Alicia's POV
Xavier thinks mercy is his idea.
That's the flaw.
Men like him always believe restraint belongs to them alone — that because they could be cruel, every moment of gentleness is proof of control.
They never ask who's watching.
I don't interrupt him the night Aylia leaves his house.
I don't text.I don't call.I don't even acknowledge what he's just done.
Because the fastest way to make someone defensive is to show them you're paying attention.
Instead, I wait.
Power never rushes.
By morning, the school already knows something shifted.
Not because Xavier announced it — he never does — but because patterns change. He arrives earlier. Leaves later. He doesn't look for Aylia.
Which tells me everything.
When a predator stops circling, it's because it's already inside the perimeter.
I sit with Camille and two others at lunch, watching the courtyard through the glass. Aylia crosses it alone, backpack hugged closer to her body than usual. Her head lifts once — instinctive, searching.
Not for me.
For him.
That's when Camille murmurs, "She's hooked."
"No," I correct softly. "She's destabilized."
Important difference.
"She doesn't look happy," Camille says.
I smile. "Neither does he."
And that's how I know it's time.
Xavier doesn't notice me approach after school.
He's leaning against his car, phone in hand, jaw tight, attention fractured. I can tell — he's replaying last night. Her politeness. Her hesitation. The way she thanked him like kindness was something fragile he'd handed her by mistake.
I slide into the passenger seat without asking.
He stiffens.
"That's rude," he says flatly.
"And yet," I reply, adjusting my sunglasses, "you didn't lock the door."
Silence.
He starts the engine.
We drive before he speaks.
"This isn't what we discussed," he finally says.
"I know."
"You went too far."
"No," I say lightly. "You did."
That gets his attention.
"I was careful," he snaps. "I didn't touch her. I didn't—"
"—hurt her?" I finish. "You don't need to."
He grips the steering wheel harder.
"She's not part of this," he says.
"There it is," I murmur. "That's the lie."
He doesn't answer.
So I let it unfold.
"You invited her into your house," I continue calmly. "You let your father talk to her. You showed her a version of yourself that doesn't exist in public."
"It exists," he snaps.
"Only when you want it to," I reply. "And now she's wondering which version is real."
He exhales sharply.
"That wasn't the plan."
I turn toward him slowly. "There was no plan. That's the problem."
We pull into a quiet side street. He kills the engine.
"You don't get to decide this," he says. "Not alone."
I smile.
"I already did."
That finally cracks him.
"What do you want, Alicia?" he asks coldly.
I don't answer right away.
Instead, I reach into my bag and pull out my phone. I scroll. Tap. Then turn the screen toward him.
A list.
Dates.Observations.Teachers she's been paired with.Times he's altered his routine to intersect hers.
"You're tracking me?" he asks.
"No," I reply. "I'm tracking inevitability."
His jaw tightens.
"You said this was about proving she didn't matter."
"And you said you were in control," I counter. "We were both wrong."
The silence stretches.
Then — carefully — I set the terms.
"This isn't a game anymore," I say softly. "It's a contract."
He scoffs. "I don't make bets."
"You already did," I reply. "You just didn't name it."
I lean closer.
"If Aylia Zehir falls for you," I say, voice almost kind, "you end it."
He doesn't react.
That worries me.
"And if she doesn't?" he asks.
I smile. "Then we learn something valuable."
"About what?"
"About how far you're willing to go," I say. "And whether you can stop yourself."
His voice drops. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm containing it," I correct. "Before it costs you more than you're willing to lose."
He laughs once — sharp, humorless.
"You think she's a weakness."
"No," I say. "I think she's a mirror."
That hits.
He looks away.
I press while he's off-balance.
"You don't have to hurt her," I add. "Not directly. Just don't save her when it's time."
He turns back sharply. "Save her from what?"
I hold his gaze.
"From realizing you were never safe to begin with."
The car feels too small.
Too intimate.
He doesn't agree.
He doesn't refuse.
Which is how it locks.
"This ends clean," he says finally. "No collateral."
I nod. "Of course."
We both know that's a lie.
When I step out of the car, I pause.
"One more thing," I say.
He looks at me.
"You don't get to pull away now," I continue. "If you hesitate again, I escalate."
"You don't have that authority."
I smile sweetly.
"You gave it to me when you let her walk out of your house thinking you were kind."
I close the door before he can respond.
Across the street, I see Aylia leaving the bus stop.
She looks smaller today.
That's good.
Smaller things break quieter.