LOGINHis three friends turn to me almost in unison, their attention shifting with a sharpness that makes me feel momentarily assessed, weighed. The one who had laughed earlier steps forward first, extending a glass of red wine toward me with an easy confidence that mirrors the man standing far too close at my side. “Tristan said you liked red,” he says, amusement flickering in his eyes like he’s already in on a joke I haven’t been told yet. I glance sideways at the man who's plastered against me and find him already looking at me. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something that lingers just a second too long. My eyebrow lifts before I can stop it, a silent question passing between us. Have you been talking about me? His gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it darkens slightly, like he enjoys the implication. “I do,” I say instead, turning back as I take a sip. The wine is rich, heavier than anything I’m used to, the taste grounding me. “This is Matthew,” Mr. Madden says,
“What if he’s there?” I ask aloud, my voice barely more than a whisper. I glance at myself in the long mirror, legs slightly lifted as Sam crouches before me, expertly fastening the straps of my expensive heels. Each ribbon winds carefully around my ankle, and he adjusts them with precision, making sure everything is symmetrical, perfect. “Then Mr. Madden will probably murder him,” Sam murmurs, eyes still down, focused on the strap. “For real. If he threatened an immigration officer just for looking at you…” Sam moves on to admire my freshly painted nails, then my hair, adjusting a stray curl here, a wave there, until the half-updo falls just right. He even places the small diamond raven at the back, sparkling faintly in the soft light—a gift he 'found' and insisted I wear tonight. My dress fits like a second skin. Black fabric hugs my waist, traces the seductive curve of my breasts, and dips low across my back. It reveals more than I usually show, but it doesn’t feel too sexy. I
“This is a suite,” Sam says the moment we step inside ou room, his voice filled with disbelief. “This is one hundred percent a suite. Look at the size of this room.” My gaze drifts slowly across the space, taking everything in piece by piece, like my mind needs time to process it all. The room is far larger than I expected—larger than any hotel room I’ve ever been in. A four-poster bed dominates the left side, its dark wood frame carved with intricate details, draped in deep red and gold sheets that look almost too luxurious to touch. The fabric catches the dim lighting, giving off a soft, warm sheen. Across from it sits a freestanding bathtub, positioned right beside a tall window that overlooks the narrow street below. The curtains are half drawn, letting in just enough of the outside world to remind me where we are—though it already feels far away. There’s a seating area near the fireplace, plush couches arranged in a way that invites you to sink into them and stay there for ho
The officer looks at me. Then at my passport. Then back at me again, slower this time, like he’s trying to peel something off my face that isn’t there. “I might have to take you to the back,” he says, voice low, deliberate. Something cold slides down my spine. My face falters before I can stop it. He’s built like a wall—broad shoulders, thick arms, weapons hanging off his belt proudly. Like he uses them. Like he enjoys it. His entire presence feels wrong, like standing too close to a storm you can’t outrun. But then he smiles a crooked smile, probably meant to soothe me, but my nerves skyrocket even more. Because it's a smile that lets me know that he means it in a flirty way. “Is there an issue?” A hand lands on my lower back. Firm. Warm. Possessive. The officer’s gaze drops to the contact, lingers there for a beat too long, then lifts again—sharper now, more alert. “You’re the teacher?” The hand disappears from my body. The officer hums, squaring his shoulders as if he’s ju
I wake to a flash. It cuts through the haze of sleep, sharp and intrusive, and my eyes blink open slowly, struggling to focus. For a second, everything is blurred—shapes, shadows, soft light filtering through the cabin—but then it settles. Sam is standing in front of me. Holding his phone. Pointed directly at me. Did he just take a picture of me? I frown, my brain still catching up, irritation flickering through the fog—and then it hits me. Oh. My stomach drops. I’m holding onto Mr. Madden’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded, my fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, nails half digging in. My head is pressed against his shoulder, tucked into the curve of him like I belong there. And he— He’s leaning into me. His head rests partly on top of mine, his breathing slow and even, deep in sleep. Mr. Madden is asleep. On me. We’re tangled together in a way that feels far too intimate. The armrest between us has been completely sacrificed, crushed under the wei
We make it to the airport—and onto the plane—without anything going wrong, which honestly feels like a miracle considering the chaos we left behind. Mr. Madden does tip the driver, and the man responds with not one, not two, but three consecutive bows, each one deeper than the last, like we’ve just funded his entire retirement. The plane, however… the plane is something else. It doesn’t even feel real. It’s not just spacious—it’s indulgent. Soft lighting, wide leather seats, polished surfaces that gleam under the dim glow, everything designed for comfort in a way that feels almost excessive. Like this isn’t just travel—it’s a statement. Three flight attendants greet us the moment we step inside, all dressed in perfectly tailored dark red suits, their smiles professional but warm, their movements smooth and practiced. Mr. Madden exhales the second he steps in, already looking like he’s bracing himself. His gaze sweeps over us—over the noise, the movement, the immediate chaos we se
“Hey, pretty,” my sister says with an appraising smile as she tugs a strand of my long brown hair.“Hey,” I reply, stifling a yawn.The long nights are finally starting to catch up with me. It’s only a diner, but this place is known for staying open deep into the night. We get the late crowd. The a
I can’t prove that he’s watching me.But I can feel it.The sensation crawls along the back of my neck like a whisper I can’t quite hear, like a pair of eyes lingering just a second too long.The dark stranger in the corner of the diner has become a strangely permanent figure in my life. At first,
He clicks on a button of his laptop and the grading rubric appears on the board.“You’ll start with the case summary,” Mr. Madden says. “The victims, the location and time frames of the murders, key characteristics of the offender’s behavior, and the known details about the social and economic envi
He’s talking to Nick when we enter the classroom.Several students are already seated, but nobody seems interested in their books. Every pair of eyes is fixed on the front of the room, where our new hot teacher stands behind his desk with his arms crossed.Mr. Madden.He doesn’t look up when we wal







