She slowly turns, her eyes finally meeting mine. They’re a startling green today, sharp and defiant, but I see the faint tremor in her hands. The effort it takes her to maintain this composure is immense.
“I understand the procedure, Mr. Monroe,” she says, her voice gaining a fractional strength.
“I’m sure you do,” I reply, letting a hint of a smile play on my lips. “But understanding and execution are two different things. A slight adjustment now could mean the difference between an 85% yield and a 95% yield, and we both know which one you’re aiming for.”
Her eyes narrow. She knows I’m talking about more than just the aspirin yield. I’m talking about her perfect record. Her Achilles’ heel.
She holds my gaze for another beat then slowly, deliberately, reaches for the dial on the heating mantle. She adjusts it, a minuscule turn, her movements stiff with suppressed anger.
“Better,” I say, pushing off the bench. I step closer, my voice dropping to a near whisper. “You know Kinsley, you were right about one thing.”
Her head snaps up, her eyes wide with a mixture of suspicion and a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps?
“My time is better spent elsewhere,” I continue, my gaze holding hers. “But I choose to spend it here. With you.”
I don’t wait for her reaction. I turn and walk away, moving to the next workstation, leaving her frozen in place. The silence she leaves behind is thick with unspoken words.
I can feel her eyes on my back as I move through the lab, just as I felt them on the ice. She’s watching me and studying me, just as I’m watching her.
The game is progressing, and she just made her move. She adjusted the dial. She followed my instructions, a small victory, perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.
I suppress a smile. This is going to be far more entertaining than I anticipated.
Thirteen
Kinsley
He walks away. Just like that. Leaving me standing at my lab bench, vibrating with a mixture of fury and a strange, unsettling triumph. He thinks he’s won a small battle, he thinks he’s chipped away at my resolve, he thinks he’s proven his point.
He has no idea.
The chaos in my head, which had been threatening to overwhelm me now coalesces into a sharp, almost painful focus. The anger is a clean, burning fuel.He wants to play games?Fine. I’ll play. But I’ll play by my rules, and he won’t even know the game has changed until he’s already lost.
I force myself to breathe; a slow, deliberate inhale and exhale. The trembling in my hands subsides, replaced by a steady, controlled energy. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel. Not here. Not ever.
I turn back to my experiment. My movements are precise, almost exaggerated in their meticulousness. I adjust the heating mantle just as he suggested, but I do it with a deliberate slowness, a silent act of defiance. I will follow his instructions, but I will do it on my terms. I will give him nothing more than what is absolutely required.
For the next two hours, the lab becomes my battlefield. I work in a bubble of intense concentration; every measurement, every transfer, every calculation performed with an almost obsessive attention to detail. The manic focus, usually a double-edged sword, is now my greatest weapon. It allows me to block out the intrusive thoughts, the buzzing static, the awareness of his presence moving through the room. I can feel his gaze on me periodically, but I refuse to acknowledge it. My world shrinks to the confines of my workstation, the delicate dance of molecules, the pursuit of a perfect yield.
When the lab period is finally over I am exhausted, but also strangely exhilarated. I’ve survived, I’ve held my ground. My aspirin yield is, predictably, 95%. Perfect.
I meticulously clean my workstation, packing away my equipment with the same deliberate care as I avoid eye contact with anyone, especially him. I can feel him watching me as I prepare to leave. He’s standing by the door, ostensibly answering a question from another student, but his attention is on me.
I walk toward the exit, my head held high. I don’t rush, I don’t linger, just a steady, even pace. As I pass him he doesn’t speak,he doesn’t move. He just watches me go, his eyes following me until I’m out of the lab and into the hallway.
The moment the door swings shut behind me, the carefully constructed facade begins to crack. The adrenaline drains out of me, leaving me feeling hollowed out and shaky. The intense focus dissipates, and the familiar chaos of racing thoughts rushes back in, amplified by the day’s events. My senses, which had been hyper-alert, now feel raw and exposed.
I walk quickly, almost running back to my dorm. I need silence and darkness, I need to escape the cacophony in my head.
I burst into my room, my hands shaking so badly that I can barely turn the lock. I don't bother with the lights as I stumble to my desk, fumbling with the drawer, my nails scraping against the wood. The small orange bottle feels like a lifeline. I twist the cap, the child-proof lock a momentary, infuriating obstacle. I shake one of the small white pills into my palm and dry-swallow it, the bitter taste coating my tongue.
Only then do I let myself fall. I slide down the leg of the desk to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as if to hold myself together. I close my eyes, waiting for the clonazepam to dull the sharp edges of my panic, to quiet the screaming in my head.
The world outside, the world with West Monroe in it feels too big, too loud, too dangerous. The anger, which had been a shield now feels like a burning inferno, threatening to consume me from the inside out.
He’s everywhere. In my classes, in my thoughts, in my dreams. He’s a virus, infecting every part of my life.And the worst part?The truly terrifying part?Is that flicker of unwanted awareness, that traitorous hum of attraction that still ignites when he’s near.It’s a betrayal from my own body, a weakness I can’t control, and it makes me hate him even more.
I close my eyes, trying to block out the images, the feelings, the buzzing static. I just need a moment of peace, a moment of quiet but my mind refuses to obey. It replays every interaction, every look, every word. Dissecting them, analyzing them; searching for a pattern, a weakness, an escape.
