Xavier POV
The lock clicks softly.
Not the sound of metal.The sound of finality.
I don't notice it right away.
That's the trick.
The house is too quiet when I get home — the kind of quiet that feels staged. Lights on in rooms no one's using. The faint hum of the wine fridge. My father's study door closed, which means he's pretending to work while listening for movement.
I shrug off my jacket and toss my keys onto the console.
Alicia is already inside.
Sitting on the edge of the living room couch like she owns it. Legs crossed. Phone face-down beside her. Calm. Prepared.
Waiting.
I stop.
"You let yourself in," I say.
She smiles faintly. "You gave me the code."
"That doesn't make it an invitation."
"It does when you don't change it," she replies.
I don't answer. I loosen my tie instead, slow and deliberate. Control through ritual.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"To talk," she says. "Properly. Without Marcus interrupting. Without you pretending you don't understand what's happening."
I give a humorless laugh. "If this is about Aylia—"
"It is," Alicia cuts in smoothly. "Exclusively."
There it is.
The name lands heavier than it should.
I turn toward the bar, pour myself a drink. Don't offer her one.
She notices.
"Still pretending this is casual?" she asks.
I take a sip. "You're the one escalating."
"And you're the one allowing it."
I glance at her sharply. "Careful."
She doesn't flinch.
"That used to work," she says quietly. "It doesn't anymore."
I set the glass down harder than necessary. "You went behind my back."
"Yes."
"You involved faculty."
"I redirected attention."
"You manipulated her environment."
Alicia tilts her head. "So did you. You just did it with your presence instead of paperwork."
Silence stretches.
She stands slowly, smoothing her skirt. The movement is unhurried. Confident.
"You think you're containing this," she continues. "But you're not. You're feeding it."
"That's not your concern."
She steps closer. "It became my concern the moment people started asking questions."
"People always ask questions."
"Not like this," she says. "They're watching. They see you with her. They see how you position yourself. How you soften when she speaks."
I scoff. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" Alicia counters. "You've never softened for me."
The words are sharp.
Personal.
I meet her gaze. "This isn't about jealousy."
She smiles. "Of course not. It's about control."
I hate how well she knows the language.
"What do you want, Alicia?" I ask again.
She studies my face like she's deciding whether to cut or cauterize.
"I want to formalize this," she says.
My jaw tightens. "There's nothing to formalize."
She steps even closer now. Inside my space. Lowers her voice.
"That's where you're wrong."
I don't move.
"You're already acting," she continues. "You're intervening. Redirecting. Shielding her from consequences she hasn't earned protection from."
"I'm not shielding her."
"You stopped Camille from reporting her," Alicia says. "You corrected a rumor before it could stick. You spoke to a teacher about adjusting group dynamics."
My chest tightens.
"You're tracking me now?" I snap.
"I'm tracking outcomes," she replies calmly. "And the outcome is this: Aylia Zehir is no longer a variable. She's a focal point."
I turn away. "This ends."
Alicia laughs softly. Not amused. Inevitable.
"No," she says. "This begins."
I face her again. "I won't do this your way."
"You already are."
I step forward, towering. "You don't get to decide what I feel."
Her smile sharpens.
"That's the thing," she says gently. "I don't have to."
She reaches for her phone. Doesn't unlock it yet. Just holds it between us.
"People already think you care," she continues. "That's dangerous for you. For her. For the hierarchy."
"I don't care," I say flatly.
"Then prove it."
The words strike deeper than I expect.
"How?" I ask.
Alicia's eyes gleam.
"We make it a certainty," she says. "Instead of a rumor."
My stomach twists. "Explain."
"You pursue her," Alicia says. "Openly. Thoroughly. Long enough that everyone sees it."
"And then?" I demand.
"And then," she says softly, "you end it."
The room goes still.
End it.
Clean. Controlled. Public enough to correct the narrative.
I stare at her. "That's not a game."
She shrugs. "Everything is a game. You just prefer the ones you think you're winning."
"What if I don't?" I ask.
She raises a brow. "Don't what?"
"End it."
Alicia's smile doesn't falter. But something colder moves behind her eyes.
"Then you lose," she says simply.
"What's losing?" I ask.
She steps back, giving me space like a gift.
"You don't get to pretend anymore," she replies. "You don't get to stay above it. You don't get to rewrite this as concern or strategy."
"And her?" I ask quietly.
Alicia tilts her head. "She learns the truth."
My hands curl into fists.
"That's cruelty."
"No," Alicia corrects. "That's correction."
I exhale slowly. "You're enjoying this."
She doesn't deny it.
"Say the terms," I say.
Her lips curve. "If she falls for you — you end it. Cleanly. Publicly. On your terms."
"And if she doesn't?" I ask.
"Then," Alicia says lightly, "we admit she was never worth the attention."
"And the timeline?"
"Until she believes you," Alicia replies. "Or until you do."
The words settle like ash.
This is the moment.
I feel it — the narrowing. The walls sliding inward.
I could walk away.
I could end this now.
Instead, I hear myself say, "This doesn't leave this room."
Alicia smiles. Victorious. "Of course it does."
"What?" I snap.
"Not in words," she clarifies. "In behavior. People will notice. They already are."
She steps toward the door, then pauses.
"One more thing," she adds. "You don't get to be kind accidentally anymore."
I stiffen.
"You've crossed that line," she continues. "Now kindness has meaning. And meaning creates expectation."
She opens the door.
"If you hesitate," she says over her shoulder, "I'll assume you're choosing to lose."
Then she leaves.
The lock clicks again.
This time, I hear it.
I stand alone in the living room, heartbeat steady, mind racing.
Aylia's face flashes in my head — guarded, careful, brave in quiet ways that irritate me more than defiance ever could.
I think of the way she looked at me today.
Not hopeful.
Not afraid.
Wary.
Good.
I pour another drink. Don't taste it.
This was supposed to be containment.
Now it's commitment.
And the most dangerous part?
I don't want her to lose.
Which means someone will.