Chapter 2 #2
I push my plate away and lean back into the sofa. “I will close that branch for three days. I will push two days of intake to the florist registers and one to the car wash. The florist has capacity if I bump the morning inventory and print a wedding order sheet. We can justify a spike.”
Leo nods once. “Do it.”
The baby monitor crackles again. A tiny voice breathes and then hums for a second, like a song caught in a dream. Aleksei stands before the hum can turn into a cry. He moves toward the hall, stops, looks back at us, and something warm crosses his face.
“Thank you for eating my dinner,” he says. “It reminds me that I live with animals.”
“Go kiss your girl,” I say, and he rolls his eyes and disappears down the hall.
I stack the plates, wipe the crumbs with a hand, and think of Callista licking salt from her bottom lip after champagne.
I think of the way her body softened against mine even as her spine stayed straight.
I think of the photo on my phone, and the power in my pocket, and how power feels useless because it cannot give me what I really want.
I need to talk to Aleksei. The secret society we operate at Allister College is called The Griffin Society.
It’s how we recruit high-level talent, even soldiers sometimes.
Recruiting muscle through the society is Aleksei’s job.
But I need financial whizzes, hackers, and other smart people who can help us launder money and deal with government security.
A lot of bright college students with big student loans come to Allister.
If I could make them join the society, trap them in a web of dark debt and obligation, they could come work for me.
We need more qualified finance people working for the Antonov bratva. Which is why I’m going to use Callista’s connections to lure bright, desperate students into joining me.
Sleep doesn’t come.
The clock on my laptop tells me it is past two, but I am still sitting in front of the screen, trying to read emails that mean nothing.
Lines of code blur. Bank transfers, wire logs, numbers that should feel clean and logical all melt into noise.
My brain is a furnace, burning with the memory of her face.
Callista Vale.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her pressed against the mirror, tears streaking her makeup as she tries to hold the pieces of herself together. It is not the first time I have seen her like that. I know more about her than I should. I have watched her for months.
I’m her stalker. It started as work, then became a hobby. Now, it’s an obsession. My mind craves to know what she’s doing, to touch her when she’s asleep and in another world.
It started as a way to impress Aleksei and strengthen the organization’s financial prowess.
I had been playing with the idea of recruiting smart members to the Griffin Society, training them in money laundering and using their skills and desperation to expand.
Some of their families even run small businesses like laundromats that could be useful.
Callista was a perfect target. Beautiful, visible, connected. She knew everyone who mattered and everyone who wanted to matter. I thought if I followed her, I could use her network to find recruits. But the more I watched, the less it felt like work.
The first time I realized how fragile she was, her stepmother had come to visit her.
I watched from the feed, the drone parked outside the sorority house window, sound filtered through my earpiece.
Callista opened the door in jeans and a silk top, smiling like she always does.
The woman did not even say hello. She looked her up and down with the kind of disgust that drips like acid.
“Do you enjoy dressing like a gold digger?” her stepmother asked. “You think men respect a girl who looks cheap? You look like a wannabe influencer, not the daughter of a respectable man.”
Callista’s smile wavered. “It’s just casual, it’s not—”
“It’s embarrassing,” her stepmother cut her off. “No wonder your father can’t stand looking at you. You remind him of that woman he regrets marrying.”
I saw her jaw tighten, her throat work around the words she could not say. When the woman finally left, Callista sank to the floor, pressing her palms to her eyes. She didn’t cry at first. She just sat there, still, like she was waiting for her soul to return to her body.
Later that week, I saw her father come to campus. He was tall, expensively dressed, his eyes already distant. I watched through the camera hidden near the garden gate. She followed him, asking about tuition, about her future, her tone desperate and tired.
“Dad, you said you’d help with rent this semester. You promised.”
He did not stop walking. “I can’t. Selina is going to art camp in Paris this semester. Get a part-time job and make some sacrifices for the sake of your younger sister. I’ve spoiled you enough.”
“You can’t spring this on me suddenly,” she said, her voice breaking. “Rent is expensive. I don’t have much money saved up. Also, you never even come to see me. Do you even care?”
He turned to her, his face like stone. “You want honesty, Callista? I wish I could be done with you already. You look just like your mother, and I hate having to look at you. You better find a job, because the moment you graduate, I’m cutting you off.
I did enough for you. I don’t want to see you again. ”
She screamed when he left, a raw sound that echoed through the courtyard, and I stood there in my car, watching the footage as if it was happening to me. I should have turned it off. I couldn’t. Every piece of her pain felt like something I needed to protect.
Now I sit in my office, the glow of the screen making my hands look pale. I try to type a reply to Leo’s message about the laundromat, about the investigation, but the words blur. My pulse will not slow. I tell myself to focus, to think about the money, the ledgers, the risk.
Instead, I think about her.
How she hides behind that perfect smile, how she keeps her shoulders straight even when she looks ready to collapse. She wears her pain like jewelry, polished, glittering, impossible not to notice once you’ve seen it.
By three, I give up. I grab my keys and step into the night. The city is quiet, streets slick from a recent rain. I tell myself I am only driving to clear my head, but the road bends itself toward her.
When I reach the Kappa House, the mansion glows under the soft gold of porch lights.
Her window is half open, the curtain moving gently with the air.
I park across the street and lean back, watching the light shift against the glass.
