Chapter 37: Chapter Thirty seven

VIVIAN'S POV

The air on campus was thick with lies. My lies. Kade’s lies. The lie that I was just a student worried about a midterm, not a high-value asset under constant, humiliating surveillance.

Every shadow was a threat now. Every corner I turned felt like stepping onto a stage. They’re here. They’re watching me breathe. I couldn't shake the feeling—it was like a heavy, cold coat draped over my shoulders that I couldn't shrug off.

I walked into the cafeteria for a bottle of water, and immediately my eyes went on patrol. I didn't see anyone obvious, no bulky men in sunglasses reading newspapers backward. That’s the problem. Kade’s crew was too good. They looked like students, like faculty, like anyone. They were invisible, and their invisibility made them terrifying.

I saw a guy taking a photo of his lunch. My stomach flipped. Was he actually taking a picture of a sad sandwich, or was his lens secretly zoomed in on my face? I saw a girl whispering into her phone, giggling. Was she gossiping, or confirming my location to a handler in a dark SUV?

Stop it, Vivian. You’re becoming a cliche. But the logic didn't work. Logic required proof, and Kade had already shown me the proof: the folder, the photos, the indisputable evidence that my life had been meticulously documented long before I ever saw his face.

I clutched the water bottle so hard my knuckles turned white. My classes were a blur of nervous tapping and constant neck checks. I was living every second in my periphery, never fully committing to the present, always braced for the moment I’d catch an eye or a lens.

★

It was near the quad, right after my art history lecture, that the inevitable happened.

“Hey. Slow down, will you? You look like you’re trying to outrun a debt collector.”

Scott. God, Scott. His presence was like a sudden burst of sunlight—warm, uncomplicated, and dangerous. Dangerous because he was the last thread holding me to sanity, and I couldn't risk Kade noticing how much I relied on it.

I forced myself to stop and turn, plastering a weak smile onto my face. “Scott. Just a lot going on. I told you, finals are crushing me.”

He didn't buy it. His eyes, kind and annoyingly perceptive, narrowed with concern. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Bullshit, Vivian. This isn't finals stress. You’re jumpy. You keep checking your six. You’re looking for something, or someone. What is it? Seriously. Did someone threaten you?”

His protective instinct, so honest and simple, hit me like a physical blow. It was such a contrast to the cold, possessive control Kade wielded. Scott cared because he was a decent human being. Kade cared because I was a valuable asset.

My heart softened, just a little, a small, treacherous moment of longing for the normal life Scott represented. I wanted to tell him everything—to scream about the pictures, about Kade, about the shame of waking up in the predator's bed.

Don’t you dare. You bring him into this, Kade will crush him.

“It’s nothing, Scott. I promise. Just bad sleep, bad coffee.” I kept my voice light, dismissing his concern with a practiced ease. “Thanks for worrying, though. I appreciate it.”

He searched my face for a long moment, then sighed, clearly frustrated. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but if you need to crash somewhere, or just talk—or if you need someone to stand right here and block the sunlight for you—I’m here. Okay?”

“I know.” I gave him a quick, genuine smile, a farewell, and pivoted, hurrying away before I could cave. I walked faster, my pace bordering on a frantic run toward the parking lot. The only thing that mattered was getting out, getting to the car, and sealing myself inside the metal box. The feeling of being hunted was too intense, too suffocating.

★

The drive back to the mansion was just a means to an end. Getting through the huge iron gates felt less like coming home and more like entering an elaborate, expensive prison. At least here, the threats were visible—Kade, Finn, Sebastian. I knew where they stood.

I isolated myself immediately. I didn't want to see Kade. I didn't want to risk the hallway confrontation, the demanding touch, the way he could melt my stubbornness with a single, dark look.

My room felt safe, but empty. I ordered some pathetic takeout, locked the door, and tried to focus on anything. I scrolled through nonsense on my phone. I stared at the ceiling. I listened to the expensive silence of the house, which felt somehow louder than any noise.

The day had been exhausting. The constant vigilance, the fear, the internal fight to keep my walls up—it had drained me completely. I went to bed early, hoping to just shut down and wake up in a new, less paranoid state.

I was wrong.

The dreams started heavy and fast.

They weren't gentle. They were an urgent, raw replay of the night before, but heightened, twisted by my own subconscious. Kade’s voice was low, a dangerous, demanding growl, filling the darkness. I saw his hands—strong, possessive—but in the dream, they weren't just taking; they were claiming.

I was resisting, fighting, biting down on a scream, but my body in the dream was a liar. It was arching, reaching, whispering the surrender I refused to give him in real life. I felt the rough scrape of his jaw, the heavy weight of his body pressing me down, grounding me.

"You belong to me, Vivian."

The words echoed in the dream, not as a threat, but as a confirmation. And the worst, most gut-wrenching part? In the dream, I believed him. I wanted it. The shame, the resistance—it all melted away, leaving only the searing, naked need. It was a terrifying, beautiful freedom from my own moral code.

I woke up with a gasp, sweat slicking my skin, my muscles tense and aching as if I'd run a marathon. The sheets were twisted around my legs. I sat bolt upright, staring into the oppressive darkness of the room.

FUCK!

I slammed my fists into the mattress, the muffled impact doing nothing to relieve the furious, humiliated energy coursing through me. I reached up and shoved the hair off my sticky forehead.

He’s not allowed in here! He’s not allowed in my head!

But he was. He was an invasive species in my subconscious, setting up shop where I was most vulnerable. The dreams weren't just dreams; they were my body’s way of admitting the truth my mind was desperately trying to deny.

I staggered out of bed, grabbing a glass of water, my hands still shaking. The dreams were too vivid, too real, blurring the line between nightmare and memory. How much of the desire that surged through me last night—that still lingered as a warm ache deep inside—was purely his manipulation, and how much was me?

Was I just a victim of his power play, or was there something fundamentally dark and responsive in me that craved his dominance?

I cursed him, the name a venomous hiss in the quiet room. I cursed myself even harder. I was so disgusted by my own weakness, my own capacity for this dark, twisted longing.

I stared out the window at the distant city lights, cold and unforgiving.

Next time, I resist. Next time, I don’t cave. I don’t care how much I want it.

But the lie was so flimsy now. It hung in the air, transparent and pitiful. I was already too entangled, the ropes woven from fear, desire, and his absolute control. They weren't just around my body anymore.

Kade Falcone didn't just break the rules of my life. He broke the rules of my mind. And I was

already falling, without a single parachute.