Chapter 35: Chapter Thirty Five

VIVIAN'S POV

Waking up was a slow, agonizing realization. Again.

The sunlight, already too bright, was slicing through the gap in the blackout curtains, and I was nestled into a chest that felt both like a cage and the softest pillow I'd ever known. Kade's arm was draped over me, heavy and possessive, and his breath was soft against the top of my head. The sheets smelled like him—expensive cologne, a faint metallic scent of sweat, and something woodsy and clean.

How did I let this happen? How the hell did I end up here again?

The shame hit me first, a sudden, cold wash that made my muscles seize up. I remembered every harsh word, every demanding touch, every breathless gasp. I remembered the absolute fury in his eyes when he dragged me in here, and I remembered the pathetic, sickening little thrill of knowing he was that obsessed.

I wanted to peel my skin off. I wanted to rewind the clock to the moment he cornered me in the hall and just deck him, run out the door, and never look back. But I didn't. I arched into his kiss. I clung to him. I was the co-conspirator in my own degradation.

Carefully, meticulously, I slipped out from under his arm. My body was sore, a pleasant, humiliating reminder of the night. Just get out. Just go.

I walked to the window, avoiding looking at him, and pulled the curtain open an inch. The city looked indifferent, uncaring. A heavy weight sat on my chest, a nauseating mix of what he made me feel and and how much I despised myself for enjoying it.

I gathered my scattered clothes. My shirt was twisted; the silk of my dress felt flimsy and cheap now. I pulled everything on quickly, silently.

As I bent down for my shoes, a warm hand brushed against my elbow. I jumped, my heart vaulting into my throat.

Kade. He hadn't sat up, but his eyes were open, fixed on me. They were dark, hooded, and completely, unsettlingly aware.

He didn't speak. He didn't reach out to pull me back. He just watched, his gaze slow and deliberate, tracing the hurried lines of my dressing. It was worse than an argument. It was a silent assertion of control: You can leave my bed, but you can’t leave me.

I kept my back straight, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’m going to class,” I muttered, pulling my hair into a messy bun, my hands trembling slightly.

He finally spoke, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Don’t bother coming back before dinner. I’ll send a car.”

A command, not a suggestion. A subtle reminder that my time was his schedule, my movements were his jurisdiction.

I didn't answer. I grabbed my bag and walked out, not looking back. He owns me. He knows it, and the bastard doesn't even have to fight anymore.

★

Back in my room—my small, safe, temporary haven—I sat at my desk, trying to find some anchor in the storm. Art always worked. Drawing always brought me back down to earth.

I pulled out my sketchbook, opened it to a clean page, and picked up the charcoal. I tried to focus on the still life on my shelf: a bowl of fruit, a stack of books. Something neutral, something academic.

My hand betrayed me. The lines were too sharp, too angular. The shadows I laid down were too deep, too definitive. It wasn't a pear; it was a jawline. It wasn't a fold of cloth; it was the intense, predatory curve of an eyebrow.

Stop. It. You pathetic idiot.

I ripped the page out, wadding it up and slamming it on the desk. Every line, every shape I tried to create was tainted. He was in my head, not just as a fear, but as an inescapable muse. I was drawing the architecture of my own obsession, and it looked exactly like the man I was supposed to hate.

I hate him for cornering me, for the manipulation, for the surveillance. But the thing that truly made my chest ache with self-loathing was the knowledge that I wanted him. Not his money, not his protection, but the raw, unhinged power he brought. The way my body responded to his demands was a betrayal I couldn't forgive.

I was supposed to be the smart one, the one who saw through the bullshit. Instead, I was just another conquest, a girl whose knees went weak for a dangerous, arrogant man.

He's not worth it. He's a monster. But God, the way he looks at me.

★

The drive to school was silent. I avoided downstairs entirely, skipping the breakfast drama. My whole body was tight with the resolution that this ends now.

I will not go back to his room.

I will not respond to his demands.

I will find a way to break this contract, even if it bankrupts me.

I repeated the promises in my head, a desperate, silent mantra against the roar of the truth.

I parked the Civic and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel. I needed to walk onto that campus and look like the focused, determined student I was supposed to be. I needed to stop acting like a fugitive caught between two worlds.

I sat up, adjusted my jacket, and stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes were shadowed, my jaw was set. I looked exactly like what I was: exhausted and terrified.

As I opened the door, a cold certainty settled over me. That sense of righteous anger, the promise to resist next time—it was all a lie.

I knew it. He knew it. And my traitor body, already buzzing with the memory of his touch, was counting down the hours until the car came to "collect" me.

I'm not fighting to get out of this contract. I'm fighting to get

out of this addiction. And I'm losing.