I don’t answer. I just walk past him, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floor towards the kitchen. He follows, his presence a heavy shadow at my back.
Breakfast is laid out on the sleek, black island: fresh fruit, pastries, and a steaming mug of coffee. My coffee. He even remembered how I take it; black, no sugar. The small detail is another insidious layer of his control, a reminder of how much he observes, how much he knows.
I sit on a high stool, gripping the warm mug, trying to project an air of indifference. He sits opposite me, watching, always watching.
“Your notes are in the library,” he says, gesturing to a closed door off the living room. “We can start after breakfast. Unless you’d prefer a tour?”
“I’d prefer to go home,” I retort, taking a defiant sip of coffee.
He smiles, a slow, infuriating curve of his lips. “We’ve already established that’s not an option. So, which will it be? Study, or tour?”
The choice is an illusion. Both lead to the same outcome: more time with him, more opportunities for him to assert his control. “Study,” I bite out. At least with my books, I can pretend to be in my own world.
The library is vast, lined with shelves of leather-bound books that look more decorative than read. My laptop is open on a large mahogany desk, my notes spread out neatly beside it. He had even plugged in my phone. The meticulousness of his control is suffocating.
I try to lose myself in the complex pathways of the immune system, but his presence is a constant distraction. He sits across from me, not reading, not working, just watching. Every so often, he’ll lean forward.
“That’s a Type IV hypersensitivity Kinsley, not Type III. Look at the cytokine mediation.”
His voice is calm, authoritative, and infuriatingly correct. He’s not just watching; he’s reading over my shoulder, absorbing my material with an ease that makes my own hard-won knowledge feel inadequate. He’s a business major, but his scientific mind is sharp and intuitive. It’s the one thing about him I can’t entirely hate.
Hours pass in a tense, silent study session. Punctuated only by his occasional, accurate corrections. My concentration is shot. I feel like a lab rat under his microscope.
Around noon, he stands. “Lunch, and then we can continue.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, pushing my chair back. I need to move. I need to breathe.
He raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t eaten since last night. You need to maintain your strength, Kinsley. Especially with your… condition.”
The words hang in the air, cold and sharp.My condition.My blood runs cold. The room seems to tilt. He knows. He knows about my Bipolar II. The carefully guarded secret, the vulnerability I shield from almost everyone, is known to him. The way Blair had referenced it, the way he had looked at me when I was struggling… it all clicks into place.
And then another, more horrifying realization dawns. The medicine he gave me that night of the party, when I was spiraling. He had offered it so casually, so reassuringly. He knew exactly what I needed., he knew exactly what he was doing.
My anger, which had been simmering, ignites into a roaring inferno. “My condition?” I hiss, my voice trembling with fury. “How do you know about my condition? You’ve been researching me, haven’t you? You’ve been digging into my medical history!”
He doesn’t flinch. His expression is calm, almost serene. “I do my due diligence, Kinsley. You’re an interesting subject, and I don’t go into anything unprepared.”
“You gave me medication!” I accuse, the memory of his calm, knowing gaze when he handed me the pill making my stomach churn. “You knew exactly what you were doing!”
“I saw you struggling,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “I offered you a solution. You took it. You felt better.” He takes a step closer, his eyes dark and intense. “Or are you afraid that if I care for you, if I ensure you’re eating, sleeping, taking your medication, you might start to like it?”
I slap his hand away, the sharp crack echoing in the silent room. “I hate you!”
His smile is slow, predatory. “No, you don’t. You hate that you can’t hate me. You hate that I see you, Kinsley. All of you. The brilliant, fiery woman, and the storm that rages inside. And you hate that I’m not afraid of it. I’m fascinated by it. I want to understand it. I want to control it.”
He steps back, leaving me trembling, my chest heaving. “Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I spend the next fifteen minutes pacing the library, my mind a whirlwind of fury and fear. He’s right. I hate that he sees me. I hate that he’s not afraid. And I hate that a part of me, a small, traitorous part, is drawn to the terrifying intensity of his gaze.
Lunch is a gourmet meal delivered by a silent, uniformed assistant. I pick at my food, my appetite gone. He eats with a quiet efficiency, his eyes occasionally flicking to me.
The afternoon is a repeat of the morning: forced study, punctuated by his unnervingly accurate insights and my simmering resentment. By late afternoon, my head aches, and my eyes burn.
“I need a break,” I finally say, pushing my books away. “I need fresh air.”
He considers me for a moment, then nods. “Alright. There’s a private terrace upstairs. We can go up there.”
The terrace is breathtaking. It’s a sprawling expanse of manicured greenery, comfortable seating, and a stunning panoramic view of the city. The wind whips my hair around my face, a welcome, cleansing sensation. I walk to the edge, gripping the cool metal railing. Trying to absorb the vastness of the sky, to feel small and insignificant again, to escape the suffocating presence of the man beside me.
