THREE

SAMANTHA

I woke up earlier than usual, but I was still tired. My body felt heavy, my eyes dry. I laid there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to move.

Eventually, I sat up and stretched, arms over my head, back arching slightly. A soft ache pulled at my muscles—a quiet reminder of the night before. Of him. Of us.

I got his text after Macey left my place. He was turning this to an everyday ritual.

I climbed out of bed and shuffled to the mirror.

My reflection didn’t lie. I looked exhausted. There were faint shadows under my eyes, and my lips were a little puffy, still kissed raw. My skin held the faintest mark of his grip on my neck, a bruise in the shape of his fingers.

I reached for my brush and started tugging it through my curls slowly, watching them spring back into shape. Brushing always calmed me. It made me feel like I was putting pieces of myself back in order.

Today, I needed that.

I picked a soft floral dress, cream-colored with pink blossoms scattered across it. It hugged my waist just right and made my skin look warmer. Feminine. Peaceful.

Then I slipped on my favorite pair of Chanel flats. Black with gold bows. Mason had given them to me after our first night together.

I remembered that morning—how I’d woken in his hotel suite, too stunned to speak, my legs still trembling. And there they were, sitting in a little box on the table, a tiny card resting on top.

“Every beautiful girl needs beautiful shoes.”

I should’ve reminded him that was too much for our kind of relationship. I should’ve said something. But I didn’t. Instead, I slipped them on and never looked back.

I still wore them more than I should. Not because of what they cost. But because they reminded me of how easily I was fitting in. And how I’d never really tried to stop.

I added a bit of gloss to my lips. Just a light shimmer to make me feel polished. Then I reached for my small gold hoops—the ones that caught the light when I tilted my head just right.

Once everything was done, I stepped back and looked at myself in the mirror.

Soft. Strong. Beautiful.

“Pretty lady,” I whispered to myself, smiling faintly.

It was a habit now—saying those two words. A quiet affirmation.

I grabbed my bag and my keys and walked out of the apartment.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet. The air was crisp and cool. I breathed it in, letting it clear my head.

Downstairs, my car was waiting for me.

Another gift from Mason.

It had come without warning. One morning, it was just there in the driveway—shiny, black, and brand new. No note this time. No explanation. Just a set of keys in my mailbox.

I hadn’t asked questions. By then, I knew better.

I slid into the driver’s seat, my fingers curling around the leather-wrapped wheel. The car still smelled new. Expensive. It fit too easily into my life now, like it had always been mine.

****

I pulled into the campus parking lot, easing my car into one of the shaded spots near the Arts courtyard. The morning sun was brighter now, painting everything gold and clean.

My fingers curled around the warm coffee cup from Maita’s Café, the little corner shop just outside campus. The owner always smiled at me and wrote my name with a little heart on the lid. I liked that.

The Arts courtyard was already filling up with students—some sitting on benches, some leaning against pillars, pretending to read. Music floated faintly from someone’s speaker. A soft acoustic song I didn’t recognize. I took a slow sip of my drink and walked across the stone path, the heels of my Chanel flats clicking softly.

Eyes followed me.

Guys smiled. One even held the door open from across the yard just to catch a closer look. I didn’t stop. I didn’t smile back. I was used to it.

I knew I looked good today. I could feel it in the way the breeze played with the hem of my floral dress and in the way my curls bounced as I walked.

Then I saw him.

Mason.

He was standing under one of the stone arches, tall and still like a statue carved out of shadow. His shirt was open a little bit, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looked effortless, like he always did. Dangerous, even in daylight.

Audrey was glued to his side, laughing at something, her thin arm looped tightly around his. She was the picture of polished perfection—blonde, glossy, and expensive. The kind of girl people expected to be beside someone like him.

And then there were the guys—his teammates from the hockey team. Loud. Laughing. Talking like they ruled the place.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow down.

I kept walking, eyes straight ahead, coffee steady in my grip. My heart? Still. Steady. I’d trained it not to jump anymore. Not for him. Especially not here.

He didn’t look at me. Not once. And I didn’t expect him to.

That was the rule.

We didn’t exist to each other on campus. No shared glances. No secret smiles. Just two strangers with history no one else could see.

I passed them like I didn’t even notice them. Like he hadn’t been inside me just yesterday, whispering my name like it burned his tongue. Like he didn’t pull my hair, kiss my neck, and call me his good girl when the lights were low and the doors were locked.

I was halfway past when I caught it—just the tiniest flicker from the corner of my eye.

The tight line of his jaw.

A twitch. Barely there.

But I saw it.

And I smirked to myself.

Because I knew that tension. I knew what it meant. He could stand there with her, laugh with his boys, pretend like I was nobody. But his body? His body remembered me.

The way I arched for him. The way I gasped when he went deeper. The way I wore nothing under my dress when he told me to.

He could pretend all he wanted.

I walked past him like smoke. Unbothered.

The lecture hall smelled like cold air and floor polish. I slipped inside quietly, the door clicking shut behind me.

Most of the seats were already filled, students hunched over their laptops or scrolling through their phones. I walked to the back row and took my usual seat by the window.

The chair creaked softly as I sat. I flipped open my notebook, smoothing the first page with my palm. The paper was clean. Waiting.

My coffee was still warm. I took a small sip, letting the taste linger on my tongue.

Professor Lane walked in a moment later, his glasses slipping down his nose, his hands full of books he wouldn’t open. He was older, always wore the same tweed jacket, and spoke with the kind of voice that made you listen without realizing you were paying attention.

This wasn’t a core class. It was an elective—“Brand Aesthetics and Identity.” Half marketing, half art theory. I chose it because it sounded pretty. And because it had nothing to do with balance sheets and supply chains.

I leaned forward slightly, my chin resting on my hand as he spoke. His words floated across the room like something soft and sharp at the same time.

He talked about beauty—not just in the classic sense, but the kind that made you feel something. The kind that wasn’t always clean or pure or polite.

I understood that.

Sometimes the most beautiful things were messy. Complicated. Twisted up with pain and longing. Sometimes, beauty was a bruise that bloomed slowly across your ribs. Sometimes, it was a red dress at midnight and a hand in your hair.

My pen moved across the page. I wasn’t writing notes—just drawing. Little curves, jagged edges, lines that didn’t make sense to anyone, not even me.

The room faded a little as I doodled. Voices turned to background noise. I was there, but somewhere else too.

A few rows down, someone laughed softly at a joke the professor made. I didn’t catch it. My thoughts were too far away. Or maybe too close.