Chapter 1: (L)ate

Fuck.

 

I'm late.

 

Again.

 

The curse is barely out of my mouth before I’m sprinting through the dark, deserted hallways of the academy, legs pumping as I race across campus. My short black skirt rides up with every stride, teasing the cold air against my thighs. The strap of my bag digs into my shoulder, the heavy contents bouncing wildly with every jarring step.

 

My chest heaves. My pulse roars in my ears.

 

A flash of white catches my eye as I glance down—shit. There’s a toothpaste stain smeared across the front of my once-pristine blouse. I don’t even remember getting it there. I must’ve been too busy running a brush through half my hair while juggling three textbooks, four notebooks, and a mouthful of pencil.

 

Yeah. There’s a pencil between my teeth right now.

 

At least I had time to brush. That’s a win, right?

 

The slap of my black, strappy ballerinas echoes against the glossy black marble, each step a frantic countdown toward whatever punishment waits for me at the end of this hallway.

 

I barely spare a glance around. No need to. I know these hallways too well. This isn’t just any university—it’s the university for the elite. The powerful. The obscenely rich. Their sons.

 

Not me. I'm a woman. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I’m not even considered worthy.

 

I'm nothing more than a little speck of dust in these halls. Unworthy of education, unworthy of basic rights. This is a school purely for rich men.

 

This academy is built for men. It breathes men. Every corner reeks of power, of legacy, of cruel ambition handed down through generations. These halls are lined with gilded portraits of male rulers, innovators, dictators—men who shaped the world with their iron will and razor-sharp minds.

 

The boys here are trained to follow in their footsteps.

 

Economics. Politics. Law. International strategy. Warfare. Linguistics. Sports. Negotiation. Technology.

 

They are handed the knowledge of the world like it's their birthright.

 

Not for me.

 

I have class, yes. But my class is about managing the household. Cleaning. Cooking. Table manners. Pleasing. Sex.

 

Our education is simple—we are trained to be submissive. Beautiful, obedient wives groomed to serve men who will go on to rule corporations, countries, even continents.

 

We are the future trophies of the powerful.

We are not meant to question.

We are meant to kneel.

 

A wife to a dominant.

 

Next to their wordly classes, the male students are being trained into perfect dominants. It's all about power here. Money and power. And how to get it. The fast way, the best way, the most inhumane way.

 

The marble around me screams sophistication, something I'm definitely not, and the paintings of the most powerful men of the world seem to laugh at me as my foot slips over a wet spot.

 

My ankle twist, but I manage to stay upright, and dash into the right hallway. The intricate decor changes instantly when I run into the female corridor. This is where the female classes are held.

 

Gone is the cold marble and echoing emptiness. Here, the floor is covered in plush, dark red carpet. Warm lights flicker along the walls like soft candlelight. Paintings of sensual women with bowed heads and parted lips line the corridor. The aesthetic is designed to soothe us. To coax us into submission. To lull us into forgetting the truth:

 

This hallway is a cage dressed in lace.

 

I pass a marble statue of a goddess—tall, serene, naked. Water drips down her stone breasts, cascading like tears. I don’t stop to look. I don’t have time.

 

The door to my classroom looms ahead. Closed.

 

Fuck.

 

Maybe I should've just faked a sickness.

 

But I already pulled that stunt three times this month. I’m out of get-out-of-jail cards, and I know it. If I skip again, the consequences won’t be a scolding or detention.

 

No. Here, the consequences are worse. The rich and famous will come for me.

 

If I’m kicked out, I go back to the streets. Back to the orphanage. Back to the violence.

 

Back to hell.

 

And hell—real hell—is where I came from.

 

The memories claw at the edges of my mind like hungry hands. I shove them down, swallow the bile rising in my throat, and try to breathe.

 

I can’t afford to mess this up.

 

If I'm thrown out of here, there is nothing for me. I'll never be free, I won't have a future. These people within these walls will make sure of that.

 

Do I knock? Or sneak in?

 

I choose the one that will bring me the most trouble if I'm found out. But there's a chance that I will not be caught, and I'll that bet any day.

