The rain hammered against my dorm window like it had a personal vendetta. Each drop felt like an accusation, calling me out for being the kind of girl who'd waste three years on someone who never deserved a single day.
Three fucking years. Three years I'd spent editing Jake's essays at 2 AM while he played video games with his headset on, laughing with his friends like I didn't exist. Three years defending him when my roommate said he was using me, when my best friend pointed out he only called when he needed something. Three years believing every lie that fell from his perfect mouth like honey-coated poison.
My phone buzzed again. Jake's name lit up the screen for the fifteenth time tonight, his contact photo mocking me—that stupid homecoming selfie where he's kissing my cheek and I'm laughing like I'd never been happier. Like I was the luckiest girl on campus.
God, I was such an idiot.
I hit decline and watched his face disappear. The screenshots were still open on my laptop, burning into my retinas every time I blinked. Jake and Melissa, tangled up in her bed, her manicured nails raking down his back. The same back I'd traced with my fingers last week when he told me he loved me. When he said I was the only one who understood him.
Understanding. Right. I understood perfectly now.
I grabbed my hoodie and keys, shoving my wallet into my pocket. No way was I staying here tonight. My roommate would be back soon with that concerned look, ready to make tea and ask if I wanted to talk about it. Tomorrow would bring whispered conversations in the dining hall, sideways glances in the library, people who'd seen the screenshots making their rounds. But tonight, I just needed to disappear.
The Sterling Hotel sat downtown, far enough from campus that I could pretend to be someone else entirely. Its lobby glowed like liquid gold when I pushed through the revolving doors, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers that made my rain-soaked hoodie look even more pathetic. Water dripped from my hair onto the pristine floor.
I didn't belong here. That was exactly the point.
This wasn't the campus bar where everyone knew my business, where Jake's fraternity brothers would see me and report back. This was the Zero Student Zone, as I dubbed it in my head. A place where I could be nobody's girlfriend, nobody's fool, just another face in expensive lighting.
The bar was nearly empty. I slid onto a leather stool and caught the bartender's attention. "Whiskey. Neat."
He raised an eyebrow at my appearance but didn't question it when I slapped my credit card down. The amber liquid arrived in a heavy crystal glass, and I knocked it back. It burned going down, scorching my throat, but it felt like armor. Liquid courage for whatever came next.
"That'll burn if you're not careful."
The voice came from two stools down—deep, measured, with the kind of authority that made you listen whether you wanted to or not. I glanced over and found gray eyes studying me with clinical precision. He was older, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair and the kind of severe features that belonged in boardrooms or courtrooms. Sharp jaw, expensive watch, the posture of someone who'd spent years being in charge.
A leather portfolio sat open beside his drink, filled with documents covered in red ink. Even his handwriting looked expensive—precise, controlled slashes across the pages.
There was something magnetic about him. Not handsome in the conventional way, but compelling. Like he'd seen every kind of human wreckage and found it all predictable. Soul-tired, but sharp as a blade.
"Go home, kid."
The dismissal in his tone made my jaw clench. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He didn't even look up from his papers. "Whatever brought you here, drowning it won't fix it."
I signaled for another drink. "Thanks for the unsolicited advice, but I'm fine."
That got his attention. He turned those gray eyes on me fully, and I felt like a specimen under a microscope. "Are you?"
"Loyalty's supposed to be currency, right?" The words came out bitter, sharp. "Turns out it's worthless when the other person's been counterfeiting theirs the whole time."
Something shifted in his expression—not sympathy, but recognition. Like he'd been exactly where I was sitting and knew how the story ended.
"Rough night," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"Rough three years." I took a sip of my second drink, slower this time. "But who's counting?"
He went back to his documents, but I could feel his attention still on me, peripheral and assessing. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged with something I couldn't name.
I swiveled my stool toward him, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers moved across the documents with surgical precision. No wedding ring. No tan line where one used to be.
"You always work this late?" I leaned closer, close enough to catch his scent—something expensive and clean that made my pulse quicken despite everything.
He went very still. "You should go home."
"I'm twenty-one." I let my hand drift to his forearm, felt the muscle tense under my fingers. His skin was warm through the expensive fabric of his shirt. "And I don't want to go home."
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating slightly. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Maybe that's exactly what I need tonight." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "To not know. To not think. To be someone else for a few hours."
He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched the war play out behind those gray eyes. Logic versus desire. Responsibility versus temptation. Then he closed the portfolio with deliberate care, his movements controlled but charged with something dangerous.
"One drink," he said.
We both knew he was lying.
The elevator ride felt endless, tension crackling between us like a live wire. He stood on one side, I stood on the other, but the space between us felt electric. He handed me his keycard without a word when we reached his floor, and I understood the gesture—this was my choice, my decision to make. I could still walk away.
I didn't.
The door clicked shut behind us, and the sound felt like crossing a line I couldn't uncross. But I was done being the good girl, the understanding girlfriend, the one who always did the right thing. Tonight, I wanted to be reckless.
I woke up alone.
Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating an empty bed and my clothes folded neatly on a chair. The sheets still smelled like him—that expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more primal. Two aspirin sat beside a glass of water on the nightstand, along with a hotel notepad that simply read: *Don't do that again.*
No name. No number. No trace of the man who'd made me forget my own name for a few hours.
I dressed quickly, my skin still humming with the memory of his hands, and slipped out before housekeeping could arrive. The walk back to campus felt surreal, like I'd dreamed the whole thing.
Three weeks later, rumors started circulating about a visiting professor for Advanced Business Ethics. Someone important from the corporate world, they said. Someone who'd agreed to teach one semester before returning to his consulting firm.
I was running late to class, coffee in one hand and my bag sliding off my shoulder, when I spotted the leather portfolio on the lecture podium. The same red ink, the same precise handwriting marking up what looked like student papers.
My blood turned to ice.
Dr. Thorne was written on the whiteboard in sharp, familiar strokes. I knew that handwriting. I'd watched those hands move across documents in a hotel bar, watched them trace patterns on my skin in the dark.
The door opened behind me, and I didn't need to turn around to know who'd walked in. The air itself seemed to change, charged with the same electricity I remembered from that night.
Our eyes met across the lecture hall. For a split second, I saw recognition flicker in those gray depths—surprise, then something that might have been regret. But it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it.
His expression went cold, professional. A mask sliding into place.
The chalk snapped in his fingers.
The stranger from the bar had just become the man who controlled my future.
I sank into my seat, heart hammering against my ribs, and realized my real education was about to begin.
Author's Note:
Hey everyone!
So here we are with *The Stranger's Mark* - and wow, I'm nervous and excited to share this one with you. Fair warning upfront: this is going to be a slow burn that might make you want to throw your phone at the wall sometimes. Maya and Julian are going to put each other (and us) through the emotional wringer.
This story deals with some heavy stuff - forbidden attraction, power dynamics, family drama that gets messy fast. Everyone's an adult here, but the situations they find themselves in? Not exactly simple. If you're looking for easy answers or characters who always make the right choices, this probably isn't your story.
But if you're here for the tension, the "oh no they absolutely should not be doing this" moments, and watching two people fight against something that might destroy them both... well, buckle up.
I live for your reactions - seriously, your comments and thoughts keep me writing when these characters are being particularly stubborn. Whether you love them, hate them, or want to shake some sense into them, I want to hear about it.
Thanks for taking this journey with me. Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes.
xoxo