Meet me at the coffee shop across from the library—4 PM. Don’t be late.
My blood runs cold. He’s not asking, he’s commanding. The casual arrogance of it sends a fresh wave of fury through me, momentarily eclipsing the fear. I want to ignore it, I want to block his number. I want to scream.
But then the memory of the ruined clonazepam flashes in my mind. The way he produced a fresh one, as if he’d anticipated my every need. The way he knows my schedule, my vulnerabilities, the way he just is.
And the terrifying, undeniable pull.
At 3:55 PM, I find myself walking towards the coffee shop, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hate myself for going, I hate myself for the morbid curiosity that gnaws at me. I hate myself for the faint, traitorous thrill that accompanies the dread.
He’s already there, sitting at a secluded table in the back, a laptop open in front of him with a textbook beside it. He looks perfectly composed, utterly in control, as if last night never happened. Or rather, as if last night was simply another successful step in his meticulously planned strategy. He’s wearing a dark sweater that makes his eyes seem even bluer.
He looks up as I approach, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t invite me to sit, he simply waits.
I slide into the chair opposite him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. “What do you want?” I demand, my voice sharper than I intend.
He closes his laptop, his movements slow and deliberate. He leans back, his gaze unwavering, assessing. “Direct, as always. I appreciate that.”
“Cut the crap, West. What do you want?”
He takes a slow breath, his eyes never leaving mine. “My uncle paid me a visit last night.”
My stomach clenches. Asher. His uncle. The terrifying, ruthless man who runs Monroe Industries. The man I read about. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. “He’s… concerned about my ‘distractions.’ About my ‘unconventional path.’ He’s been doing his own research.”
My blood runs cold. His research. On me.
“He knows about you, Kinsley,” West continues, his voice carefully neutral. “He knows you were at my penthouse, he knows you were wearing my jersey.”
My face flushes with a mixture of shame and fury. “And what did you tell him?”
His smile returns, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “I told him we’re dating.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches in my throat. “You… you what?!”
“We’re dating,” he repeats, his voice calm, utterly devoid of any doubt. “You and I. We’re in a relationship. A serious one.”
“You’re insane!” I hiss, leaning forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’m not dating you! I hate you! You’re a stalker! A manipulator!”
His eyes harden, losing their casual amusement. “And I’m your TA. A scandal involving a student and a TA could jeopardize myimmediate transition into Monroe Industriesafter graduation. Asher made that very clear.” He pauses, letting the implications sink in. “He also made it clear that if you prove to be a ‘liability’… he’ll remove you.”
My mind races, trying to process his words. Remove me.What does that even mean? Expulsion? Ruined academic record?The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
“So, to protect my future, and yours, we’re dating,” he states, as if it’s the most logical conclusion in the world. “It’s a temporary arrangement, a necessary facade. It gives Asher a reason for your presence in my life that he can understand and, more importantly, control.”
“I won’t do it,” I say, my voice trembling, but trying to hold firm. “I won’t be your puppet.”
He leans forward, mirroring my posture, his gaze intense, unwavering. “Oh but you will, because the alternative is far worse for both of us. Asher is not a man to be trifled with. And if he decides you’re a problem, Kinsley, he won’t be subtle. He won’t be polite. He’ll just… make you disappear.”
He pauses, letting the unspoken threat hang heavy in the air. “Besides,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, “you felt it last night. The kiss, the pull. You can’t deny it, Kinsley. And a part of you, a deep, dark part wants this. Wants me.”
My cheeks burn. The memory of the kiss, of my traitorous body’s response floods my senses. He knows. He sees it all.
“So, here are the terms,” he says, his voice snapping back to its authoritative tone, laying out the leash. “We are a couple. Publicly. We will go on dates. We will appear affectionate. You will answer my calls and texts. You will spend time with me. And you will not, under any circumstances, contradict this story to anyone, especially Asher.”
“And what do I get out of this?” I demand, trying to find some shred of dignity, some sliver of control.
He smiles, a slow, chilling curve of his lips. “You get to keep your academic career. You get to avoid Asher’s… attention. And you get to be close to me, Kinsley. To understand what this is. To finally stop fighting what you already feel.”
