Worst of all?
Cristiano Wright saw us.
Nick and me. In the hallway.
His eyes locked with mine. His gaze—cold, unreadable, razor-sharp. He didn’t say a word.
But his silence screamed.
It happened right after that goddamn meeting.
After the too-white office with its fake plants and real judgment.
After the smiling ethics teacher who spoke like she was brushing my hair but kept twisting it until it hurt. After the clipboard scribbles, after the word inappropriate floated between us like a curse no one dared to say out loud.
After I walked out with my skin buzzing and my stomach in knots, wondering if everyone already knew.
I didn’t even make it five steps from the office before I saw him.
Nick.
Leaning against the wall, scrolling his phone like he didn’t just rearrange his whole lunch break to wait for me. Because of course he did.
He looked up, caught sight of me, and immediatel
We hadn’t even stepped out of the car yet, and Mr. Wright was already looking at Ethan like he’d just been handed a death sentence wrapped in glitter.His arms were crossed. His jaw—tight enough to cut stone. His expression? The literary equivalent of discovering his carefully curated novel had been replaced with a neon-pink comic strip titled “FUNLANDYLAND.”“You brought me to an amusement park?” he said, voice clipped, eyes cold, like Ethan had just insulted Shakespeare to his face.“Surprise!” Ethan beamed, radiating chaos.“I told you I wanted peace.” Mr. Wright’s tone sounded like it belonged at a funeral, preferably Ethan’s.“And I gave you pieces,” Ethan declared dramatically, “of joy! Of excitement! Of your lost youth!”Mr. Wright didn’t respond. Just turned his head ever-so-slowly with a look that could vaporize a planet. Ethan, the unbothered phoenix, only grinned wider.I, in the backseat, shrank deeper into my hoodie.The tension in the car was so thick I could've roasted
I chewed toast like it held the answers to life, love, and algebra.Across from me, Ethan was already done with round one and piling up his second plate like a man training for the Hunger Games. Mr. Wright—Professor Wright—was sipping black coffee with all the serenity of a man who’d seen war, and now preferred eggs over people.And me?I was trying not to fall into the unholy emotional blender that was this kitchen.Ethan wiped his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and smirked.“You know, I think I’ve found your true calling.”“Chaos?” I muttered.“No.” He pointed at Mr. Wright like he was Vanna White showing off a prize. “Househusband.”Mr. Wright choked slightly on his coffee.“Excuse me?”“I mean, look at you,” Ethan gestured, wildly animated. “You cook. You clean. You scold me. You tolerate my stupidity. You’re already halfway there. Can be a good husband material!”I blinked. “Oh my God.”“You two are a rom-com waiting to happen,” I mumbled before my brain could filter my mouth.
It was warm. Too warm.My skin buzzed with something electric, like the air before a storm. Someone was standing too close. Breathing too slow.And then—His breath. Right near my ear. Soft. Tempting."Say it, Alina..." he whispered, voice low and sinful. “Say you want me.”My fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Mr. Wright—Cristiano—he was there, right in front of me, his hands pressed against the wall behind me, trapping me like a secret.Our lips were inches apart.His eyes—dark, unreadable—burned into mine. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear the silence between us.I could taste him already. My lips parted, slightly. Barely.So close. Just a little closer—“Alina.”A voice. Real.“Alina, wake up.”No. No no no no—just a few seconds more—I groaned. Twitched. The dream began to dissolve like fog in sunlight.“Alina, I swear to God—”“Go away, Satan,” I muttered from under the blanket, still clinging to the remnants of that dream like it was the last blanket of warm
I followed Mr. Wright through the dimly lit hallway, trailing a few steps behind, the soft hush of my footsteps swallowed by the plush floor beneath.The house was quiet. Too quiet.No creaking. No wind. Just the soft hum of the distant AC and the sound of his polished shoes tapping rhythmically ahead.I should’ve been scared.But I wasn’t.Because walking behind him felt safe. Even if everything about this place screamed rich, powerful, secretive—he felt steady. Like the anchor I didn’t ask for but somehow found myself needing.My fingers brushed the cold wall as I walked. Distracted. Half in a daze.And then—THUD.My body jolted forward, crashing straight into something unyielding and warm.Shit.It wasn’t a wall.It was his back.His tall, solid, infuriatingly built back.I bounced off him like a confused pinball and stumbled two steps backward, arms flailing to steady myself.He hadn’t even moved.Hadn’t even budged.“FUCK—” I yelped, grabbing my forehead, mortified. “I—I didn’t
So apparently, I was invisible now.Ethan and Mr. Wright—sorry, Cristiano “Secret Billionaire” Wright—had slipped into their little bromantic universe. Chatting. Laughing. Sipping their beers like they were at some rooftop bar in Tokyo instead of lounging in a whole-ass mansion while I sat there like an unpaid extra in their love story.If they were going to enjoy their boys’ love romcom moments in front of me, what was the point of dragging me here? Could’ve just dumped me at the dorm gates and gone on a honeymoon or something.Sighing, I pulled out my phone, popped in one earbud, and let the reels flood my brain with serotonin. Fashion hacks. Street food ASMR. A cat barking like a dog. Classic internet chaos. The holy trinity.It was soothing.Until I realized… I was staring at him.Mr. Wright.Not Professor Wright—the cold, intimidating man with those deadly critiques and that terrifyingly calm voice in class.Nope.Now?His sleeves were rolled up, blazer discarded, and his tie sl
“Is this even a home!?”I practically screamed as the car pulled into the underground garage like we were parking inside the Batcave.“Bro—are you a second-generation freaking billionaire or something?! Because this—this is not a house. This is a whole-ass lifestyle!”Ethan just smirked in his seat like he was used to it. Mr. Wright stayed quiet, eyes straight ahead, like he didn’t just casually pull up to a property that looked like it belonged in a Forbes documentary.The engine died. Silence fell.We stepped out.And yeah—my jaw? Unhinged. Hanging somewhere around my ankles.I gawked like a tourist, head tilting all the way back just to take in the absurd number of floors. The exterior was all sleek black stone, polished wood, and warm amber lighting that made it look like a tech billionaire’s spiritual retreat. Minimalist. Expensive. Intimidatingly clean.A vertical garden stretched up the side wall like nature itself was hired as a decorator. Everything screamed money—but whisper