"If she is a sin, then I will pray by committing it over and over again."
"Manipulation," Professor vander Waal's voice droned on, echoing against the wood-paneled walls of the lecture hall. "It isn't just a tactic. It's an art form. It's the ability to rewire someone else's nervous system until they believe your will is their own. The question is... how far can a person be pushed before they break?"
I sat in the third row, my pen hovering over my notebook. I didn't need to take notes. I was the living thesis for this course.
"And then," the professor continued, pacing the front of the room, "there is revenge. The ultimate motivator. What is the limit of human nature when fueled by a vendetta? How far will a person go?"
Further than you can imagine, I thought, my eyes tracking the dust motes dancing in a sliver of sunlight.
People think revenge is a hot, fiery emotion. They're wrong. True revenge is a cold, clinical thing. It's a math equation. It's the ability to look someone in the eye, smile, and tell them you love them, all while your hand is on the lever that will drop the floor out from under their feet.
When you've lived through the worst, your "normal" feelings don't just get hurt. They die. And once they're dead, the only things left are the undebatable truths. The hunger. The mission.
"The truth is," the Professor concluded, leaning against his desk, "we can never truly know the limit of human nature."
I do, I mused, finally lowering my pen. I know exactly where the limit is. I'm standing right on the edge of it.
My name is Ashira. I'm twenty-one, a student of criminal psychology, and a professional liar. I didn't come to this university to get a degree and a 401k. I came to study the anatomy of the monsters who destroyed my life. I came to learn how to speak their language so that when I finally face them, they'll think I'm one of them.
But as I reached for my bag, a scent hit me.
It wasn't the smell of old books or cheap coffee. It was the scent of expensive gasoline, burnt rubber, and a specific, dark cologne that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I looked down. There, tucked into the side pocket of my backpack—a bag that had been zipped shut and right next to my leg the entire time—was a single, dark red rose.
Attached to the stem was a small, white tag, the kind you find on a toe in a morgue.
It had two words written on it: Class dismissed.
The rose in my bag wasn't a surprise. It was a routine.
For thirty days, my life had been a series of impossible "gifts." A month of being watched by a ghost who knew the zip of my backpack and the rhythm of my heart. The campus called him my "Secret Lover." They whispered about it in the cafeteria like I was the lead in some low-budget rom-com.
I knew better. I was a psychology student; I knew the difference between a crush and a fixation. This wasn't a romance. It was a siege.
When I stepped out of the university's main entrance, the sunlight hit something so bright it hurt.
Parked directly on the curb—blocking the entire fire lane—was a flatbed truck. It wasn't carrying wood or steel. It was carrying a mountain. Thousands of red roses were stacked into a single, massive bouquet, a towering wall of velvet and thorns that looked like it could swallow a house whole.
The air around the university entrance tasted like a funeral.
"Ashira?" A man in a crisp delivery uniform stepped forward, looking at me with a mix of awe and pity. He held out a small, thick card. "A gentleman paid a lot of money to make sure this was the first thing you saw today."
I took the card, my fingers trembling with a rage I had to keep hidden.
How are you, my love? I missed you so much. I want to meet you so bad. But until then, these red roses are for my princess. We will meet soon.
The crowd of students around me broke into gasps. "Oh my god, Ashira, that's insane!" someone yelled. "He's literally the most romantic guy on earth!"
Romantic. I looked at the mountain of flowers—thousands of dead things cut just to make a point. I wasn't being courted; I was being marked. This was a signal to everyone on campus, and everyone in the city: She is mine. Do not touch.
I stared at the card.
"Who is this crazy person?" I whispered to myself, the scent of the roses suddenly feeling like a hand tightening around my throat.
I looked at the delivery man. "Tell your 'gentleman' that red is a difficult color to get out of white marble. If he wants to impress me, he should try harder."
I turned and walked away, not looking back at the truck. But as I reached the edge of the campus, I heard the distant, aggressive roar of a high-performance engine. A sound that didn't belong in a school zone.
He was watching. I knew it. And he wanted me to know that he was tired of waiting.
I wasn't halfway to my apartment when the world turned into a blur of black metal and screaming rubber.
The car—a matte-black beast that looked more like a weapon than a vehicle—swerved toward me at a terrifying speed. I felt the rush of wind as it whipped past my skirt, the tires screeching as it performed a violent, perfect drift that left me pinned between the car's door and the cold brick wall of a shop.
My breath hitched. I let my books slip from my hands, the sound of them hitting the pavement lost under the low, hungry thrum of the engine.
The door opened.
He was taller than he looked in the photos I'd gathered for my revenge files. Killian Gaunt stepped out, his presence absorbing all the light in the alley. He was wearing a dark racing jacket, his hair slightly windswept, and eyes so dark they looked like twin voids. He was beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful—right before it consumes you.
I let my lip tremble. I made my eyes wide, glassy with unshed tears. I let myself look like a fragile, broken thing.
Analysis: Male Lead shows dominant traits, high risk-taking behavior, and a 'savior' complex masked by aggression, my brain whispered in a cold, clinical tone. Response: Mimic submission. Give him the prize he wants to see.
"P-please," I whispered, my voice small and shaking.
Killian walked toward me, his movements fluid and dangerous. He didn't stop until he was inches away, his shadow completely covering me. He leaned in, his scent—expensive leather and cold adrenaline—filling my senses.
"Aww," he cooed, his voice a deep, mocking rasp. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my trembling lower lip. "Did I scare my princess? Did I go too fast for you, Ashira?"
He sounded genuinely amused, as if my terror was a toy he'd just bought.
"You... you almost hit me," I breathed, letting a single tear track down my cheek.
Killian's eyes darkened as he watched the tear. He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. "I have perfect control, Goddess. I knew exactly where you were. I'd never break my favorite thing."
He tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering long enough to be a threat.
"The roses were a warning," he murmured. "This? This is me saying hello. Don't look so scared, Ashira. We're going to have so much fun together."
He winked, a gesture so casual it was chilling, before turning back to his car.
I stood there, frozen, watching the tail-lights of his car disappear into the night. As soon as he was gone, the trembling stopped. My face went flat, my eyes turning as cold as the pavement.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, opening a hidden folder. I typed a single note: Killian Gaunt. Arrogant. Overconfident. Target acquired.
I didn't want his roses. I wanted his empire. And if I had to be his "scared little princess" to get close enough to burn it down, then I would give him the performance of a lifetime.