The words had been a brand, a claim. And the way she looked at me, the way her eyes widened when I produced the fresh clonazepam… that was the true victory. She thinks I just saw her distress, she thinks I just saw her soaked clothes. She has no idea that I saw the pill; the ruined, crumbling lifeline.
My mind drifts back to the university’s student wellness portal, to those stark words:Bipolar II Disorder. It's not a weakness, it’s a blueprint. It explains everything. Her brilliance, her intensity, her fierce need for control, her sudden shifts. It explains the fortress she builds around herself.
And I, West Monroe, am the only one who truly sees it. The only one who understands the war she wages within herself. The only one who can truly help her. My mission of preservation is not just a game; it’s a necessity. She needs structure, she needs 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.
The clonazepam. I had acquired it when I discovered her diagnosis, a contingency. Asher’s network, vast and morally flexible, included a few discreet medical professionals. A phone call, a vague mention of “personal stress” and “high-pressure environments,” and a prescription was easily obtained. It wasn't for me, not really. It was forher. It is a tool for the inevitable, a way to demonstrate my foresight, my preparedness, my ability to provide. A silent promise that I would always be the one to stabilize her.
My phone buzzes, shattering the quiet.Asher.Again. I glance at the screen, then dismiss the call. He can wait. His world, his expectations feel distant, irrelevant tonight.
He wants me to take over Monroe Industries, he wants me to be him. A corporate titan, a master of boardrooms and hostile takeovers but that's his game, not mine. My game is on the ice. My game is the roar of the crowd, the precision of a slap shot. The raw, visceral control of a puck moving exactly where I want it to go. My game is the NHL. That's my escape, my path to a self not defined by the Monroe name. I won't be swallowed whole by their legacy until I've carved out my own.
And Kinsley… Kinsley is a different kind of game. A more intricate, more personal one. She is a challenge that demands every ounce of my intellect, my foresight, my control. And in a life where Asher constantly tries to dictate my path, Kinsley ismine. My project, my obsession. My future.
I walk to my desk, my thoughts already shifting, strategizing. The physical intimacy tonight was a powerful step, but it was just that; a step. Now, I need to consolidate. I need to integrate myself into her life, subtly, pervasively, until she can no longer imagine a world without me in it.
I open my laptop. My TA duties. The perfect cover.
I remember her schedule. Her classes, her usual study spots. I will be there. Not overtly, not threateningly but as a constant, almost accidental presence. A familiar shadow.
I pull up the syllabus for Chem 102. The next lab report is due Friday. I make a mental note to casually mention its complexity in class tomorrow, perhaps even offer an “optional” review session, an opportunity for her to seek my help, to acknowledge her need.
I consider sending another email, but decide against it. Too soon. Too direct. Tonight’s encounter needs to marinate. It needs to sink into her bones, to confuse her, to make her question everything she thought she knew about herself and about me.
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.
My fingers tap restlessly on the desk. I need to be patient, I need to be precise. But the thought of her, wrapped in my jersey, the taste of my kiss on her lips, the clonazepam dissolving on her tongue… it ignites a fierce, possessive heat in my chest.
The game is no longer about breaking her. It's about building her into the woman she is meant to be. My woman. And I will ensure she comes to understand that in my hands, she will finally find the control she so desperately craves. Her chaos, managed. Her brilliance, protected. Her heart, mine.
Twenty Three
West
Asharp, insistent rap echoes through the quiet of my bedroom door. Not a knock. A bang. Hard, deliberate, demanding. My blood runs cold. No one knocks like that. No one dares.
My phone, which I had just set down, vibrates with a new message.
Asher:
Open the door, West. Now.
He’s here in my penthouse. The one place I thought was mine, my sanctuary, is now invaded. A fresh wave of rage washes over me. He always finds a way to assert his dominance, to remind me of the leash he holds.
I stalk to the door, my jaw tight, and yank it open. Asher stands there, an imposing figure, his face a mask of barely contained fury. He’s flanked by two of his usual gorillas, their presence a silent threat. The muffled bass from the party in the main living area is a distant thrum, but here in the hallway outside my room, the tension is palpable, suffocating.
“What the fuck is going on, West?” Asher snarls, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed anger. “I got a call from the board this afternoon. They’re asking about your ‘focus.’ They’re asking about your ‘commitments.’ And then I hear about you, the great West Monroe, hosting a goddamn frat party when you should be preparing for your final exams, for your goddamn future.”
“It’s a team celebration,” I retort, my voice tight. “We just won against State. I know you saw the highlights.”
“Highlights?” Asher scoffs, a sneer twisting his lips. “You think that’s what matters? You think a few goals on a frozen pond are going to run Monroe Industries? You’re graduating, West. This isn’t a game anymore. This is your life, and you’re pissing it away on… distractions.” His eyes narrow, boring into mine. “And speaking of distractions… Kinsley Fischer.”
My breath hitches. The name he speaks feels like a violation.
“What about her?” I demand, my voice dangerously low.
Asher takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “Don’t play coy. My people are thorough. A certain nursing student, a certain TA with an unusual interest. A series of… coincidences. And now, she was here. In your penthouse. Wearing your jersey.” His eyesflick to the hallway leading to my bedroom, a silent accusation.How the hell does he know?His little corporate spies are everywhere. “Are you fucking her, West?”
Rage, pure and incandescent, flares through me. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”