I imagine her asleep, her hair spilled across her pillow, her breathing slow and even.
I imagine touching her hand, just to make sure she is real.
My chest aches in a way that feels like punishment. I should drive away. I don’t.
For a long time, I sit there, hands still on the steering wheel, staring at the house that holds everything I should not want. The night feels alive around me, humming with the same pull that brought me here. My mind is a mess of logic and madness, of control and craving.
I whisper her name once. Quiet. Reverent. Like a confession.
But my body craves closeness. It craves the soft, smooth coolness of her skin against my burning fingertips. She thinks all I’ve done is watch her and rummage through her closet.
But I’ve done far worse. Tonight wasn’t the first time I touched Callista. At night, when she’s sleeping I touch her in places that make her tremble. And she thinks it’s all a dream. When she wakes up, she doesn’t remember any of it.
It’s a fucked-up kink to have.
But I can’t fight it. Can’t fight the urge to feel her wet and shaking under me, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s coming for her bully. For her stalker.
With a sigh, I get out of the car. I use a key to grant myself access into the sorority house. I had a member of the Griffin Society steal Callista’s keys and make copies of them so I could use them to get in and out of her room whenever I wanted. That’s how I know what clothes she has.
But I’ve done more than rummage through her closet. I’ve given her pleasure while she was asleep, touched her in ways that defy decency.
I’m outside her door, the key in my hand like a dark promise. The hallway is silent, the sorority house asleep around me. My heart hammers like a drum in my chest, an obsessive rhythm that matches the relentless pulse in my veins.
I can’t rationalize this need, this hunger that gnaws at me. I despise this weakness, but I can’t resist it. I slip the key into the lock. It turns with a quiet click, the sound barely a whisper in the stillness of the night.
The door eases open, revealing her room bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window.
Callista lies on her bed, a vision of innocence and vulnerability.
Her hair is a halo of gold against the white pillow, her face turned slightly, lips parted in the soft breaths of sleep.
She looks like an angel, but one who’s been bruised by life.
There’s a quiet defiance in the lines of her face, even in repose, like she’s ready to fight the world the moment she opens her eyes.
I kneel beside her bed, my fingers reaching out to caress her cheek.
Her skin is soft, warm, and so fucking alive.
I smooth the lines between her brows, murmuring, “You look so pretty when you sleep.”
But I can’t stop there. My hand drifts lower, tracing the delicate curve of her throat. She stirs slightly, but her eyes remain closed, lost in the depths of her dreams.
I slide my hand under her lacy camisole, feeling the satin of her skin beneath my fingertips.
Her breasts are supple, juicy, perfect. I cup them in my hands, feeling the hardened nipples pressing against my palms. The sensation sends a jolt through me, straight to my cock.
I’m aching, throbbing with need. My cock swells, pushing painfully against the confines of my boxers.
I can’t risk leaving any trace of my presence, so I resist the urge to lick her, to taste the sweetness of her skin.
Instead, I kiss her hard nubs through her top, feeling the heat of her flesh through the thin fabric.
Callista moans softly, arching her back, pressing her breasts into my hands.
It’s like she knows what I need, even in her sleep.
She rubs her nipples against my hand, seeking the friction that will set her on fire.
The sight of her, so responsive, so desperate for my touch, sends a shiver of lust through me. I knead her breasts, reveling in the feel of her, so pliant and willing beneath my touch. But it’s not enough. My cock is a painful throb, demanding more.
I slip my hand under her panties, stroking her wet slit. Her clit is plump and needy, and even in her sleep, she rubs it against my fingers, seeking the pleasure that only I can provide. The sight of her, undone, begging, shakes me to my core.
I lean down, kissing her belly, imagining my cock buried deep inside her. I can almost feel it, the tight grip of her pussy around me, the way she would clench and writhe as I fucked her. The thought nearly drives me mad.
I grind my erection against her thigh, chasing a relief that’s just out of reach.
She shifts, angling her body, craving my fingers more.
Her hips move in a slow, sensual rhythm, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
She’s still asleep, but her body knows what it wants.
It knows me. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
I’m playing with fire, dancing on the edge of a cliff. But I can’t stop. Not yet. Not when she’s so close, so desperate for release.
I stroke her clit, feeling the wet heat of her arousal coating my fingers.
She’s so close, so ready to fall over the edge.
But I can’t let her. Not yet. I need to preserve this, to draw out the pleasure, the anticipation.
I need her to crave me, to need me, even in her sleep.
I pull my hand away, leaving her on the brink.
She whimpers, a sound of frustration and desire that sends another jolt of lust through me.
I rise, my body shaking with restrained need. I can’t stay here. Not like this. Not when I’m so close to losing control.
I hurry back down the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest.
Once I’m in my car, I unzip my jeans, freeing my cock. It’s swollen, angry, demanding relief. I stroke myself, the image of Callista burned into my mind. Her parted lips, her flushed skin, the way she moved against me, begging for more.
The sensation builds, a tight coil of pleasure at the base of my spine. I come with a groan, spurting hot and thick over my hand, onto my shirt. I lean back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The release is intense, but it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
Callista is a dangerous obsession, a fire that burns deep in my soul. And now that she’s my fake girlfriend, she can’t escape me. I won’t let her.
I’ll draw her into my dark depths and consume her until her throat is hoarse from screaming in pleasure.