Kinsley thinks she threatened me, she believes she declared war. She has no idea that her declaration merely confirmed the depth of her engagement. She is fighting, and that means she is invested. An invested Kinsley Fischer will eventually understand.
My gaze drifts to the university's student wellness portal, minimized on my second screen. Bipolar II Disorder. The words are a constant hum beneath the surface of my thoughts. It's not a weakness. It's a key. It explains the intensity, the brilliance, the fragility, the desperate need for control. It explains why she fights so hard. She's not just fighting me; she's fighting herself. And in her mind, I am just another manifestation of the chaos she so desperately tries to contain.
But I am not chaos. I am order. My order.
She needs structure, a constant. She needs someone who sees the storm within her and isn't afraid of it. Someone who understands that her fight for control is a battle she can't win alone. And that someone, whether she accepts it or not, is me.
My phone buzzes. It's Asher. I ignore it. He can wait. My focus is entirely on Kinsley.
I open my university email. Her request for “official channels” echoes in my mind. A smile, slow and predatory, spreads across my face. Oh, Kinsley. You always provide the perfect opening.
I compose a new email. Short. Precise. Professional.
Subject:Chem 102 Lab Report - Follow-up
Dear Ms. Fischer,
I trust you had a productive evening. I am following up regarding your recent performance in the Chem 102 lab section. While your work is consistently excellent, you seemed somewhat distressed during our brief interaction this evening.
Your academic success is paramount. Should you require any extensions on upcoming assignments or wish to discuss any aspects of the course material in more detail, please do not hesitate to reach out. My office hours are posted on the syllabus, and I am always available via email for academic inquiries.
Sincerely,
West Monroe
Teaching Assistant, Department of Chemistry
I read it twice. It's perfect, it's professional, it's solicitous. It's utterly devoid of any overt threat, yet it screams I know where you were. I saw you. I remember what happened, and I am still here, watching.
It acknowledges the “distress” she felt, subtly confirming my impact. It offers an “extension,” a small, seemingly benevolent gesture that subtly reminds her of my power over her academic life. It uses “official channels,” as she requested, but fills those channels with a message that is anything but official.
And the best part?She can't ignore it, she can't report it. It's a perfectly crafted piece of psychological warfare, disguised as academic concern.
I hit send.
The email flies across the digital ether, a silent missile aimed directly at her carefully constructed defenses. She will read it, she will dissect it. She will rage against it and in doing so, she will be thinking of me.
My mission of preservation has begun. I will be the constant in her chaos, I will be the structure around her storm. I will show her that the control she craves can only truly be found in my hands.
She thinks she's fighting for her freedom. She's actually fighting for her understanding, and I am the only one who can give it to her.
I close my laptop. The Moleskine is still open. I pick up my pen.
Kinsley Fischer. Bipolar II. Highly intelligent. Highly defiant. Prone to intense emotional swings. Physical response to perceived threat is a mix of fury and primal attraction. Needs a firm, guiding hand. Needs to be shown where her true strength lies.
The game is no longer about breaking her. It's about building her. Into the woman she is meant to be—my woman.
My phone buzzes again. Asher. This time I answer.
“West,” his voice is a low rumble, devoid of warmth. “You're taking your time getting back to me.”
“I was busy,” I reply, my voice flat.
“Busy playing games, I assume,” he says with a sigh of thinly veiled exasperation. “I saw the highlights. Another hat trick. Impressive, for a distraction.”
“It's not a distraction, Asher. It's a commitment. I'm hoping for the draft this year.” The words are out before I can stop them, a rare glimpse into the ambition I usually keep locked away from him. This is my dream. My escape. To play in the NHL, to carve out something for myself before the inevitable, suffocatingembrace of Monroe Industries. I won't take over until I can no longer play.
“Your commitment is to Monroe Industries,” he snaps, his patience thinning. “You graduate in a few months. The board is already asking questions. Your father built this empire, West. You're expected to step up, not waste your final semester chasing pucks and… whatever else you're doing.”
