"You're making a scene for nothing, princess. Just get in the car."
Kilian's voice hits me with that particular brand of condescension that wealthy men perfect somewhere between their third yacht and fourth divorce lawyer.
He's planted himself between me and my Honda Civic like some designer-suited roadblock, his silver cufflinks catching the afternoon sun like tiny mirrors reflecting all his worst qualities.
At forty-five, he dresses like he's auditioning for a CEO role in a movie where the CEO is definitely the villain. Italian leather shoes, a charcoal suit, and cologne that announces his arrival before his ego does.
I grip my backpack straps until my knuckles go white.
Seven weeks into my freshman year, and here he is, turning the university parking lot into his personal theater.
"I told you we're done, Kilian. Three months ago, remember? Or did that not process through your mid-life crisis?"
"You're nineteen, not eight. Stop throwing tantrums." He moves closer, and I catch the familiar scent of his cologne. "You think you can just walk away? After everything I've done for you?"
"You mean everything you've done to me." I try to sidestep him, but he matches my movement like we're dancing a waltz I never agreed to. "Paying for dinners doesn't buy you ownership papers."
"Ownership?" His laugh sounds like expensive whiskey tastes—smooth on the surface, burning underneath. "I invested in you. Got you out of that trailer park life, gave you culture, sophistication—"
"You gave me trauma and a complex about men over fourty, but thanks for playing."
His hand shoots out, grabbing my upper arm. Not hard enough to bruise—Kilian knows exactly how much pressure leaves marks—but firm enough to make me freeze.
"Listen, you ungrateful little—"
"Hey! Elisa!"
Liv appears like sunshine cutting through storm clouds, her designer sneakers slapping against asphalt as she jogs over.
Her smile stays bright, but her eyes turn sharp as surgical instruments when she spots Kilian's hand on my arm.
"Oh good, you're here." Liv slides between us with the kind of practiced ease that comes from years of navigating hostile social situations. "We're already late for the study group."
Kilian's grip loosens but doesn't release. His eyes scan Liv with the calculating precision of a predator cataloging potential threats.
"Your rich bitch friend?" He asks me.
"Remove your hand from my friend's arm before I call campus security," Liv says, pulling out her phone with theatrical flourish. "Pretty sure they'd be super interested in why a man your age is harassing students in parking lots."
"We're having a private conversation—"
"No, you're having a public harassment session, and I'm recording it." Liv holds up her phone, camera aimed at his face. "Smile for the sex offender registry."
Kilian releases my arm like I'm suddenly radioactive. "This isn't over."
"It literally is, though." Liv loops her arm through mine, already steering me away. "Unless you want this video going viral."
We walk away while Kilian stands there, an expensive suit somehow making him look cheaper than ever. I don't look back, but I feel his stare burning into my spine like a cigarette being stubbed out on skin.
"Your room?" Liv asks once we're out of earshot.
"It's nothing special—"
"Perfect. I need to see how the other half lives."
My dorm room is exactly what happens when state funding meets teenage desperation: cinderblock walls, a twin bed that squeaks with existential dread, and a desk that's seen more tears than homework.
The only personal touches are a few photos taped to the wall and a succulent that's somehow still alive despite my best efforts to neglect it.
"Holy shit, you have your own room?" Liv flops onto my bed, making the springs scream in protest. "That's actually lucky. I know a girl whose roommate masturbates to anime at two AM. With the sound on."
"Jesus Christ."
"Right? Like at least use headphones." Liv stares at the ceiling, her usual sunshine dimming to something more like dusk. "Can I tell you something fucked up?"
"Always."
"I think my parents are getting divorced." The words tumble out like they've been pressing against her teeth for weeks. "Finally. Thank God."
My chest tightens. "Really?"
"Mom's been banging her yoga instructor in the pool house. Like, loudly. While Dad's in his study. I'm pretty sure he can hear them and just... doesn't care."
Liv picks at a thread on my comforter.
"You know what's worse than having parents who cheat? Having parents who turned it into some kind of sick competition."
"That's... sick," I manage.
"The stupid thing is I still love them. They’re still my parents, you know? Mom makes terrible pancakes and Dad quotes philosophy at breakfast."
Liv's laugh sounds like glass cracking. "But he also probably fucks someone even right now while Mom fucks the help, and they both pretend they're not destroying each other."
Every man. Even the ones who seem different. They all follow the same script eventually.
"Maybe it's not what you think."
"Back then, I found the emails from Rebecca. They were very professional except for the part where she mentioned how she could still taste him."
Liv sits up, fixing me with a look that cuts straight through to bone.
"So when I saw you during that tutoring session…"
My mouth goes dry. "Liv—"
"I'm not saying you'd do anything. God, you're not Rebecca. You actually have a moral compass." Liv grabs my hand, squeezing tight. "Just... be careful, okay?"
But what if I don't want to be careful?
"I'll be careful," I lied.
Liv stays another hour, the conversation shifting to lighter things—campus gossip, which professor definitely has a foot fetish, whether the cafeteria meatloaf qualifies as a biohazard.
Normal things. Safe things. Things that don't make me feel like I'm swallowing glass.
After Liv leaves, I scroll through my phone while the guilt eats me alive like acid.
I'm checking Instagram, half-listening to Liv's voice note about some drama in her Renaissance Lit class, when I decide to check who viewed my stories.
It's paranoid, but I need to know if Kilian has a fake profile, if that's how he knew about Liv.
The viewer list loads and my heart stops.
There, between two classmates and someone's mom: leviathan_hobbes.
It has to be him. Who else would use a political philosophy reference as their handle? The profile picture is just a bookshelf, but I I know it's him.
He looked. He saw my photos from the party, the one where my dress rides up, the selfie Liv insisted made me look "fuckable in a classy way."
Victor looked at my Instagram. Victor sought me out in digital spaces where professors shouldn't wander.
Victor wanted to see more than what I showed him in session.
My finger hovers over his profile. Private, of course. But the profile picture—him in his office, looking over his glasses at the camera.
Like he's about to explain why you're wrong but in a way that makes you grateful for the correction.
He looked for me. He wanted to see me.