econ.

No reply.

At 3 PM, she showed up at his off-campus penthouse, wearing a hopeful smile and carrying his favorite smoothie—pineapple mango with a shot of protein and almond milk. She had memorized the order during their third week of dating, back when everything he did fascinated her.

She knocked. No answer.

She knocked again. Nothing.

But she knew he was inside.

The grey Aston Martin was parked in its usual spot. The blinds were drawn. George never pulled the blinds unless he was sulking.

Finally, the door opened. George stood there in a black hoodie and joggers, his dark hair tousled, eyes cold.

Fiona smiled cautiously. "Hey. Thought I'd bring you your favorite."

He took one look at the cup and stepped back. "Why'd you lie to me?"

Her smile faltered. "I didn't—"

"You said you were going to the dorm. You texted me."

"I changed my mind. Lila talked me into it. It wasn't a big deal."

"You wore the dress."

That stopped her. "What?"

"You know what I mean, Fiona."

"It's just a dress."

"No." His voice was sharp now. "It's the dress. The one you wore on our first date. The one I asked you not to wear around him."

"Seriously? That's what this is about?"

"It's about respect," George snapped. "Do you have any idea how that looked? Me finding out from a meme page that my girlfriend is dancing with Tyler Cain in a skin-tight dress while I'm here working on your birthday present?"

Fiona's lips parted, then closed. She hadn't expected that last part.

"Wait… you were working on my—?"

"You said you had to study," he continued, ignoring her. "So I didn't ask you to come over. I didn't drag you to some dinner. I respected that. But you couldn't give me the same."

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?"

Fiona hesitated. "I felt trapped, okay? You've been so intense lately. Every minute of my day is scheduled with us—our study plans, our brunches with your investors' kids, your ridiculous networking events."

George blinked. "So now I'm smothering you?"

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did." His voice dropped. "You just don't have the guts to say it to my face."

She looked away.

Silence stretched.

Then he stepped back from the doorway. "I think you should go."

Her eyes snapped back to his. "George…"

"I need space."

"You hate space."

"I hate lies more."

The door closed before she could think of a reply.

Great! Here's the continuation of Chapter 2 of Wrong Move, bringing us deeper into the tension between George and Fiona. This segment builds on what's already happened and brings us closer to the 5,000-word goal (current total will be around 2,500–3,000 words after this part). I'll continue with the next portion right after this if you'd like.

Fiona didn't cry as the door shut. Not in the hallway. Not even when the girl from the floor below walked past with a sympathetic glance, earbuds in, chewing gum like it was none of her business.

She held it in until she reached the street.

It wasn't even that George had snapped—it was that he'd never shut a door on her before. Not physically. Not like that.

He'd never made her feel replaceable.

By Monday, everyone knew.

"Fiona got iced out by George Preston," someone whispered in the dining hall.

"Must've been serious," another voice added. "He didn't show up at the Preston Scholarship Gala. His mom gave the speech."

Fiona sat two tables away from the gossip, headphones in, pretending she didn't hear. Lila sat beside her, stirring her yogurt.

"He's still not answering your texts?"

Fiona didn't respond.

Lila sighed. "I mean, it was kinda dumb, Fee. You should've told him."

Fiona finally looked up. "I shouldn't need to tell him every little thing I do. I'm not his pet."

"True," Lila said slowly, "but you also told him you weren't going. Then you went. Then you danced with Tyler Cain in a dress the internet named 'The Red Scandal.'"

Fiona groaned and slumped forward. "Why is everyone acting like I committed a felony?"

"Because George Preston doesn't date people. He acquires them. Like rare art."

Fiona gave her a look.

"Okay, maybe not acquires," Lila corrected, "but when he chose you, it made half the girls at this college rethink their entire personality. And now everyone's watching to see how it ends."

Fiona's appetite vanished.

The silence between them stretched into days.

She walked past his usual seat in Economics 202. Empty.

His name no longer showed up on the reservation list at the gym.

Even his usual seat at the Black Oak Café—a corner booth with a perfect view of the quad—was abandoned. George had vanished.

And still… no messages.

On Wednesday evening, Fiona cracked. She didn't bother with an apology. She just typed out what she was thinking.

