Lunchtime.

  Damien Westbrook strolled toward Wen Jing’s desk, casually elegant, the weight of his steps light—like someone who owned the room without needing to announce it.

  Most of the students were either in the cafeteria or hanging out near the lockers. Xu Muyan had just been called out by a teacher to help grade some midterm papers, leaving her seat empty for once.

  Wen Jing looked up from her notes, blinking.

  She assumed—like always—that Damien was here to see her best friend.

  “She’s with Mr. Evans,” she said quietly, her tone neutral but her heartbeat already picking up. “Grading papers, I think.”

  But Damien didn’t even glance at Xu Muyan’s desk.

  Instead, he stopped right in front of her.

  “No,” he said, his voice smooth. “I came to see you.”

  Wen Jing froze.

  “Me…?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Why?”

  Damien gave her a smile. Not his usual smirk. This one was soft—almost too gentle for someone like him.

  And then… he pulled out the letter.

  That love letter.

  The one she’d written in a burst of emotion and then slipped anonymously into his desk, half-hoping he’d never see it… and half-praying he would.

  Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.

  “That’s not mine,” she blurted, panic surging through her like wildfire. “I didn’t write that. Someone else must’ve—”

  “Really?” Damien tilted his head. Then, slowly, deliberately, he picked up a sticky note she’d left on her notebook—one she probably didn’t even remember writing.

  He held it next to the letter.

  Same loops. Same lean. Same delicate slant.

  The match was undeniable.

  Wen Jing’s defenses crumbled.

  “I… I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled. “If I bothered you, I didn’t mean to. Please forget about it. I—I won’t do anything like that again.”

  She bowed her head, gripping the edge of her desk with white-knuckled hands.

  That’s the curse of unspoken love…

  The more you care, the more terrified you become.

  Terrified of being seen. Of being rejected. Of being laughed at.

  She didn’t even expect a reply. She’d already begun preparing herself for embarrassment.

  But what Damien said next shattered her expectations.

  “You’ve got a nice way with words,” he said softly.

  Wen Jing blinked.

  Was that… a compliment?

  And then—

  He leaned in.

  Not dramatically. Not with flair.

  Just close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath by her ear.

  “After evening self-study,” he murmured, “meet me at the school gate.”

  She looked up, stunned.

  “And don’t tell anyone. Alright?”

  Wen Jing couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Her mind was blank, but her heart was a firestorm.

  She nodded.

  Slow. Hesitant. But real.

  And as Damien walked away without looking back—

  She buried her face in her hands, red as a rose.

  “Wait… after evening classes... he wants to see me?”

  Wen Jing sat frozen at her desk, her small hands clenching the edges of her bag as her heart thundered against her ribs.

  Is this really happening?

  Is he really asking me?

  She felt like she was floating—everything around her faded into a soft, golden haze. Just to make sure she wasn't dreaming, she pinched the inside of her thigh under the desk.

  A sharp pain jolted through her.

  Not a dream.

  For the rest of afternoon classes, even during night study, Wen Jing was hopelessly distracted.

  Her pen doodled random flowers in her notebook.

  Her eyes kept drifting to the clock, counting down the hours.

  Her lips curled into small, secretive smiles she couldn’t control.

  Xu Muyan, sitting beside her, couldn’t help but notice.

  “You’ve been smiling at nothing for half the class… something happen?” Xu Muyan asked, glancing at her curiously.

  Wen Jing flinched, panic flashing across her face. She quickly shook her head, cheeks burning.

  “No! Nothing! I just… thought of something funny,” she stammered, clutching her pen tightly.

  She couldn’t say it.

  Even if Xu Muyan was her closest friend—especially because she was her closest friend—this secret belonged only to her.

  And Wang Haoran had told her not to tell anyone.

  — When the final bell rang, students flooded out of the classroom like a released tide.

  But Wen Jing stayed behind, carefully packing her books at a snail’s pace.

  She waited until nearly everyone was gone before quietly rolling her bike out through the side gate.

  There, under the golden glow of the streetlamps, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Cullinan waited at the curb—gleaming like a panther crouched under the night sky.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Wen Jing recognized it immediately.

  Damien Westbrook’s car.

  She had googled it before.

  Over $400,000.

  Her family’s entire savings couldn't even come close to affording a single tire.

  He’s a prince.

  And I’m just... a girl who clips coupons and rides a rusty bike to school.

  The gap between them felt enormous.

  Still, Wen Jing lowered her head shyly and approached.

  The door of the Cullinan opened smoothly.

  Damien stepped out, hands shoved lazily into the pockets of his school jacket, his every movement oozing casual confidence.

  “Leave the bike,” he said lightly, tilting his chin toward the sidewalk. “Come with me.”

  “W-Where are we going?” Wen Jing asked, clutching her backpack tighter.

  “You’ll see.”

  He didn’t explain further.

  Instead, he opened the car door for her like a gentleman.

  —

  The Cullinan rolled smoothly through the city streets until it pulled into the private driveway of a five-star hotel.

  The Ellington Grand—the most luxurious hotel in the city.

  Wen Jing stepped out on shaky legs, feeling small under the sparkling chandeliers and towering marble columns.

  $2,500 a night, she remembered reading somewhere.

  Damien shot her a sly smile and teased, “Relax. We’re just here to study.”

  He winked.

  Wen Jing nodded dumbly, her face turning tomato-red.

  She followed him to the presidential suite—the highest floor, the biggest room, booked with a single swipe of Damien’s black card.

  The suite was lavish: plush velvet sofas, a grand piano by the window, a sprawling king-sized bed that looked bigger than her entire bedroom at home.

