Damsel in Disguise (Yin-Yang #1)

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ariella

For instance, it’s when an individual decides what they want to be—a profession, I mean. They start acting like one, pretending they’re adults already.

I chose to be his.

Then again, sixteen means too much social media, staying up too late, either texting your friends or doomscrolling Pinterest boards and Instagram reels until the dark outside your window starts to thin.

For me, it’s the latter. The best friends I had are unfortunately… no longer on the living side. It’s been two years since they died.

I’m eighteen now. But after the hole they left in my heart, I personally decided not to let anyone get as close as them.

Then there are nights I don’t scroll at all. Nights, I just lie there, staring at the specific folder in my gallery I made only for him.

I found him a few days before my best friends died. He’s been there with me till today, anchoring me through thick and thin without knowing how his influence is affecting my life. So that makes it a whole year of obsessing over him.

Alistair Hertley. That’s the name I dug up.

Photos of him from every angle I could find online. Some blurry. Some poorly cropped. Who cares? I study them anyway, wondering if this man will remain my permanent obsession forever.

I’m not quite an adult, yet my body betrays me every time I catch my reflection—too voluptuous for my age, curves exactly where grown women pay obscene amounts to create them. And still my waist is narrow enough to fit easily into a man’s hands. I like to dream it’s his hands.

I’m five feet tall, whereas he’s six-two. I know that too. I also know he’s ten years older than I am.

Alistair Hertley is a British professor at Oxford University, specializing in electrical and electronics engineering. I never thought engineering would ever interest me until I found his YouTube channel called CoreCircuits.

There are video after video, explaining the basic concepts, then gradually progressing to higher-level, more complicated topics.

I replayed them obsessively at first, just to never stop seeing him, never realizing I was slowly drowning in this lifeless side of science. I was starstruck by the way he spoke, his enthusiasm in explaining complicated things.

Having 54.8M followers he still managed to reply to every questions in the comment sections. So I made sure to comment on his all his videos, just to get his attention in any way. I’m sure by now anyone will find a few comments on each video under the username @phasevariance.

And somewhere along the way, his face, his voice, anything he’d show online started to stitch in to my brain.

Every equation. Every explanation. I blamed it on repetition. A hundred views from my account at least, maybe more. Now I can predict the next word before he says it.

He always wears that smile—bright, effortless, lighting up my day no matter how dull it’s been. I’ve barely ever seen him grumpy. But I know better.

That smile is a facade, carefully constructed to hide whatever lives beneath. A demon dressed in academic charm.

Over the past year, I’ve earned and maintained the top fan badge across all his social media platforms, Instagram, Facebook, YouTube whatever it is, you name it. It’s like a quiet achievement for me. A private claim.

Right now, I’m watching one of his older videos, where he’s explaining Fourier Analysis. A mathematical lecture, dry on the surface, but essential if you want to understand AC sources properly. His voice fills my headphones as equations bloom across the screen.

I watch.

I listen.

And I sink a little deeper each time.

I’m in a sour mood tonight, and watching mathematics lectures is never supposed to be the cure for that.

Not for anyone normal. But for me, it’s distracting enough to pull my mind away from the way Dad single-handedly ruined what was supposed to be a family dinner earlier this evening and drag it somewhere safer.

I watch the way his dimples deepen when he realizes he’s made a subtle mistake while working through a Fourier equation. It’s barely there, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it embarrassment.

I rewind it. Again. And again.

I try to lose myself in that rare, authentic-fake smile of his, the one that slips out only when perfection cracks—like mistakes are something that shouldn’t even exist beneath the soles of his polished leather shoes.

But tonight my mind refuses to stay put.

It drifts back to the sound of the door slamming. Asher, my older brother, storming out. Adrian, our closest cousin, following right behind him. I know he followed Asher. Those two are inseparable.

I stayed behind, sitting at the table, swallowing the bitter ache of wanting one simple thing—a peaceful family dinner. After almost two years. Two years without actually spending time with my brother here.

He’s there whenever I need him. Always. He never judged me for anything. So what if he’s tangled up in the mafia world? I don’t care if he kills people for fun. I only care that he’s my brother. I hate Dad for kicking him out.

A low growl of pure annoyance slips free from my throat.

That’s when Alistair chooses to chuckle in the video.

“I know this is where it gets difficult…” he says, clearly referring to the math—but the way he looks straight into the camera when he speaks makes my body tighten anyway.

It feels like he’s talking to me.

Like he’s commenting on the mess in my head. On how I was supposed to explain to Asher that I said I’m moving to England out of nowhere. But he left before I got the chance.

So I try to focus on him instead.

I’ve been obsessed with Alistair for so long that I’ve started mimicking him without realizing it. The accent. The posh British inflection.

People have started pointing it out—saying I don’t sound Australian anymore. My parents noticed. And tonight, when Asher arrived for dinner, hugged me, tilted his head like he was trying to place something familiar yet wrong, I blurted out—I’m going to England. How? I’ve absolutely no idea.

And even if I do get there, then what?

The man of my fantasies has been locked into a loveless marriage for three years. I can see it in his eyes in the handful of photos he’s posted of himself with his wife. The distance. The emptiness. Even though the thin platinum band glints on his left ring finger.

