The lectures end abruptly, like a sharp knock on a table. The final slide goes dark—and I'm already on my feet. Backpack over my shoulder, hair gathered with my fingers on the run, as if that could bring some order not only outside, but inside too.
Giselle and I burst out onto the street, blinded by daylight and freedom.
"Finally," she exhales. "I thought that professor would never shut up."
I laugh, but my thoughts are already elsewhere.
Finn Monroe is waiting for us by the entrance. Tall, well-groomed, self-assured—the textbook golden boy. Giselle transforms instantly. Her smile softens, her shoulders relax.
She throws herself into his arms as if the whole world has finally snapped into place.
I watch and catch myself feeling something strange—not envy, no. More like… curiosity. What is it like when everything is simple?
"Work again, Victoria?" Giselle asks, without letting go of Finn.
"Yes. Just for two hours."
I try to sound light. Casual. But I see it—she's jealous. And she doesn't hide it.
Easy hours, an office, air conditioning, a prestigious company—the dream student job. A winning lottery ticket that somehow landed in my hands.
"Look," Giselle nods to the side. "You've already got a welcome committee."
I turn.
A car stands a little apart. Black. Too expensive for a university parking lot. Too… Christian.
Giselle smirks.
"Well, go on. Don't keep fate waiting."
Finn gives me a polite smile. I wave back—and run.
My heart speeds up. Why is it always like this?
I slip into the seat. Christian looks at me with a smile that holds something dangerous. And… delight? I like that more than I'm ready to admit.
A quick kiss. Almost innocent. But our lips linger a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
The car pulls away.
"So you're my personal driver now?" I ask mockingly as I fasten my seatbelt.
"I have a vested interest in your job," he replies calmly. "I don't want you fired for chronic lateness."
"I thought you just wanted to make my life easier."
He keeps his eyes on the road. One corner of his mouth twitches.
"Anything is possible, Victoria."
I hate it when he says things like that.
And I adore it.
I turn toward him, crossing my legs.
"And what will you do," I say with deliberate nonchalance, "if I suddenly fall in love with your friend Andre?"
A pause.
A micro-pause—but I catch it.
"Oh," he drawls. "Victoria has decided to play love games?"
He shoots me a glance. Sharp. Reading.
"Trying to make me jealous?"
Damn it.
"I see you're hard to fool," I smile.
"Of course, my dear Victoria."
It's the first time he's called me dear.
And it burns.
As if he brushed an exposed nerve by accident—and pretended not to notice.
"I'm a big boy," he continues. "I know how to play those games."
Now I'm angry.
"Perfect," I say playfully. "Then I'll flirt with Andre. I'll see how completely not jealous you'll be."
I wait for a reaction.
But all I get is a smirk. Cynical. Calm.
He knows. He knows everything. About my feelings for him. About my indifference to Andre. About this game where I pretend I don't care.
Damn you, Christian.
But your indifference is a mistake.
I know how to play at love too.
The car stops. My building.
I lean in and kiss him again—bolder this time. Testing the boundaries. Testing myself.
"See you tonight," I whisper.
And I slip out of the car, almost running toward the entrance.
My heart is pounding.
I'm deeper and deeper in the game.
And I like it.
**
The elevator stops abruptly, as if putting a full stop at the end of a sentence.
I step out first—fast, confident. My heels sound too loud in this sterile office corridor. Or maybe it just feels that way. My heart still hasn't settled after the drive.
My workstation is neat, impersonal. Someone else's.
Almost like me here.
"Go through these files today," Andre says without looking up, pointing at a stack of folders.
His tone is businesslike. Cold.
But his gaze… his gaze betrays him.
I feel it on my skin.
I give him a smile—not bold, not provocative. The dangerous one. Just a shade warmer than acceptable. Then I deliberately turn sideways, almost like a dance step, letting the fabric of my skirt follow the movement of my hips.
Look. But don't touch.
I don't break eye contact as I settle into the chair. Legs crossed. Slowly. Too slowly for office etiquette. With a light motion, I turn toward the desk—and only then do I allow myself to "disappear" into work.
The work is boring.
Numbers. Reconciliations. Tables. Signatures.
I check, enter, double-check—on autopilot.
My thoughts keep snagging. I can't focus on anything except his presence behind me. Except the way his eyes sometimes linger on my neck. On my wrists. On how I bite my lip when I concentrate.
Two hours fly by unnoticed.
"That's it. Done for today," I say, more to myself than to him, and stand up.
At that exact moment Andre is beside me. Too close. His shadow falls over me like a sudden cloud.
He looks enigmatic. Almost lost.
"Do you want me to drive you home?"
"I'd love that," I answer immediately. Too quickly. And I smile.
Edward Cortland steps out of his office. His gaze is a cold scanner. He assesses us. Me. Andre.
"Andre," he says sternly, raising a finger. "You're getting married in three months."
The words drop like a weight.
Andre exhales. His shoulders sag. Something inside him cracks—just slightly, but I see it.
We walk out to the parking lot.
A red convertible gleams like a challenge. Like a teenage dream bought with far too much money.
"Nice car," I say, letting my gaze slide along the line of the body. "Drive a lot of girls in it?"
"Yeah… quite a few," he smirks.
"But now you're a fiancé," I add softly. "Serious. Responsible."
I see how it grates on him. I can almost hear his teeth grind.
I get in. He starts the engine—the car lunges forward.
"You drive fast," I say, with a hint of fear he clearly takes as a compliment.
"I did karting since I was a kid. A car is an extension of my body."
"I see," I smile. "So a little fear helps you seduce girls?"
"Exactly, Victoria."
A pause.
"Andre… do you not like Sofia at all?"
He shoots me a quick glance. Stunned. But he answers.
"She's beautiful. From a wealthy family. But her need for control… her games. It scares me."
I remember the yacht. Her strange, almost predatory smile. Her words. Her reasoning. Her commanding tone.
Yes. There is cruelty in her.
"And do you like me?" I ask bluntly.
He's shocked. Truly. The steering wheel jerks.
"You… you're a good girl," he says too quickly, pretending indifference.
I gently place my hand on his thigh. Innocently. Almost by accident. I slide it a little higher—and feel him freeze. Feel his ears burn. See his eyes darken.
And then I pull my hand away at once.
I look ahead. At the road. As if nothing happened.
The silence thickens. He keeps glancing at me, not knowing what to say, what to do, how to behave.
That's it. You're caught.
Soon you'll think about me more than about your fiancée.
Soon you'll wait for messages I won't send.
Soon you'll run.
And I… I'll decide later why I need this at all.