UNREPENTANT
ariella
He noticed me.
No, wait. He talked to me.
I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. My Prince Charming—the one who lived behind screens and lecture thumbnails and carefully curated angles—acknowledged my presence. Out loud. In person. Not as a distant fantasy, not as pixels and sound waves, but as my professor.
I’m not just watching him anymore.
I’m sitting in his class.
I’m his student.
O. M. F. G.
My chest feels too full, like it might split open if I breathe too deeply. I’m floating—no, soaring—somewhere far above cloud nine.
This has to be a dream. It has to be.
When I first learned he only taught senior undergraduates, the disappointment nearly hollowed me out. But there’s nothing a Keinston can’t do.
I bought my way in—yes. I’m not na?ve enough to pretend otherwise. So, answering those questions? That part was all me.
I didn’t just watch his recorded lectures on YouTube—I memorized them. Every pause, every emphasis, every turn of phrase. I absorbed higher-level engineering the way others memorize lyrics.
Though part of me is glad the students who were supposed to get those answers failed. It left me alone under the spotlight. In front of him.
Today marks my first day at Oxford University. My first class here, and of course, it must be his. Sharp at 12:30 p.m.
Curiosity has always been my strongest vice.
Pretending as a fresher—which I am, technically—I’ve already wandered through faculty corridors under the guise of innocent confusion.
I snapped a photo of his schedule while acting as if I didn’t know where I was going.
Days. Times. Lecture halls. Everything is neatly laid out here in his schedule like a non-negotiable invitation.
If I were a better hacker, I’d already be tracking his every step.
Maybe I should give it a try. After all, what’s the point of being an engineering student and the heiress of the CynoTech Group if I don’t use every advantage I have?
My classes end around five p.m.
Time slips differently on this campus. The stone buildings, the quiet authority in the air—it’s easy to linger, to exist without being rushed. I barely notice the hours pass by until my alarm vibrates in my pocket.
5:50 p.m. About time.
I head straight for the parking lot where my Ducati Panigale V4 waits. Currently, I’m not fully into my stalker mode—I’m not dressed for that. This is reconnaissance. I plan on making things look coincidental.
I’m a legally licensed biker now. Officially. Though I started learning to ride as soon as I arrived in England, nearly a year of disciplined practice led up to my final driving test. I passed just days before prom night.
Today is the first day I ride on the streets as an adult.
As a licensed rider.
And quite deliciously… as a certified stalker.
I’ve already checked out my bike from the parking lot. Everything’s perfect. Now all that’s left is to patiently wait.
I lean back with the visor pushed up and eyes fixed on the driveway.
Right at six, his car pulls out.
The moment it does, instinct takes over. I pull down the visor of my helmet on one side and swing my leg over the bike on the other.
The engine roars to life as I kick into gear. The vibration hums up my spine, it’s addicting and grounding.
Next, I take off after him.
I don’t rush. That would be too amateurish. I keep just far enough behind him so that I can blend into traffic and other anonymous riders swallowed by the late-afternoon flow.
The Ducati purrs beneath me, the engine’s vibration seeping into my thighs, my core, my pulse. Every shift of weight feels intimate, like I’m settling into a role I’ve rehearsed in my head a thousand times.
His Aston Martin glides through the streets with arrogant ease, black paint catching the dying sunlight like it knows it deserves the attention.
Oxford slips past in layers—stone and shadow, iron railings and narrowed streets. Seeing it from the saddle of my bike changes my entire point of view.
After all, it’s my first time. I pray not to end up in an accident in his record. That’d be absolutely pathetic.
The further we get from campus, the quieter the streets become. High-rise residential blocks replace duplexes or mansions. Trees arch overhead, shadows thickening as daylight thins.
We stop at a red light. I ease back, keeping another car between us. My fingers flex around the throttle, gloved and ready.
I imagine him inside that car—hands on the wheel, posture immaculate, jaw set the way it always is when he’s thinking.
Does he unwind after lectures? Or does he carry that same rigid control into every corner of his life?
The light turns green.
He accelerates smoothly. I follow a beat later.
I don’t chase after him. I trail behind. That’s the difference.
Every time he turns, I turn. Every lane change, every subtle adjustment of speed, I mirror it without making it obvious.
This isn’t about getting closer. It’s about syncing. About learning how he moves when he believes no one is watching him.
My heart kicks harder with every passing second, not from fear but from anticipation so sharp it almost hurts.
He pulls into a stretch of road and turns left. I follow.
He turns left. I follow.
Another block, another left. My brows furrow.
The third turn comes too intentionally, looping us back toward the same stretch of road we just left.
It’s not a coincidence anymore. It’s a test.
My lips curve beneath the helmet. He’s checking his tail.
On the fourth turn, I intentionally don’t follow after. I let him go—ease off, let distance bloom between us like fresh blood spreading in white satin.
I glide straight ahead, keeping my head unbothered, my pace unhurried, already blended in by the time he’d look again.
If he checks his mirror now, he’ll find nothing.
No proof.
No confirmation.
Just absence, and maybe a growing sense of paranoia. Whether he brushes that feeling off or not, I’ll take my chances again.
Once I’m out of his range, I slow just enough to keep him in sight. The helmet muffles my breathing. I tell myself this is just an observation. Just another layer of understanding him.
I pull over a few streets down, killing the engine and letting the silence settle around me. From the cover of shadow and brick, I watch the road where his Aston Martin disappears completely—no headlights, no echo, no trace.
I don’t follow anymore, but memorize the spot instead. This will be where I wait next time.
A feeling of thrill coils low in my guts. For the first time, I’m not watching him from the edge of his world. I’m moving through it.
An unrepentant smile curls on my lips beneath my helmet. A few days from now, I’ll start from here, and I won’t stop until I know exactly where he goes when he thinks he’s alone.
You run on routines, Professor. Let’s see how you handle an interruption.