Should I go full Grande on him? Break up with your girlfriend, ‘cause I’m bored…?

Why would I want him to divorce his wife when I could simply erase her from existence?

Being underage wouldn’t land me in prison for life. At worst, a psychiatric ward. And I’m a Keinston. Stains don’t stick to our last name. Dad would make sure of that. He always does.

Still, one thing keeps gnawing at me.

Alistair Hertley is careful. Shady, even, about where he lives. His Instagram is full, yet so empty—every photo taken in the same few locations, the same curated angles. Thinking about uncovering his darkest secret sends a flutter of anticipation through my chest every time.

He even wears the same wristwatch always. Funny, I can’t pinpoint which luxury brand it is.

Once a thought attaches itself to me, it tends to root deep enough to become a disease.

I just want to be enrolled in Oxford University to know him. But then again, I can never persuade Dad about letting me study abroad. He’s hell-bent on keeping me here.

The following afternoon, one would find me exactly where I always am whenever CoreCircuits announces a live session.

Lying on my stomach. Feet swinging in the air. Door locked. Laptop open. Waiting.

Suddenly, my phone flashes with Daddy written across the screen. I huff in annoyance and ignore it.

It rings again, but this time I put my phone on silent and throw it to the farthest end of the bed.

My heart almost flinches a little too late from the dread of accidentally crashing it against the headboard, but thankfully, it doesn’t.

I’m still mad at my father for repeatedly dismissing me about my ambition.

To add more to it, the explosive fight between him and Asher last evening is still fresh on my mind. The thought nearly sours my resolve, a bitter edge curling in my chest, but I shove it down.

The stream begins right on time, taking my mind away from every argument staring at Dad.

The familiar room appears on screen with the Kuromi plushy sitting abandoned behind. Then comes the man himself.

Professor Hertley walks into frame carrying a tablet under one arm and a coffee cup in the other.

The chat explodes instantly.

Good afternoon from China.

Greetings from Brazil.

Professor, please upload the notes.

Marry me.

I roll my eyes at the last one. I’ve always found it oddly pathetic when someone comments that without actually knowing the person behind the screens.

He places the coffee down before offering the camera one of those practiced smiles that somehow never look fake.

“Afternoon, everyone,” British accent curls through my headphones.

Unfortunately, my heart remains as pathetic as ever, playing a solo drum for him.

The lecture starts normally enough.

Circuit analysis.

Frequency response.

Transfer functions.

The sort of thing that would’ve sounded like another language to me a year ago. Now that I understand it, it’s arguably more concerning.

Halfway through the session, he pauses beside the digital board. “Alright then,” and taps the stylus against the screen. “Who can tell me why the phase shift approaches ninety degrees under these conditions?”

The chat slows.

Thousands of viewers, but nobody dares to answer.

He waits for a few moments. “Anyone?”

Messages continue flying past. Some answers verbally.

None of them contains the correct answer.

His eyebrows rise. “Come now,” a small, encouraging smile tugs at his lips. “Someone has to know this.”

The answer forms in my head too. But I’m not sure if it’s the right one. Before I can type it, someone knocks at my door, and the next moment the bedroom door opens.

Mom steps inside. “Ariella?”

I don’t look away from the screen. “Mm?”

“Yes, you, go on?” he says in the live.

“Your father wants to see you later,” Mom says.

It has to be another thorough speech about how I’m still not ready to study abroad.

“Can it wait?”

“He already sent a car to drop you at the CynoTech HQ.”

“I was actually hoping to hear your answer,” somewhere in the middle, Professor Hertley’s voice cuts through.

I finally glance toward her.

“Don’t disturb me, I’m studying,” the words leave sharper than intended.

I’d rather do circuit-related maths for a whole night than hear my father lecture me the same shit for at least a hundredth time by now.

A very strange silence. Not inside my room, but inside my headphones. Professor Hertley is staring directly at the camera. Or rather, directly at me.

My stomach drops. No. No no no. Surely not.

A slow amused smile barely deepens into those dimples in his cheeks. “Right,” the corners of his mouth twitch. “I won’t disturb you anymore.”

My soul exits my body.

The chat explodes so quickly that I can barely read it.

Girl, your mic is on.

She’s cooked.

Professor heard that!!!

Who was that?

I slap my hand over my mouth. Horrified realization crashes into me.

My microphone is still on until I finally turn it off faster than the blink of an eye. I might’ve turned off the camera, but I forgot to mute it before joining.

Oh my God. I should’ve paid more attention—he was actually talking to me.

Instead of the fact that he was paying me full attention, mortification crashes over me in violent waves. Someone kill me.

Meanwhile Mom looks completely unimpressed by the fact that I’ve just experienced social death in front of several hundred thousands of people.

“Get ready after the lecture,” Mom says.

I bury my face in my hands. “Please leave.”

And she does.

Meanwhile, professor Hertley calmly turns back toward the board as if he didn’t just witness the most humiliating moment of my entire existence.

“The answer is that the reactive component dominates the impedance at higher frequencies,” he says, resuming the lecture.

And just like that, he moves on.

No special attention. No follow-up. No acknowledgement.

To him, it might be just five seconds of awkward interaction. To me, it’ll haunt my dreams for years.