West gives her that charming, easy smile—the one he’d used on me last night. “It’s nice to meet you finally, Chloe. Kinsley has told me a lot about you.”
He’s lying, of course. I think I mentioned her once but Chloe beams, completely captivated. I feel a fresh wave of nausea. I am performing, I am his puppet, and he is pulling the strings with masterful precision.
“Well, I should let you get to class,” West says, his hand squeezing my back gently. “I’ll text you later.” He leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my temple. It’s a completely calculated, public gesture of affection but my body betrays me, a shiver running down my spine at the brief touch of his lips.
He gives me a look, a silent command, and I know what I have to do. I reach up, my hand trembling slightly, and touch his arm. “Okay,” I say, my voice a strained whisper. “Talk to you later.”
He smiles, satisfied, and walks away, leaving me with a buzzing, star-struck Chloe.
“Oh my god, Kinsley! He is so into you! The way he looks at you… This is like a fairy tale!”
A fairy tale. If the fairy tale involves a wolf tricking you into his cage then yes, it’s a fairy tale.
Later that evening, after fending off a hundred more questions from Chloe I’m in the library, trying to lose myself in my studies. My phone buzzes. It’s him.
West:
Good performance today. A little forced, but you’ll get better with practice.
My fingers tighten around my phone. He’s grading me. Of course, he is.
Another text comes through before I can reply.
West:
We have a new problem. Asher wants to have dinner.
My blood runs cold.
West:
With both of us. Friday night. He wants to meet my ‘stabilizing force.’
I stare at the screen, the words blurring together. A dinner. With Asher Monroe. The man who can “remove” me. This isn’tjust a performance for the campus anymore. This is the main stage. This is for the man who holds all the power.
My phone buzzes again.
West:
Don’t be nervous. I’ll be right there with you. Just remember your lines, my storm.
The screen goes dark. I stare at my reflection in the black glass, my own eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a strange, unwelcome fascination. Mystorm.The words echo in my head, unfamiliar, possessive.What does he mean? Does he see the chaos I fight so hard to hide? Is it a taunt? A label? A claim?I don't understand the endearment, but the weight of it, the way it feels like a brand, settles deep in the pit of my stomach. It's intimate. It's chilling.
I am his girlfriend. I am his storm, and on Friday night, I have to give the performance of my life.
The next two days are a blur of frantic preparation and escalating anxiety. I try to immerse myself in my studies but West’s words, his texts, his presence are a constant, insidious hum. He sends me another text the following morning.
West:
Dinner with Asher. Friday. 7 PM. Dress to impress. He appreciates effort.
Not a question, but a directive.
I spend hours in front of my closet, pulling out every dress I own, discarding them one by one. Nothing feels right. Everything feels too revealing, too demure, too… me. I need to be someone else. Someone confident, poised, utterly unfazed by the scrutiny of a man like Asher Monroe.
I finally settle on a deep emerald green dress, a color I rarely wear that clings to my curves in a way that feels both elegant and slightly provocative. It’s a dress that demands attention, a dress that says I belong in a room with powerful men. I pair it with stilettos Chloe picked out, their sharp heels adding a few inches of much-needed height and a surprising sense of power.
I practice my smile in the mirror; A soft, affectionate smile for West. A polite, respectful smile for Asher. A confident, intelligent smile for myself. Each one feels like a lie.
