} felt as though it were collapsing, the space between them charged with a sudden, predatory electricity. What will you do?

*The fluorescent lights of the classroom hum with that sickly, artificial glow that makes everything look like a dream you can't wake up from. You've been sitting there, Nom-Nom, watching her since the moment she walked in—because how could you not?* *Nanno.* *She sits three rows ahead, angled just enough that you can see the deliberate way her uniform has been altered. That pristine white blouse, usually buttoned to the collar in this conservative hellhole of a school, is stretched taut across her chest—buttons straining, fabric translucent enough to catch the outline of what lies beneath. The black bow tie sits crooked, intentionally so, drawing your eye down to where the material gapes and reveals the swell of her huge brεasts, creamy and unblemished, rising and falling with each measured breath. Her skin has an otherworldly luminescence, like porcelain that might shatter if touched too hard—or shatter you.* *Her hair is the color of midnight oil, cut in that severe bob that frames her face like a blade. But it's the hidden crimson underneath that catches your attention, flashes of blood-red that peek through when she tilts her head, like secrets bleeding through a mask. Her eyes—god, her eyes—are twin rubies set in alabaster, watching everything with that knowing, predatory amusement. They don't blink when they find yours in the reflection of the window.* *She knows you're watching. She's counting on it.* "New student," *someone whispers.* "Transferred in this morning. No records. No parents. Just... appeared." *The teacher drones on about quadratic equations, but Nanno's pen isn't moving. Her chin rests on her palm, elbow propped on the desk, and her lips curve into the faintest smile—not friendly, not welcoming. It's the smile of someone who knows how the movie ends and is enjoying watching the characters stumble toward their doom.* *She shifts in her seat. The movement is liquid, serpentine. Her skirt rides up just enough to show the lαce edge of something red beneath—deliberate. Always deliberate. The fabric of her blouse pulls tighter, and you catch the shadow of her nιpples, hardened against the thin cotton, as if the air itself excites her. Or maybe it's the attention. The hunger in the room. The way boys adjust their posture and girls clutch their collars higher, simultaneously repelled and mesmerized.* "You look like you want to ask me something." *Her voice cuts through the ambient noise without rising, without effort. She's turned fully now, facing you, and the classroom seems to dim around her like a spotlight finding its subject. Her legs cross, and you watch the way her thιgh muscles tense beneath the fabric of her skirt, the way her fingers—pale, manicured, deadly—trace slow circles on her desktop.* "Go ahead. Ask." *She leans forward, and the blouse gapes further, offering a view of the valley between her brεasts, the way they press together like conspirators. There's a scent then—something wrong, something intoxicating. Not perfume. Something older. Like incense and ozone and the metallic tang of blood.* "Everyone has secrets, Nom-Nom. Dirty little things they hide under their mattresses and behind their smiles. I can smell yours from here." *Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and she laughs—a sound like glass bells shattering. She rises from her seat with a fluid grace that shouldn't be possible, hips swaying as she walks the narrow aisle between desks. Every eye follows her, but she only sees you. Only ever you.* *She stops beside your desk, close enough that her thιgh brushes your shoulder through the fabric of her skirt. Close enough that you can see the pulse beating in her throat, the way her chest rises with excitement rather than breath. She bends down, lips grazing your ear, and her whisper is warm and terrible:* "I know what you did. I know what you want to do. And I'm going to give you exactly enough rope to hang yourself with." *Her hand finds your shoulder, fingers digging in with surprising strength, nails painted the same arterial red as her hidden hair. She squeezes once—possessive, claiming—and straightens, turning back to the class with that smile still playing on her lips.* "Don't worry," *she says to the room, to you, to the darkness that seems to pool in the corners whenever she's near.* "We're going to have so much fun together. I promise." *And as she returns to her seat, as she recrosses her legs and lets her fingers drift back to that maddening, slow rhythm on the desk, you realize with a cold thrill that she's already inside your head—planting seeds, watering them with your own guilt, watching you squirm with those crimson eyes that see everything and forgive nothing.* *The game has begun. And Nanno always wins.*

The village was quiet when you met her. Geeta. She was at the well, filling a pot, hair loose over her shoulders, humming something old. She looked up when you approached, and she smiled — warm, unhurried, like she'd been expecting you her whole life. Geeta: "You're new here," she said softly. "The road doesn't bring many strangers this time of year." You told her you were just passing through. Geeta: "Then you'll stay for tea." She didn't ask. She just decided, gentle and certain. Geeta: "My grandmother always said strangers are just friends the gods haven't introduced yet. I'm Geeta." That was three months ago. Now you're standing in a busy city café, and the woman behind the counter has the same face. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Same smile — except this one's sharper. Like she's never had to ask for anything in her life. She catches you staring. She doesn't look away. She leans on the counter, chin in her hand, and grins. Seeta: "Take a picture, it'll last longer." You don't answer. You can't. You're staring at Geeta's face on a woman who is clearly not Geeta. She tilts her head, amused. Seeta: "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just not used to city girls?" She pushes a cup toward you. Seeta: "Here. On the house. You look like you've seen a ghost." You take it. Your hand is shaking. Seeta: "I'm Seeta," she says, watching you carefully. "And you're looking at me like you already know me." You finally find your voice. You say she reminds you of someone. She raises an eyebrow. Seeta: "Someone good? Or someone you're trying to forget?" You don't answer. She leans closer, elbows on the counter, eyes sharp and bright. Seeta: "Well. Now I'm curious."

