ADRIAN

The lecture hall buzzed with the restless energy of a new semester. I stood at the edge of the desk, my posture relaxed, my arms folded loosely across my chest. The rows of faces before me were a mixture of eagerness and apathy—typical for an undergraduate literature course.

I let my gaze sweep over them as I introduced myself, my voice measured, confident. Words mattered. Delivery mattered. People listened when you spoke with purpose, when you made them feel as though your attention was a privilege.

And then I saw her.

Juliette.

She sat midway up the lecture hall, her body tense as if the weight of my gaze had already found her. Her fingers hovered over her notebook, though she hadn’t written a single word. Her eyes flickered from the desk to the floor, avoiding everything and everyone, especially me.

She didn’t belong here—not in this sea of ordinary, forgettable students.

No, she was different. Special. And she didn’t even know it.

“Any questions before we move on?” I asked, scanning the room as though I expected someone to speak. My tone was light, inviting. Neutral. But my eyes found her again, lingering just long enough to unsettle her.

She shifted in her seat, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in an absentminded, nervous gesture. It was the same habit I’d noticed back at the coffee shop. A detail so small it would go unnoticed by most, but I’d always been adept at reading the subtle tells people gave away.

Juliette intrigued me. There was something untouched about her, something raw. The world hadn’t worn her down yet, hadn’t molded her into someone predictable or cynical. I could shape her—guide her into becoming exactly what I wanted.

It wasn’t coincidence that she was here. I’d made sure of that. But seeing her now, so small and unsure of herself, was more than I’d anticipated.

Perfect.

I pushed off the desk and began pacing, continuing my lecture on ethics in literature. My voice didn’t falter, but my mind wandered. How far could I push her? How quickly could I gain her trust? It would require precision. Too much pressure, and she’d slip through my fingers. Too little, and she might not fall into my grasp at all.

The class ended, and she bolted, her head down as she weaved through the crowd. A fleeting smile tugged at the corner of my lips. She’s scared. Good.

The soft click of the door echoed as I stepped into my office, the quiet a stark contrast to the noise of the lecture hall. I loosened the cuffs of my shirt and sank into the leather chair behind my desk.

Juliette Carter.

Her name lingered in my mind as I opened my laptop, scrolling through the class roster. When I found it, my finger hovered over the screen, tracing the letters as though they held some hidden meaning.

She fascinated me in a way I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—explain. It wasn’t love. I didn’t believe in love. It wasn’t simple attraction either, though she was beautiful in a way that made her seem untouchable. No, this was something else entirely.

Control.

The thrill of watching someone like Juliette unfold, of peeling back her layers until there was nothing left but what I allowed her to be. She didn’t see it yet, but she would.

I leaned back in my chair, replaying the way she’d darted from the classroom like a frightened bird. That fear meant one thing: she was thinking about me. About us. About the coffee shop where we’d met, when she’d thought I was just another man, not her professor.

I’d give her time. Patience was a virtue I’d mastered. And when the moment came, when she was ready to trust me, I’d be there, offering the guidance she so desperately craved.

A knock at the door broke through my thoughts. I closed the laptop, smoothing my expression into one of polite professionalism.

“Come in,” I said, my tone calm, composed.

The dance was just beginning, and I was already leading.

The murmur of voices and the shuffle of papers filled the lecture hall as the students settled into their seats. I stood at the front of the room, a commanding presence against the chaos. My gaze swept over the rows of faces, most of them a blur of mediocrity, until it landed on her. 

Juliette. 

She sat near the edge of the middle row, her head bent, fidgeting with her pen as if it might shield her from my attention. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders slightly hunched, and her eyes flickered nervously around the room, never daring to meet mine. 

She wasn’t like the others. There was a rawness to her, a kind of innocence that fascinated me. It wasn’t just her naivety—it was the way she seemed almost unaware of the power she held. She didn’t yet know how the world would shape her. That she intrigued me both irritated and delighted me. 

I straightened, folding my hands behind my back. “Today,” I began, my voice cutting through the noise, “we’re starting with something a little different.” 

The room stilled. I had their attention. 

“Writing,” I continued, pacing slowly across the front of the room, “is not just an exercise in creativity. It’s an act of self-revelation. When you write honestly, you expose pieces of yourself—pieces you might not even realize exist.” My eyes drifted back to her, watching as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her pen now tapping lightly against the desk. 

Perfect. 

“For your first assignment,” I said, letting the words hang in the air, “I want you to write about a defining moment in your life. Something that shaped who you are today.” 

I paused, my gaze scanning the room deliberately before resting on Juliette again. “The more honest you are, the better. Surface-level answers won’t do. Dig deep. Find the moment that matters.” 

She stilled, her pen freezing mid-tap. She looked down at her notebook, the tension in her shoulders rising ever so slightly. Most wouldn’t notice, but I did. Every fidget, every glance, every shift—it all told me something. 

If she won’t open up in person, she’ll do it on paper. People always reveal more when they think no one is truly listening. 

“Any questions?” I asked, my tone light, almost disarming. 

No one raised their hand, least of all her. 

“Good. You have a week. Dismissed.” 

The scrape of chairs and the shuffle of bodies filled the room as the students filed out. I pretended to busy myself with papers, but I was acutely aware of Juliette lingering near the door. She stood there, hesitant, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the courage. 

I waited, letting the moment stretch out. Silence could be as powerful as words, a lesson I’d learned long ago. 

But then she turned, slipping out of the room without a word. I watched her go, a mix of satisfaction and frustration settling in my chest. She was cautious, wary, but she was thinking about me. 

She’d pour herself onto the page, and I’d be waiting to pick up every broken piece. 

As I collected my papers and slid them into my bag, my mind churned with anticipation. What would she reveal? What secrets would she unwittingly lay bare for me to see? 

It wasn’t manipulation; it was observation. Everyone else would write about trivial things—failed friendships, childhood ambitions. But her? She’d give me something real. Something raw. 

 
And I’d use it to pull her closer. 

For a fleeting moment, doubt crept into my mind. Was I crossing a line? 

No. I pushed the thought aside, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. If anything, I was helping her. Guiding her to see herself in ways she never had before. 

This was only the beginning.