Fiona: I miss you. I messed up. I get that. But shutting me out like this doesn't fix anything. Can we talk?

The message delivered.

He didn't read it.

By Friday, a different kind of energy was circulating on campus.

George Preston was back.

And not just back—he was making a statement.

Fiona heard the news from no less than four people: George had just walked into the student union with Avery Cross.

Avery. Cross.

Daughter of the media tycoon. Queen Bee of the sophomore class. Fashion major. Obnoxiously tall. Perfect hair. Practically born on a yacht.

Fiona's stomach turned.

Lila showed her the pictures that evening.

"They're not holding hands or anything," she offered gently.

Fiona zoomed in on one. George was smiling. Avery was laughing. They looked good together. Annoyingly good.

"He's doing it on purpose," Fiona said.

"Of course he is," Lila said. "He's George Preston. Revenge is a full-time hobby."

The worst part wasn't that he was with Avery.

The worst part was that it worked.

Fiona couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't stop wondering what he was thinking, whether he was still hurt, still angry, or just… done.

And worse—she couldn't stop questioning herself.

Had she gone to the party to get away from George… or to prove something to him?

She hated that she didn't know.

That weekend, fate (and possibly divine sabotage) decided to ruin her further.

She walked into the library Sunday afternoon, armed with her laptop, a latte, and an intense desire to avoid human interaction, only to freeze in her tracks at the second-floor mezzanine.

George.

He was seated at the long study table near the window, headphones in, typing. Alone.

But not alone for long.

Avery appeared seconds later, sliding into the seat across from him like she owned the place. She wore a white blazer and no backpack. Who wears a blazer to the library?

Fiona backed away before either of them saw her. She ducked into the stairwell and sat on the steps, gripping the railing.

She shouldn't care. He wasn't her boyfriend anymore. Not officially.

But her chest ached.

She typed another message.

Fiona: If you're done, just tell me. Please don't leave me guessing like this.

Again, the message went unread.

That night, Fiona stood in front of the mirror in their dorm suite, staring at herself.

She didn't look like the girl George fell for. That girl had been carefree. Confident. Too bold to be afraid of consequences.

Now she looked… unsure. Tired. A little desperate.

"You look like you've been ghosted," Lila offered helpfully from the bed.

"I have been ghosted."

"True. But it's only ghosting if he never replies. There's still hope."

"Thanks. That makes me feel so much better."

Lila stood. "Fee. He's not ignoring you because he doesn't care. He's ignoring you because he cares too much."

Fiona glanced at her. "What do I do?"

"Show him you care, too. But not with words. With something real. Something he can't ignore."

The idea came to Fiona at 3:16 AM.

It was dumb. Possibly desperate. But also… exactly the kind of gesture George would understand.

He liked moves. Grand ones. Calculated ones. Emotional ones, if they were rare and sincere.

So the next morning, Fiona woke early, skipped class, and borrowed Lila's bike. She rode across campus to the one place she knew George still went every Sunday like clockwork.

The East Ridge Children's Center.

Most people didn't know this about George, but Fiona did. He volunteered there once a week, teaching basic coding to underprivileged kids. Not for press. Not for Instagram. Just because his dad had once told him real wealth was giving, not showing.

She waited outside until she saw him walk out—navy hoodie, grey sweats, baseball cap pulled low. One of the kids waved as he left. He waved back.

Fiona stepped forward.

He stopped when he saw her.

She held up a paper bag. "Pineapple mango smoothie. Extra protein."

A beat of silence.

Then: "You tracked me down."

"I needed to."

"Why?"

"Because I made a stupid choice. I thought I was trying to protect myself. But really, I was pushing you away."

George didn't speak. His expression was unreadable.

She continued. "I was scared. Scared of how intense things were getting. Scared that I'd lose myself. Scared that I wasn't enough for the George Preston."

He looked away, jaw tense.

"But what scares me more," she said, softer now, "is losing you because of one wrong move."

George's eyes met hers. And for a moment, the ice cracked.

Then he said, "It wasn't one wrong move, Fiona."

Her heart sank.

He took the smoothie. "But I'm listening now."