Page 37 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

And then, of course, I drop my notebook. It lands with a loudthwack.

“Shit, sorry,” I mumble, bending to pick it up. As I straighten, my ponytail snaps across my forehead and, of course, right into my eye. “Ow!” I mutter, swatting at my face as the notebook slips again.

Storm’s stifled laughter makes me freeze, and I force myself to look up. He grins but doesn’t comment—he just picks up the notebook, stacks my texts, and slips them into my bag with a deftness that makes me want to shrivelandsmile.

He slings my tote over his shoulder along with his backpack, nodding toward the door.

“Library?” he asks, quiet amusement in his voice.

“Yeah,” I say, barely trusting myself to speak. I tilt my chin up just a little as I brush past him.

The walk up the stairs to the top floor of the economics building gives me some time to clear my head and get my hormones under control. I must be ovulating or something. That has to be the explanation as to why I want to climb Storm Sandoval like a tree.

I swear on my grandmama’s Bible, I will leave all my attraction for this man at the door of this library.

But when the glass double doors come into view, I fear lightning might strike me down soon.

The econ library feels like a maze, with shelves stretching high to the ceiling and students tucked away in every corner. Storm walks just behind me, staying close but silent as we make our way toward the study rooms at the back.

Storm hands me my bag, and I place it on the table, pulling out a notebook.

“Okay. Let’s start with what we know: We need to come up with a business plan that supports minority entrepreneurs, focusing on real solutions to their most common challenges. And”—I glance up at him—“we need to present it as something investors will actually get behind.”

Storm settles into the chair across from me, his fingers steepled under his chin.

“Investors will care if they see value. If we show them this program isn’t just a handout but something that can build real, lasting businesses, they’ll be on board,” he offers.

I cross my arms, feeling the faintest twinge of irritation. “I’m not looking to impress them with some ‘socially conscious charity’ vibe. This has to actually help people in these communities, not just look good on paper. That means addressing the real barriers, not just skimming over the surface for a quick PR win.”

His eyebrow ticks upward, and I catch the faintest curve of a smirk. “Which is what I’m saying. Show investors how their money will work. If we frame this as an opportunity to profit while making an impact, they’re more likely to invest and even stay on board longer.”

I take a breath, trying to rein in the frustration bubbling in my chest. “You’re missing the point. I’m not trying to create another vehicle for the rich to pat themselves on the back. The people this program helps should be the priority. It’s not just about appealing to investors.”

Storm leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m not missing the point. I’m saying you won’t help anyone if you can’t secure funding to get this off the ground. Investors are a necessary evil.”

He’s careful with his words, but there’s an edge to his tone that has me sitting up in my seat. “Necessary evil? That’s a convenient way to excuse people who exploit these communities instead of investing in them.”

Storm’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “You think all investors are vultures?”

“I think most of them are,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. “I’ve seen it happen. My dad’s worked on projects for our neighborhood that investors swarmed around for the optics, only to bail as soon as the cameras stopped rolling.”

The flicker of amusement fades from his face. “That’s why we make it different. We build something that can stand on its own, even after the cameras leave.”

I pause, his words striking something in me I don’t want to acknowledge. He’s right—at least partly. But I’m not ready to admit that. Instead, I flip open my notebook and pick up my pen, clicking it as I debate saying my next words.

“I wanna do something for the South Side.”

“Oh?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

I rear back. “What? You don’t wanna stain your Jordans with the ghetto?”

His expression blanks like I’ve slapped him. Cold. Controlled.

It’s probably, definitely irrational, but I want to hurt him, just a little. Just enough to feel in control. But looking at his face now, I realize I didn’t just miss—I struck too deep.

“Don’t do that, Shae,” he delivers, his voice so damn low I feel it in my snatch.

I lick my lips. “D-do what?”

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