 

I lower the door handle so softly, even I can't hear the click when it opens. Slower than I've ever moved, I push against the door and lower myself to a crouch. As still as I can be, I poke my head through.

 

The entire class, plus the teacher, are staring at me.

 

Fuck. Again.

 

My heart leaps into my throat. Panic seizes me. I scramble into the room and slam the door shut behind me, wincing at how loud it sounds.

 

“I—”

 

The pencil falls from my mouth and clatters to the floor like a damn symbol of my incompetence. A few girls snort behind their hands.

 

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, clutching my book that I didn't have time to stash into my bag like a shield. I catch the eyes of the female teacher. Most are male. “I overslept. I didn’t mean to—”

 

I breathe deeply.

 

Mrs. Hopson stands at the front of the room. Her rectangular glasses catch the fluorescent light, flashing white. She doesn’t say a word.

 

“Please don’t kick me out,” I beg. “I swear I’ll behave. I’ll be quiet. Please—”

 

“Silence.”

 

The voice is male. Sharp. Cold.

 

My head snaps to the side, locking onto the source.

 

Henry.

 

This is a female class, but sometimes the dominants of the students join their submissives. You see, even the male students are higher than the female teachers here. And they like to control the classes, see where the limits are. So when a male student gives you an order, you obey. Every female does. Even their own mothers.

 

I hold my tongue.

 

He’s lounging at the edge of the room like he owns the place, one arm draped casually over the back of his submissive’s chair. His blond hair is tousled in that ugly careless way. His eyes gleam with predatory amusement.

 

Emma sits beside him, her shoulders stiff and eyes glaring at me. A pink diamond-studded collar glitters around her throat. A bruise peeks out from under her sleeve.

 

That's what we have to wear when we are someone's submissive.

 

A collar. It's a sign that a girl is owned. That she is not to be touched by another. It's a warning and a trophy.

 

My throat is bare.

 

I am unclaimed. Unprotected. And very much alone.

 

“Danika.”

 

I look back at Henry, whose eyes are carefully studying me. I know what he sees. I did have time to look in the mirror this morning.

 

My school outfit, which consists of a short black shirt, tights, strappy ballerinas, a black tight shirt and a black blazer with golden lines on it. It's sexy. It's meant to be sexy.

 

My long brown hair is loose, falling around my face, some knots definitely still visible.

 

I'm a mess. But I also know he likes what he sees.

 

“Henry,” I shoot back evenly.

 

Instantly, his eyes narrow. No talk back. Ever. But since I have no dominant that can beat the crap out of me for stepping out of line, and since no male can touch me here, my attitude is well known in this university.

 

Oh, how they hate it. Oh, how they would love to beat me, to punish me. To hurt me.

 

I like to hurt their little egos.

 

I have to willingly accept a dominant. Yeah, right.

 

“Danika, Danika,” Henry says, rising to his feet, “The day you get a dominant is the day every male here celebrates.”

 

“Today’s not that day, Henry,” I reply coolly.

 

It happens fast. Too fast.

 

He snatches a ruler off Emma’s desk, strides toward me like a predator, and before I can move—

 

Crack.

 

The ruler slaps across my cheek with a sharp sting. My head jerks to the side. Hair whips across my face.

 

They can't touch me. With their hands. In very special circumstances, a dominant is able to put another submissive in their place in other ways. Henry has got a knack for hurting me. He's gotten creative over the last year with coming up ways to still 'touch' me.

 

Skin-to-skin contact with another submissive is an absolute no-go, even for the male students, but it is very important the female students learn to respect any male. Even beyond their own dominants.

 

I don’t flinch.

I don’t cry.

I won’t.

 

My jaw throbs as I clench it, pain radiating into my skull. Slowly, I turn back to meet his gaze.

 

Henry’s pupils are blown wide. His breathing is heavier now. There’s a dark thrill simmering just beneath his smirk.

 

He wants to be my dominant.

To claim me.

To own me.

But that’s never going to happen.

Not now. Not ever.

 

 

(Spoiler: Henry is NOT it)