Obey me, Dean (Short Story )

Aria’s POV I wasn’t supposed to be there. Not at the Wolfe mansion. Not in Ivy’s vintage Dior. And definitely not in the west wing hallway where the lights were dimmed just enough to scream *wrong turn*. But tell that to the vodka in my bloodstream and the God complex I’d developed since being sentenced to Bellmere like it was some kind of elite prison cell wrapped in ivy. I blame the heels. Ivy’s were a half-size too small, and after two hours of mingling with rich kids and wannabe political heirs who all reeked of generational wealth, I needed air—or a scene. Maybe both. That’s how I ended up slipping past a red velvet rope like it wasn’t even there. One wrong turn. One open door. One choice that changed everything. The room was low-lit, warm-toned, and thick with a tension I didn’t understand until it was too late. The scent of sandalwood and leather hit me first, followed by a sharp click of something metallic. Chains? No. That had to be my imagination. But th

Aria’s POV: I was late. Not fashionably. Not dramatically. Just enough that my heart was pounding when I knocked. Wolfe didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. That would’ve been too easy. I tried the handle. Unlocked. Inside, his office was empty—except for the envelope waiting on his desk with my name written in black calligraphy. Another envelope. Another game. I didn’t hesitate. Not this time. I opened it with trembling fingers. Go to Room 207. Now. Do not knock. Do not speak. Obey. That was it. One line. No signature. I knew where Room 207 was, my body already moved before my brain could argue. My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears as I climbed the marble steps of the east building. Room 207 was tucked at the end of a silent hallway. The door looked ordinary, wooden and dark. I stared at it for a moment before I twisted the knob. It was dim inside. Curtains drawn. One long table at the center. No chairs. And him—standing at the head of it, hands clasped behi

Aria’s POV: For two whole days, I didn’t see him. Not in the halls. Not in the office. Not even on campus. It was like Wolfe had vanished. And maybe that had been the point. After the contract. After the sex. After Sloan Maddox and the closet and the cold truth hanging between us like a loaded gun—maybe we both needed a break. So I did the one thing I had been avoiding since Bellmere began. I went home. ******* The Lancaster townhouse sat like a fortress on the Upper East Side, white stone and steel gates and the kind of polished silence that screamed money. My sister Ivy met me at the door. Perfect as ever. Hair curled. Lip gloss on. Her phone glued to her hand. “You’re alive,” she said, barely looking up. “Surprised?” I asked, stepping inside. “Considering Dad almost pulled you out of Bellmere last week? Yeah.” I blinked. “What?” Ivy finally looked at me. “You really didn’t check your email, did you?” Apparently, while I had been learning how to kneel

Aria's POV: The mirror didn’t lie. But I couldn’t get myself to believe what I was seeing. I looked..stunning. My heart raced as I tried on the clothes Ivy picked for me. According to the dress code, the black crop top fit my body perfectly, clinging to my ample breasts. The mini skirt I wore hugged my curves, stopping above my thighs; it fit perfectly against my firm backside. I couldn't help but admire myself and how the miniskirt showcased my shape. "Wow, you look amazing, Aria," Ivy said as she burst into the room, fully dressed, her energy lighting up the space. Her silhouette was both delicate and strong, the crop top highlighting the curve of her back and shoulders. The way the fabric clung to her chest emphasized her body but also her power. She moved with a fluid grace, the crop top a testament to her confidence. The shape of her breasts were rounded but not as busty as mine. "Do I really need to go?" I asked, a cloud of worry washing over me. I felt uneasy

Aria’s POV What the hell was this motherfucker doing here? I had hoped he couldn’t tell it was me and he couldn’t .. but what if he figured out soon? The thought sent a jolt of panic through me. Standing before us was the Devil himself—the man who had ruined my life. He wore a fitted yellow shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing just enough of his toned chest to be infuriatingly distracting. His pants were impeccably tailored, matching his polished brown shoes. With effortless ease, he swept his wavy hair back, the gesture exuding a casual arrogance that made my stomach twist. *God, he was handsome.* It was an unwelcome observation. He looked younger than he had any right to, his sharp features and confident stance commanding attention. I hated that I couldn’t tear my eyes away. *This was the man who had slept with my best friend.* The thought was a knife to the ribs. I told myself I didn’t care—but the ache in my chest betrayed me. “Yes, we’d love to,” I