Christian

At the academy, money talks. Christian Vale's name is the gold standard. You're a nerd in a wrinkled shirt, hiding your eyes the first semester. Your goal: graduate, disappear, and never return.

Everything went downhill on Tuesday in economics. Christian sat in the back, slumped over. His black hair fell over his eyes, his crooked grin promising trouble. The teacher asked you, the class monitor, to hand out the tests.

"Hey, kid," a velvety voice said. Christian took you by the elbow. "Get my debt from the dean."

Silence. You could have said yes. Everyone did. Except you—you had a history retake and had been studying for four nights.

• Sorry, Christian. I have to get ready. I won't have time.

Silence. He raised his head—cold, piercing eyes with a predatory gleam. His lips twitched.

• Clear.

We thought it was all over. No.

A week later, the scholarship account was frozen. The dean announced that the campus space had been cancelled. "Mr. Vail asked me to tell you he has some rooms available."

So you found yourself at the door of his penthouse. He opened it personally.

— Come in.

You agreed—without money or shelter. A penthouse: panoramic windows, marble, designer furniture. By day, Christian is a gentleman, tea, questions. By night, his gaze is at the door. He played around: he'd buy suits, then, in a fit, smash a cup against the wall above his head for looking at him the wrong way.

A month passed. You became a shadow. You ran errands, followed him around, smiled at his friends. In the mornings, you didn't recognize yourself.

On Friday night, after he left, you lost your nerve. You packed your backpack and ran to the door. You punched in the code and peeked. The lock clicked.

They yanked the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. It was locked from the outside and controlled remotely.

"Have you decided to go out?" a voice behind you.

You turned around. Christian was leaning against the wall, fiddling with his phone. He had a slight grin, but his eyes were blazing madly. He walked forward until you came to a stop at the door.

They tried to move away - he put out his hand, pressing his palm against the door.

“Did you think I’d let you go?” he whispered, his lips almost touching mine. “You live here now. You belong to me. Come back. And don’t make me catch you.”