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How the freakin’ hell did I let this asshole kiss me?
Sure, he forced himself on me. But let’s not kid ourselves here. I fucking liked it. My slut of a pussy was salivating from excitement. I probably would have fucked him had we not been interrupted.
OH, MY FUCKING GOD!
I find myself recoiling at the realization of my attraction to that delinquent dealer. It's a disturbing revelation that makes me cringe at my own feelings.
How could I possibly be drawn to someone like him?
I need to bury these emotions deep within me, to wrap them up tightly and dig a hole so deep that they'll never resurface. There's no way I can allow myself to revisit that place with him, to entertain the notion of beingentangled with someone so toxic.
Now, Zane, I can see myself with. He’s so damn gorgeous, and those light amber eyes flicker at me with interest every time I open my mouth. But I know his focus will be on keeping his scholarship and training for the next Olympics, which will be in two years. There’s no space in his head for a girlfriend.
And maybe that’s okay.
Nope. I won’t go there with him either.
Feelings develop. They continuously develop with me, and I can’t go there.
I push off the covers, sit up in bed, and sigh as I survey the stark simplicity of the room. Thoughts swirl in my mind about what might transpire with the dean this morning. My drug test came out clean, and I pleaded I had no idea there were drugs at the party.
I’m innocent.
But then, the horror of the situation sinks in.
The thought of expulsion is not just about facing my parents' anger – truth be told, they probably wouldn't even give a shit. No, the real terror lies in the prospect of returning to New York, where my father will undoubtedly use the opportunity to forge strategic business alliances and ‘marry me off’ as commercial collateral. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already identified a suitable match.
In the world I come from, marriage isn't about love or companionship; it's about upholding status and wealth. Women like me are mere pawns in a calculated game to maintain our privileged position. Our lives are dictated by social obligations and the perpetuation of lineage, and our existence is reduced to a series of lavish events that we attend over and over until the day we die.
I had hoped that coming here would offer a respite, a chance to find something different. But who am I kidding? I’m back in the same place as I was stuck in back in Manhattan. The same cycle, just a different location, but still trapped within the confines of the same society.
So I am very fucked either way, but three years here would at least give me some leverage to plan something before my time is up and my parents introduce me to whichever wealthy dick they choose to sell me to.
“Hi, I’m Evelyn Winters. I’m here to meet with Dean Carmichael,” I state, trying to maintain an air of composure despite the unease gnawing at my insides.
The receptionist shoots a disapproving glance at my t-shirt, and I return her stare with equal intensity.
“I recently DNF’d a book that used the wordunalive,” she vents her frustration.
Is she serious?
I look down at my white t-shirt printed with the word UNALIVE in large black block font.
Is she freaking serious?
I hadn’t given much thought to what I was wearing or even remember when I bought this shirt.
Wondering if her name is…hmm…I look at the plaque on her desk, and it says Rebecca Ward.
“It’s just a word.” I retort, unconcerned about her literary grievances.
“It's not a word. It's an unintelligent term coined from TikTok censorship slang,” she asserts with a deep frown.
“I didn’t know boomers could find TikTok,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath.
She sighs as if she’s dealing with some juvenile idiot.
“I’m not a boomer,” she mumbles irately, retrieving a file from her desk and adding it to another stack.
