2

“He didn’t make you come again, did he?”

Chantelle’s voice cracked through the apartment like a fire alarm — shrill, merciless, and impossible to ignore at 8:42 a.m. The kind of question that didn’t care if the neighbors were listening.

I perched on the kitchen counter, oversized shirt hanging off my shoulder, legs swinging idly. Coffee mug clutched in both hands like it was the only stable relationship I had left.

My silence was apparently answer enough.

“I heard your stupid rose buzzing the whole night,” Chantelle added with a wicked grin, yanking oat milk from the fridge and shaking it like it had personally offended her.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Can you not announce that to the entire building?”

“Girl, please.” She flipped her curls over one bare shoulder, standing there in a sports bra and satin boxers like she owned the sun. “Half this building’s got a vibrator named after a flower or a fruit. Tulip, rose, mango, peach. If yours hums, welcome to the club.”

I groaned, burying my face in my mug.

Chantelle Rodriguez: my roommate since freshman year, my opposite in every way. She was fire — loud, reckless, radiant. Winged liner sharp enough to commit a felony, lips painted in shades of defiance, clothes that said “look at me” and a body that demanded you listen. She wore pleasure like perfume, unapologetic and intoxicating.

And, of course, she was getting regularly railed by Jaden Chase — six-foot-four basketball captain with thighs carved like oak and stamina that could power a small city. Their situationship was built on broken condoms, back scratches, and orgasms loud enough to be mistaken for late-night karaoke.

Meanwhile, I had Evan . Or maybe didn’t anymore.

I sighed, staring into my coffee like it held answers. “We got into a fight last night.”

Chantelle arched a brow, smirking like she already knew the punchline. “Shocking. Let me guess. You tried to spice things up, and Mr. Missionary had a meltdown?”

My silence stretched, betraying me.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god, did he? What’d you ask for, Selena ? Hair pulling? A dirty word? Eye contact?”

“I asked him to choke me,” I muttered into my mug.

The oat milk hit the counter with a dramatic thunk. “Yes, bitch! That’s what I’m talking about.” Then she narrowed her gaze, sharp. “Wait. Did he at least try?”

“No.” My voice shrank. “He rolled off like I’d just confessed to murder. Said I was sick. Called me into freak shit. Told me I needed therapy.”

Chantelle froze. Then snorted so hard it echoed. “Therapy? Please. That man probably thinks foreplay is taking his socks off.” She shook her head, curls bouncing like punctuation. “What did he actually say?”

I swallowed. “Word for word? ‘You want to be abused during sex now?’”

Chantelle slammed the milk so hard the carton nearly burst. “That’s rich. Coming from a man who thinks fingering is a personality trait. His dick’s got the charisma of a soggy breadstick.”

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. Too loud, too sharp, too close to crying.

Because here’s the truth: Evan had been my safety net. My comfort zone. The one predictable thing in a life that was always too heavy for me to carry.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, rubbing my forehead. “It wasn’t even about the choking. I just wanted… more. To feel something. Anything.”

Chantelle’s gaze softened, losing its edge. “Sel, it’s not you. Evan ’s ego is bigger than his dick, and somehow still less useful. You deserve someone who listens. Someone who makes you feel wanted, not… serviced.”

I snorted. “You’re the worst.”

“No, babe. I’m honest.” Her grin was all teeth. “And I’m glad you’re done with that discount Ken doll. He was the human equivalent of saltless fries.”

The truth clung to me like secondhand smoke. I’d never dated anyone before Evan . Never had the chance. While other girls flirted at lockers, danced at homecoming, fumbled through first kisses, I was packing lunches for my sisters and forging my father’s signature on school slips.

Dad worked twelve-hour shifts at the steel plant, came home with soot in his hair and silence in his lungs. It was always me who filled the gaps.

So when Evan wanted me, I let myself be wanted. Predictable. Safe. A role I knew how to play.

But safety and satisfaction aren’t synonyms. And now, staring at Chantelle — all fire and freedom — I realized how starved I was.

“Come on.” She downed the last of her oat milk straight from the carton, grabbed her keys, and was already halfway to the door. “Class in ten. Let’s go drown in literature and repression.”

I slid off the counter, grabbed my bag, and followed. The morning sun hit sharp, my thoughts dragging behind like an anchor.

The walk to campus was brisk, leaves crunching underfoot, students buzzing around us like bees. I tried to focus on the normal chaos. Tried not to replay Evan ’s disgust on a loop in my skull.

Chantelle leaned in, conspiratorial. “Did you hear the rumors?”

“What rumors?”

“Our new professor.” Her grin was dangerous. “Apparently he’s hot. Like, scary hot. And terrifying. Jaden said he made a grad student cry last semester just by correcting their syntax.”

“Sounds delightful,” I muttered, already dreading whatever academic sadist we’d drawn this semester.

But then he walked in.

And the room fell silent.

Not polite silence. Not ‘class is starting’ silence. No — this was prey instinct silence. Conversations cut mid-word. Pens froze. Even Jessica, who couldn’t shut up about her latest weekend hookup, sat with her mouth hanging open.

He didn’t just enter. He consumed the space.

Sharp black button-down that clung to muscle, sleeves rolled just enough to show veined forearms. Perfectly tailored slacks that whispered old money. Leather briefcase that landed on the desk with a decisive thud.

No smile. No warmth. No “Hi, I’m your new professor” niceties. Just pure, distilled authority.

“Literature,” he said, voice smooth like aged whiskey but slicing like glass. “Is the science of manipulation. I am Professor Alessandro Martinez. Let’s begin.”

My heart stuttered, traitorously.

He was older — late thirties, maybe early forties — but not in the pathetic “cool professor” way. No sneakers with suits. No fake slang. This was control incarnate. Stern jawline, hair dark with threads of silver at his temples like medals earned in battle. Eyes so sharp I felt them strip me bare in seconds.

He didn’t scan the room like other professors. He dissected it. Each gaze surgical, precise, cutting weaknesses into the open air.

I gripped my notebook tighter.

Fifteen minutes into his lecture on Victorian power dynamics, my phone buzzed.

Don’t look. Every neuron screamed it. Don’t you dare.

But muscle memory betrayed me. I glanced down.

A DM. Private account. One blurry photo.

Evan .

His tongue shoved down some brunette’s throat in the hallway outside Delta Phi.

Caption: “Is this your boyfriend? Sorry, thought you should know.”

The air punched out of my lungs. A gasp tore free, too loud, too obvious.

Every head turned.

And then his eyes — those arctic, dissecting eyes — locked on me.

“If something is more important than my lecture,” Professor Martinez said, voice cutting through me like a scalpel, “please. Share with the class.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Then show it by leaving quietly. And don’t return until you’re capable of basic attention.”

The silence was brutal. Even the hum of the AC seemed to hold its breath.

Chantelle’s hand found mine under the desk, squeezing like a lifeline. But the damage was done. Professor Martinez had already dismissed me. Branded me irrelevant.

After class, Chantelle yanked me into the stairwell, eyes blazing. “You okay?”

I just showed her the photo.

Her jaw tightened to steel. “Fuck him. We’re going out tonight.”