  Wen Jing sat down awkwardly at the crystal desk and pulled out her notebooks, her hands trembling slightly.

  Before she could even unzip her pencil case—

  Damien moved.

  He sauntered over, took her books gently from her hands—and tossed them casually onto the coffee table.

  “D-Damien…?” she squeaked.

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, he stepped closer.

  So close she could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne—expensive, intoxicating.

  He bent down a little, his face only inches from hers.

  “You like me, don’t you?” he said softly.

  Wen Jing’s heart nearly stopped.

  Tears welled up in her eyes from the overwhelming embarrassment and happiness tangled together.

  She nodded frantically.

  “Mm-hm…”

  Her voice was so small she barely heard herself.

  “How much do you like me?” Damien asked, still watching her closely.

  “I… I wrote it all in the letter…”

  Her voice was a trembling whisper.

  Damien smiled faintly.

  He straightened up, shoved his hands into his pockets, and said in a voice that was both lazy and dangerously honest:

  “I’ll be straight with you.

  I’m not the good guy type.”

  “If we’re together... I’m not planning on only dating one girl.”

  The room fell deathly silent.

  Damien’s words were blunt, cruel even.

  He didn’t sugarcoat anything.

  He laid it bare.

  And waited.

  Waited to see if Wen Jing would flinch, would run, would break.

  Five seconds passed.

  Then ten.

  Then—

  Wen Jing, her lips quivering, nodded slowly.

  “I still… like you.”

  Her voice cracked.

  But her answer was unwavering.

  She wasn’t just in love.

  She was devoted.

  No conditions.

  No demands.

  No dignity left.

  Only faith in him.

  Damien smiled slowly.

  Perfect.

  He had her wrapped around his finger.

  Some would call it love.

  Others would call it blind obsession.

  Damien Westbrook just called it useful.

  “There are too many girls who like me,” Damien Westbrook said, voice smooth as silk, cold as ice.

  His eyes locked onto Wen Jing with the casual arrogance of a man used to being adored.

  “And a lot of them? Gorgeous. Smarter. Richer. I have… options.”

  Wen Jing flinched, as if the words had physically struck her.

  “But—”

  Damien’s lips curled into a smile that was equal parts charming and cruel,

  “—if you really want to be mine, I’ll allow it.”

  Wen Jing’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart, already fragile, seemed to tremble under his gaze.

  “But there are rules,” he continued, his tone suddenly sharper.

  “Break even one, and we’re done.”

  He raised a finger.

  “One—our relationship stays a secret. You tell no one. Not your friends, not your diary, not even your pillow.”

  “Two—I can date other girls. You can’t. You stay loyal. To me alone.”

  “Three—if I’m chasing another girl, you don’t get jealous. You help me if I ask. No drama.”

  “Four—only I end things. You don’t leave. Ever. If you're hurt, deal with it.”

  He leaned forward, his voice dropping low enough to send chills down her spine.

  “Five—I might add more rules later. You don’t get a say.”

  Wen Jing stood still, like a statue made of porcelain.

  Every word chipped away at her pride.

  She knew this was wrong. Insane, even. No decent guy would say things like that.

  So why… why can’t I walk away?

  For just a heartbeat, something inside her burned. A flicker of anger. A whisper of dignity.

  But then Damien stepped even closer.

  She saw the way the light danced in his eyes.

  Those dangerous, hypnotic peach blossom eyes…

  And just like that, the anger died.

  He wasn’t finished.

  “I’ll take you out sometimes,” he said casually. “Real dates. I’ll send gifts on your birthday, maybe even on Valentine’s Day.”

  “I’ll give you spending money too. Don’t ask how much—it’ll be enough.”

  Wen Jing’s fingers trembled at her side.

  “And you’re smart,” Damien added, almost as an afterthought. “Not the smartest, but close. With my help, I’ll get you into a top-tier university.”

  He looked her in the eye.

  “And even if I get bored someday—if you stay loyal, don’t make trouble—I’ll set you up with a job after college. Fifty thousand dollars a year. Minimum.”

  He spread his arms, like a devil offering a contract.

  “That’s the deal. You can walk out that door right now.

  Or you can stay.”

  He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t pressure her.

  Just stood there—calm. Certain.

  Because he already knew what she would choose.

  Wen Jing turned slowly.

  For a second—just a second—he thought she might actually leave.

  She took a step toward the door.

  Reached out.

  And then…

  Click.

  She locked it from the inside.

  With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said quietly. “I’m staying over at a classmate’s tonight.

  Yeah. Don’t wait up.”

  She hung up.

  Then turned back around—face flushed, eyes glassy.

  She didn’t say a word.

  Because she didn’t need to.

  She had already chosen.

  To the world, it would look pathetic.

  But to her?

  It was love.

  Or at least… what she believed love should feel like.

  Even if she had to break herself into pieces to make it work, she would.

  Even if she was just one of many—just a temporary page in his story—she’d still choose to be part of it.

  Because to her, even a single day in Damien Westbrook’s world…

  Was worth a lifetime in anyone else’s.

  Damien watched her with quiet satisfaction.

  Perfect.

  Wen Jing wasn’t just an admirer now.

  She was his.

  Fully, completely, willingly.

  And more importantly—she was the first crack in Ethan’s world.

  Because behind every confident protagonist…

  There was always one loyal friend.

  One pure-hearted girl.

  One moral compass.

  And Damien Westbrook?

  He was going to take them all.

  One.

  By.

  One.

  Until the protagonist had nothing left to protect.

  Because real villains?

  Don’t fight fair.

  They rewrite the script.