Page 24 of Damsel in Disguise

Today marks my first day at Oxford University. My first class here, and of course, it must be his. Sharp at 12:30 p.m.

Curiosity has always been my strongest vice.

Pretending as a fresher—which I am, technically—I’ve already wandered through faculty corridors under the guise of innocent confusion. I snapped a photo of his schedule while acting as if I didn’t know where I was going. Days. Times. Lecture halls. Everything is neatly laid out here in his schedule like a non-negotiable invitation.

If I were a better hacker, I’d already be tracking his every step.

Maybe I should give it a try. After all, what’s the point of being an engineering student and the heiress of the CynoTech Group if I don’t use every advantage I have?

My classes end around five p.m.

Time slips differently on this campus. The stone buildings, the quiet authority in the air—it’s easy to linger, to exist without being rushed. I barely notice the hours pass by until my alarm vibrates in my pocket.

5:50 p.m. About time.

I head straight for the parking lot where my Ducati Panigale V4 waits. Currently, I’m not fully into my stalker mode—I’m not dressed for that. This is reconnaissance. I plan on making things look coincidental.

I’m a legally licensed biker now. Officially. Though I started learning to ride as soon as I arrived in England, nearly a year of disciplined practice led up to my final driving test. I passed just days before prom night.

Today is the first day I ride on the streets as an adult.

As a licensed rider.

And quite deliciously… as a certified stalker.

I’ve already checked out my bike from the parking lot. Everything’s perfect. Now all that’s left is to patiently wait.

I lean back with the visor pushed up and eyes fixed on the driveway.

Right at six, his car pulls out.

The moment it does, instinct takes over. I pull down the visor of my helmet on one side and swing my leg over the bike on the other.

The engine roars to life as I kick into gear. The vibration hums up my spine, it’s addicting and grounding.

Next, I take off after him.

I don’t rush. That would be too amateurish. I keep just far enough behind him so that I can blend into traffic and other anonymous riders swallowed by the late-afternoon flow.

The Ducati purrs beneath me, the engine’s vibration seeping into my thighs, my core, my pulse. Every shift of weight feels intimate, like I’m settling into a role I’ve rehearsed in my head a thousand times.

His Aston Martin glides through the streets with arrogant ease, black paint catching the dying sunlight like it knows it deserves the attention.

Oxford slips past in layers—stone and shadow, iron railings and narrowed streets. Seeing it from the saddle of my bike changes my entire point of view.

After all, it’s my first time. I pray not to end up in an accident in his record. That’d be absolutely pathetic.

The further we get from campus, the quieter the streets become. High-rise residential blocks replace duplexes or mansions. Trees arch overhead, shadows thickening as daylight thins.

We stop at a red light. I ease back, keeping another car between us. My fingers flex around the throttle, gloved and ready.

I imagine him inside that car—hands on the wheel, posture immaculate, jaw set the way it always is when he’s thinking.

Does he unwind after lectures? Or does he carry that same rigid control into every corner of his life?

The light turns green.

He accelerates smoothly. I follow a beat later.