“It is my business when your little games threaten the family name,” he hisses, stepping even closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “The board is already uneasy about your… unconventional path. A scandal, a student's complaint, a whisper of impropriety… it could jeopardize everything. Your future with the company. Everything.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in. “I have a meeting set up for you next week with Senator Davis. He’s a key player in the upcoming energy bill, a bill that could make or break our next quarter. You need to be sharp. Focused. Not distracted by some… co-ed.”
“She’s not a co-ed,” I correct him, my voice dangerously calm, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Asher freezes. His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, flicker with genuine surprise, then suspicion. “Your… girlfriend? Since when?”
“Since a few weeks ago,” I lie smoothly, the words forming a new, intricate web of deceit. “We’ve been keeping it quiet. You know how the university is about TA-student relationships. But she’s… important to me. Very important.” I let the words hang in the air, loaded with a double meaning only I understand.
Asher studies me, his eyes piercing, trying to find the lie. He finds none. My conviction is absolute because in my twisted reality, it’s the truth. She is important. She is mine.
“A girlfriend,” he repeats slowly, a thoughtful, calculating look on his face. “And this… relationship… It’s helping you stay ‘focused’?”
“Absolutely,” I affirm. “She’s brilliant. Top of her class. Keeps me grounded. Motivated.” I even manage a convincing sigh, as if discussing the complexities of a genuine relationship. “She understands the pressure I’m under, the expectations. She’s a stabilizing force.”
He seems to consider this, the gears turning in his ruthless mind. A stable, brilliant girlfriend would be an asset. A distraction contained. A potential scandal averted by making it a legitimate (if frowned upon) relationship.
“Fine,” he finally says, the word clipped, grudging. “But I want to meet her. Properly. Soon. And if she proves to be anything less than what you claim… or if she causes any trouble… she’ll be removed. Understood?”
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow.Removed.He wouldn’t hesitate, he wouldn’t care. Kinsley, her brilliance, her chaos, her fragile control, she would be crushed under the weight of his indifference.
A cold, desperate clarity washes over me. I need to protect her not just from herself, but from him. And the only way to do that is to bring her into my orbit, to make her indispensable, to make her a part of my strategy.
I meet Asher’s gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. “Understood. She’s not a liability, Asher. She’s an asset.”
Asher gives me one last, piercing look then turns and strides towards the elevator, his two shadows falling in behind him. The music from the party seems to swell, but to me, it's a distant echo.
I walk back into my room, the door closing behind me with a soft click, shutting out the world. My hands clench into fists, then relax. Asher thinks he’s asserted control. He thinks he’s given me a leash.
He has no idea he just handed me the perfect excuse, the perfect justification. The ideal way to keep Kinsley Fischer exactly where I want her. Close. Essential. Mine.
The game has changed. And I, West Monroe, am about to win.
Twenty Four
Kinsley
The morning after is a blur of crushing fatigue and a relentless, throbbing headache. My meds have worn off, leaving behind a raw, exposed nerve ending where my mind used to be. Every detail of last night; the party’s chaos, the ruined pill, his possessive touch, the terrifying kiss, his whispered “Good girl”, plays on an endless loop. I feel violated, confused, and utterly, irrevocably compromised.
I’m still in the t-shirt and sweatpants I changed into last night. The heavy, dark green jersey lies balled up in the back of my closet, a tangible reminder of his claim, a constant, suffocating presence even when out of sight. I want to burn it. I want to shred it, but I can’t. It’s a trophy of his, a brand on my skin.
My phone buzzes, a frantic series of texts from Chloe.
Kins! Are you alive?!
Where did you go?!
What happened?!
I ignore them.How can I explain any of this? How can I articulate the terrifying intimacy of being kissed by the monster, of having my deepest vulnerability exposed and then “fixed” by him?She wouldn’t understand. She would still see the “normal, hot guy.”
I drag myself to my first class, a haze of exhaustion and dread. Every shadow feels like him, every glance from a stranger feels like an accusation. I try to focus on the lecture, but my mind keeps replaying his words: “My colors suit you. They always will.”
The day passes in a fog. I avoid the chemistry lab, knowing he’ll be there. I eat lunch alone, picking at my food, unable to shake the feeling of his eyes on me. I just want to disappear.
I’m halfway through my last lecture, trying desperately to take notes when my phone vibrates in my pocket with another text message, but not from Chloe.
West:
