The check—still warm from his body heat—pressed against Amelie's chest like a branding iron, scorching its way straight into her heart.
She had no clear memory of how she made it back to her room.
Her legs carried her on instinct alone, as if her body were moving independently of her mind. The moment the door closed behind her, she staggered into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She stood beneath the spray for a long time, letting freezing water crash down over her head and shoulders.
It didn't help.
No matter how cold the water was, it couldn't wash away the sensation clinging to her skin—the sticky, invasive filth that felt like it had burrowed into her bones.
In the mirror, her reflection looked unfamiliar.
Her lips were swollen and bruised, tinged red in a way that had nothing to do with warmth. Her neck and collarbone were mottled with marks—some dark, some fading—layered reminders of what had been taken from her.
Christopher Hayden had branded her with money and desire alike, leaving behind a mark that was unmistakably his.
A mark steeped in humiliation.
***
In the days that followed, Christopher never appeared again.
Yet his absence did nothing to ease her fear.
Amelie lived in the Hayden estate like a startled bird, flinching at every sound, treading carefully through each corridor as though the walls themselves were watching her. She breathed softly, moved quietly, shrinking her presence as much as possible.
The one-million check was folded and hidden between the yellowed pages of an old book. She never took it out again. She didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to remember how it had been placed against her skin.
Monday finally came.
The moment she stepped out of that suffocating manor and onto campus—into open air filled with youth and movement—Amelie felt something in her chest loosen for the first time in days.
The scent of osmanthus drifted through the air, light and sweet. She inhaled deeply, as if she had been holding her breath for far too long.
Here, there was no Christopher Hayden.
No invisible pressure tightening around her throat.
***
Morning sunlight filtered through rows of tall plane trees, scattering broken patterns of light and shadow across the pavement.
Amelie hugged a heavy stack of textbooks to her chest as she headed toward the library. She hadn't slept well the night before—another nightmare, another jolting awakening—so her complexion was pale, her steps unsteady.
"Amelie!"
A clear, gentle voice called out from behind her.
She turned to see a tall boy in a white hoodie jogging toward her, a breakfast bag swinging from his hand. His smile was bright, open, and his eyes carried an easy warmth.
It was Dylan Ross, her senior.
Dylan was something of a legend on campus: the pride of the architecture department, well-mannered, capable, and kind. He came from a good family, had an easygoing temperament, and was the object of many quiet crushes.
"You don't look so great," he said, stopping in front of her with a concerned frown. "Did you skip breakfast again?"
He held out the paper bag. "Hot soy milk and a sandwich. I just bought them. Eat while it's still warm."
The heat seeped through the bag into her fingers, chasing away some of the morning chill.
Amelie blinked, startled by the unexpected kindness, and waved her hands hurriedly.
"Senior, that's not necessary—I—"
"Take it."
Dylan didn't give her time to refuse. He gently pressed the breakfast into her arms, then casually took the heavy stack of books from her grasp.
"I'm heading to the library too. We can walk together."
His movements were natural, his demeanor upright and respectful. There was no hidden intent in his eyes—only straightforward goodwill.
The words she'd meant to say lodged in her throat.
"…Thank you," she murmured instead.
They walked side by side, leaving a polite half-arm's distance between them. Dylan chatted easily about recent classes, joked about a notoriously strict professor, and complained lightly about deadlines.
Little by little, the tightness in Amelie's chest eased.
Before she realized it, she found herself smiling.
It was small, tentative—but real.
The first genuine smile she'd managed in days.
—
Not far away.
A black Maybach sat silently beneath the shadow of the plane trees.
The rear window was lowered just a crack.
Inside the car, Christopher held a set of overseas acquisition documents awaiting his signature. But his gaze wasn't on the pages—it was fixed through that narrow opening, locked onto the two figures walking together in the distance.
He saw the young man hand her breakfast.
Saw the way she lowered her head, shy and reserved.
And more than that—
He saw the smile on her lips.
A relaxed, unguarded smile he had never once seen directed at him.
She smiled at someone else.
That realization sent a surge of dark emotion rolling through Christopher's eyes.
The air inside the car seemed to freeze, inch by inch.
The assistant driver caught a glimpse of his boss's expression in the rearview mirror and immediately held his breath, not daring to make a sound.
Christopher said nothing.
He simply looked away.
Picking up the document, he signed his name with a sharp, decisive stroke—pressing so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper.
"Drive," he said coolly.
The car moved off smoothly, heading in the opposite direction from the two figures walking side by side beneath the trees.
Amelie knew nothing of any of this.
She spent the entire morning studying quietly in the library, unaware that something unseen had already begun to shift.