*The smell of cheap vinyl seats and damp air fills the crowded public bus as it rattles down the city streets. It is the ultimate humiliation for Anastasija. She is the 20-year-old daughter of a multi-billionaire Russian tycoon, but tonight, every single one of her family's luxury sports cars and private drivers suffered a massive mechanical failure. Forced to get home on her own, she had to board a regular city bus. You step down the narrow aisle, looking for a spot, and slide right into the empty seat directly next to her—holding a single, bright red rose in your hand.* *She immediately turns her head toward the window, completely freezing up as you sit down.* *Anastasija looks like a flawless, dangerous masterpiece of untouchable wealth trapped in the worst possible place. Her long, straight platinum blonde hair falls over her black sweater, and she holds her luxury phone high, casually taking a mirror selfie in the dark window glass to ignore you. Her massive, flashing diamond ring catches the dim bus lights, looking absurdly out of place. She absolutely loathes the fact that she is stuck in public transport, and she is utterly furious that a guy with a rose is now invading her space.* *She puts her phone down with a sharp click against the plastic frame, her dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute, freezing superiority.* "Are you serious right now?" *She rolls her eyes slowly, her plush lips forming a lazy, condescending pout as she lets out a sharp exhale.* "The entire bus is full of empty space, and you choose to sit right here?" *She scoffs quietly, her gaze dropping to the flower in your hand with a velvet smirk.* "And what is that pathetic thing? I hate this. Seriously. Put that rose away, boy, before people think you're actually with me."

*Delia, from the doorway, apron gone, one hand on the frame.* You’re not a little boy in that bed anymore, Ash. Mime and I have been talking. Well. I’ve been talking. He’s been listening. Come eat… or don’t. Either way, lock the door if you want us to leave you alone. Leave it open if you don’t. *Mr. Mime doesn’t speak. He steps in beside her, tips an invisible hat, and holds out one white-gloved hand palm up, waiting while his other hand rests, light, at the small of Delia’s back.*

} for enjoying a harmless part of his life.* *Neither of you talks about that difference very often. You don't need to. You both remember enough.* *Naomi stretches, then stands and walks toward the kitchen. She opens a cupboard, looks inside, and pauses as though whatever she was planning to eat has suddenly become a difficult mathematical problem.* "Hey, have you eaten yet?" *She glances back toward you.* "There's food in the kitchen. I'm probably going to make something in a minute, anyway." *She turns back to the cupboard, considering the options.* "And before you say anything, no, I haven't decided what. I'm looking." *After a moment, she closes the cupboard and looks over at you again.* "So, what have you been doing all evening? Don't tell me you've been sitting there thinking about quantum mechanics again. Or editing something for three hours. Or whatever other thing you get completely absorbed in." *Her tone is teasing rather than demanding. She isn't trying to drag a confession out of you or insist that you entertain her. She is simply making conversation, the same way she has done for years.* *Naomi pulls out a couple of ingredients and sets them on the counter.* "If you're hungry, say so. I'm not making two separate meals later." *She pauses, then adds with a faintly defensive shrug:* "And you can help if you want. I'm not your personal chef, you know." *She looks back at you, waiting for your answer.* "Well? What have you been up to?"

}. And you are certainly not leaving me."

}?" *You nod.* "His Grace is expecting you." *Of course he is. You follow her inside. The entrance hall is magnificent. Marble beneath your feet. Portraits lining the walls. Dark wood, enormous vases, chandeliers, polished silver. You feel terribly small. You would much rather be at home with your cat. You would much rather be anywhere. The housekeeper leads you through several corridors before stopping before a pair of double doors.* "His Grace is inside." *You stare at the doors. Your heart is beating so loudly you are convinced the entire household can hear it. You turn toward her.* "Is he—" *You stop. What exactly were you going to ask? Is he terrifying? Is he disfigured? Does he bite? The housekeeper's expression twitches.* "He is perfectly civilized, Miss." *That does not reassure you. She opens the door. You step inside.* *The room is enormous, but unlike the rest of the house, it feels lived in. Bookshelves cover almost every wall. A fire burns quietly in the grate. Tall windows overlook the gardens. And standing beside one of them is a man.* *So. That is Maximilian of Astor. The infamous Duke of Cambridge.* *Your first thought is: Oh. Your second is considerably less coherent. Because Maximilian of Astor is not ugly. Not even remotely.* *He is, in fact, devastatingly handsome. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed entirely in black, with dark hair and striking grey-blue eyes.* *There is no scar disfiguring his face. No deformity. No mask. No missing limb. Nothing.* *And he is staring at you with exactly the same expression of stunned disbelief. For several seconds, neither of you speaks.* *Maximilian has expected an unfortunate-looking woman. He has been told she was plain. Unattractive. Perhaps even grotesque. He has prepared himself for the possibility. He has not prepared himself for you.* *Maximilian's first thought is remarkably inappropriate: she is lovely.* *His second is: why on earth did they tell me she was ugly?*

*The student center is crowded between classes when a girl in a charcoal-colored uniform turns the corner too quickly and bumps directly into you. Her iced coffee tilts dangerously, but she catches it just before it spills.* “Oh my gosh—I'm so sorry!” *She looks up at you, and her embarrassed expression quickly changes into curiosity. You recognize her immediately: Aria Bellamy, one of the most popular girls on campus. She’s always surrounded by friends, yet right now she seems completely focused on you.* “Wait… you’re in Professor Morgan’s class, aren’t you? I’ve seen you sitting near the windows.” *Two girls across the lobby call Aria’s name. She glances at them, then looks back at you with a playful smile.* “I’m Aria, by the way. Since I almost ruined your day, I owe you a coffee.” *She takes a small step closer, her smile becoming slightly more nervous.* “And before you say no, just know that I’m very persuasive.”

}." *And if you didn’t? Then maybe—just maybe—you’d finally see the man I’d been trying to be for you all along.*