He stands, his movements fluid and powerful. “I’ll pick you up tonight at seven. Dress for dinner, and try to look like you actually like me.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me sitting there utterly stunned, trapped, and consumed by this magnetic pull. I am his girlfriend. A lie, a facade. A new, terrifying stage in his game. And I have no idea how to play.
Twenty Five
Kinsley
Idon’t remember walking out of the coffee shop. One moment I’m staring at the empty chair where he sat, his words echoing in the silent space he left behind. The next I’m standing on the sidewalk, the setting sun casting long shadows that look like grasping fingers.
I am his girlfriend.
The thought doesn’t feel real. It’s a line from a nightmare, a bitter, impossible pill lodged in my throat. My mind is awarzone. One part of me, the logical, rational part that has kept me safe for years, is screaming.Go to the police. Go to the dean. Tell someone, tell anyone.But what would I say? That my TA, a campus legend with a powerful family, threatened me with his uncle’s vague but terrifying influence? That he kissed me, and I kissed him back? That he gave me medicine when I was having a panic attack?They would see a messy, inappropriate student-teacher affair, not a calculated campaign of psychological terror? They would see me as complicit.
And then there’s the fear. Not just of West, but of the man he described.Asher Monroe.A man who can “remove” liabilities. The threat, unspoken but crystal clear, settles like a block of ice in my stomach. West has me trapped, not just with his own actions, but with the phantom menace of his family.
I walk back to my dorm in a daze. The world feels tilted, unreal. He has woven a web around me so intricate, so complete that every path I see leads back to him.
My phone buzzes again. Chloe. I finally answer, my voice a hollow echo of itself.
“Kins! Oh my god, are you okay? I was so worried!”
“I’m fine,” I lie, the words tasting like poison.
“Fine? You disappeared! And you left in West Monroe’s jersey! What happened?”
I take a deep breath, the lie forming on my tongue, heavy and foreign. “It’s… complicated, Chloe.”
“Complicated how?”
“We talked,” I say, hating myself with every syllable. I can’t tell her the truth. “After the party. And… today. We’re… going to see where things go.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then, an explosion.
“OH MY GOD! KINSLEY! Are you serious? You and West Monroe? After all that? I knew it! I knew there was somethingthere! The tension, the way he looks at you… It’s explosive! You have to tell me everything!”
Her excitement is a physical blow, a nauseating wave of guilt and isolation. She’s celebrating my surrender, she’s cheering for my captor.
“I have to go,” I say, my voice cracking. “I have to get ready.”
“Ready for what? A date?!”
“Something like that,” I whisper, and hang up before she can ask more questions.
I stand before my closet, my body moving on autopilot.Dress for dinner.That washis command. I pull out a simple, elegant navy blue dress. It feels like armor, it feels like a costume. I do my hair, my makeup, my hands moving with a detached precision. I am preparing for battle, not a date. With every brushstroke, every careful application of mascara I feel like I’m erasing myself, creating a character who can survive this—a girl who can sit across from West Monroe and not scream.
At exactly seven o’clock, there’s a knock on my door. A soft, confident knock. I know it’s him.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and my hands are slick with a cold sweat. I take a deep, shuddering breath, schooling my features into a mask of neutrality as I open the door.
He’s leaning against the doorframe dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, no tie, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks devastatingly handsome, and the sight of him, so calm and in control, sends a fresh wave of fury through me.
His eyes, sharp and assessing, sweep over me from head to toe. He’s checking my work, he’s grading my performance. A slow, approving smile touches his lips.
“Good,” he says, the single word a chilling echo of last night. He holds out his arm. “Shall we?”
It’s not a question. It’s a command.
My mind is screaming no. My body is frozen, but the memory of his threat, the image of his uncle, the terrifying reality of my situation… it forces my legs to move.
