You ever walk into class and just know your GPA’s about to be the least of your problems?
Tuesday. 8:00 a.m. Econ 101. The kind of room where dreams go to flatline. Everyone half-dead, the projector flickering like it’s got commitment issues, and Professor Halifax droning on like he was paid by the syllable.
I was in my usual spot—back row, hood up, thick glasses fogged from the sprint across campus. I hadn’t even sat down fully before I noticed her.
Sitting dead center like she owned the air.
Designer blazer, gold-trimmed. Skirt so short it violated at least three dress codes and one human rights treaty. Legs crossed, heels sharp enough to be classified as weapons. And her lips? Glossy, smug, slightly parted like she’d just yawned in the face of the universe.
Everyone noticed her.
No joke—our eyes locked. Mine widened in nerd confusion. Hers narrowed like I’d just awakened something she buried under a pile of Chanel bags and generational trauma.
I blinked first. Obviously.
Ten minutes into class, she gets up. Walks past every desk. Stops in front of mine. No hesitation. No intro.
I looked around. "Huh?"
She pointed at my chair. "That one. Mine now."
"Uh... I’ve sat here all semester."
She leaned down, eyes dark, lips close. "You sat here. Past tense."
And before I could process how someone could weaponize lip gloss and dominance like that, she sat in my lap.
People turned. Snickered. One dude actually fist-bumped another.
"I—what—get off—" I sputtered like a broken lawnmower.
She turned her head, stared up at me like I was the crazy one. "You helped me yesterday."
"I—I held the door open."
"Exactly." She blinked once. "You’re mine now."
Reader, I would like to clarify: I am not equipped for this level of insanity. My biggest drama last semester was a vending machine eating my dollar.
Now I’ve got a billionaire brat straddling me in class and calling me her property.
I think she means it.