It happened right after lunch.
And by "lunch," I mean ten minutes of pretending not to panic while Celestia hijacked my tray, my space, and possibly my future. The cafeteria had been a fishbowl of tension, and I was the flailing goldfish with a shark sitting on my lap.
But it wasn’t until we stood to leave that the real problem arrived.
In the form of Ethan Drake.
Let me tell you about Ethan.
Star forward. Abs for days. Dad owns half of downtown. Girls write fanfics about his jawline. The kind of guy who thinks deodorant is optional because he’s rich enough to get away with it.
I was halfway to the door when I felt it — that little bump on the shoulder. Not accidental. The "oops I’m asserting dominance" kind.
"Yo," Ethan said, loud enough for the entire room to hear. "You lost, anime boy?"
I didn’t answer. I never did. The rule with guys like Ethan is: stay quiet, stay small, stay forgettable.
She stepped between us.
High heels, perfect posture, arms folded like a queen surveying her kingdom of peasants.
"You got a problem?" she said, voice flat and bored.
Ethan blinked. "What?"
She took a step forward. "You touched him."
He looked confused. "I mean, yeah, I was just messing—"
> "Do you want your hand broken?"
The room went dead silent.
Ethan laughed, but it was nervous. "Relax. I was just kidding."
Celestia didn’t laugh.
She tilted her head, and for a second — just a second — I saw it.
That yandere switchblade behind her pretty eyes.
"I don’t like people touching my things," she said.
Before I could open my mouth to correct her, she took Ethan’s soda from his tray and poured it over his head.
The cafeteria lost it.
People gasped. Phones came out. Ethan just stood there, dripping Diet Coke and disbelief.
Then he looked at me.
He took a step forward—
Celestia didn’t flinch.
Took off one earring.
And behind her, two huge dudes in suits appeared. Where? How? No idea. They looked like bodyguards pulled straight from a Bond movie.
"Try it," she said softly.
Ethan froze, everyone froze.
I didn’t know what just happened. Only that it was the first time in my college life that a jock looked ready to kick my ass... and didn’t.
I wasn’t just invisible anymore.
Because of whatever the hell this was becoming.
Outside the cafeteria.
I tried to walk off. Get distance. Reset my brain.
> "You forgot dessert."
We reached the parking lot. And that’s when I saw it.
Correction: her Rolls-Royce Phantom, matte black, purring like it ate Teslas for breakfast.
A chauffeur stood waiting, straight-backed and terrifying. He nodded at her. "Miss Moreau."
"Thanks, Jensen," she said, eyes still on me. "He’ll be joining me."
"Nope." I started backing away. "Hard pass. I walk."
She blinked. "You’d rather walk? In this heat?"
She stepped closer. Her voice changed — softer, uncertain.
> "...You don’t want to be near me?"
I paused. Something in her tone made me stop.
Her eyes shimmered, and for a terrifying second...
She looked genuinely hurt.
It didn’t make sense. Not from her. Not from her.
She whispered, "Is it because I’m too much?"
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "No. It’s because you’re everything, and I’m just trying to survive econ."
Not smug, not bratty, just... real.
"Fine," I muttered. "One ride. One."
She lit up like I’d proposed.
Inside the car, the interior looked like a private jet. Black leather. Champagne bar. Ambient lighting. Probably had better Wi-Fi than my apartment.
She slid in across from me, crossed her legs, and stared.
Not blinking. Not speaking.
"So," she said eventually. "Why did you help me?"
> "...That’s the worst reason ever."
She studied me, tilting her head. "You don’t want anything from me?"
She leaned forward. "What if I offered something else?"
I didn’t answer. Because maybe part of me was lying. But the other part?
The part that remembered her switching moods like knives?
Yeah, that part wanted to bail out of the moving car.
"So what now?" I asked.
She looked at me like it was obvious.
"Now you belong to me."
And in that moment, I realized —