Chapter 2
The next morning, Rinon arrived twenty minutes early to Business Ethics and Corporate Strategy, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh as he surveyed the room. The lecture hall smelled like stale coffee and ambition, the kind of place where futures were bartered over textbooks and tired smiles.
He chose a seat in the far corner not the very back, but close enough to the exit that he could slip away unnoticed.
Like hell you will, a voice in his head whispered, sounding suspiciously like hers.
He clenched his jaw, shoulders tight beneath his sweater.
Memories from orientation flickered behind his eyes like a reel from some psychological horror:
Her fingers "slipping" as she passed him a cup of coffee, dark liquid splashing across his crisp white shirt.
"Oops," she'd said, voice dry as bone. "You should really watch where you're going."
The way she'd intercepted a group of students heading toward him during networking hour, hijacking the conversation with surgical precision.
"Oh, Rinon?" Her voice had lifted just enough to draw attention. "He's fascinating. The strong, silent type or maybe just silent because he has nothing to say."
And then the name tag.
That slow, deliberate rip as she brushed past him during introductions, her nail catching on the edge like it had been planned.
"How clumsy of me," she'd murmured, holding the torn piece of laminated paper between two fingers, her eyes gleaming like she'd won a bet.
He exhaled sharply, forcing his grip on the pen to loosen before it snapped.
The door swung open.
She walked in like she already owned the building. Saafia Bin too composed, too aware, the kind of woman who'd wear apathy like perfume. She didn't scan the room, didn't hesitate. Just strode straight to the front row and dropped into a seat, posture draped in effortless arrogance, legs crossed like a queen in exile.
Rinon didn't look up, but his pen faltered for half a second.
The professor, a balding man with the energy of someone who had accepted mediocrity as destiny, began droning about utilitarianism and stakeholder theory. Rinon took notes mechanically, his handwriting a controlled, even script that betrayed none of the chaos in his chest.
Then, halfway through the lecture, something slid across his desk.
A folded slip of paper.
He stared at it like it might bite.
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, he unfolded it.
You take notes like someone who's afraid of being wrong. Does the pen shake when you lie, too?
He almost smiled, despite himself.
Almost.
Instead, he turned it over and wrote:
And you participate like someone who's never been told no. Must be exhausting, being the smartest person in every room you walk into.
He slid it across the empty seats between them.
She picked it up without looking, unfolded it with theatrical slowness. Her lips curled something between amusement and approval and then she raised her hand.
"Professor," she called out, voice slicing clean through the hum of laptops and half-asleep undergrads. "What's the ethical penalty for self-deception? You know when someone lies to themselves so much they start believing it?"
The professor blinked, caught mid-thought. "That's… not really in the syllabus."
Saafia tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance back at Rinon.
"What if it's strategic self-deception?" she continued, feigning innocence. "Like, say, pretending you don't care when you're actually terrified?"
The professor stammered, flustered. "Ms. Bin, unless this is related to "
Rinon stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor.
"May I be excused?"
The professor gestured vaguely, more startled than approving.
He didn't wait.
The hallway was cold, sterile. He braced one hand against the wall, breathing out through his nose, sharp and slow.
Behind him, the door clicked open.
"That was quicker than yesterday," came her voice, lightly mocking. "I'm almost disappointed."
He didn't turn. "What do you want?"
"You."
The word hung there, absurd and casual.
He turned to face her.
"Why?"
She stepped closer. Her expensive shoes made no sound, like even the ground obeyed her.
"Because you're the only person here who doesn't bore me."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only one that matters." She tapped one manicured finger against his chest, right over where his heartbeat thundered. "You're alive when you hate me. Everyone else is just… background noise."
He caught her wrist before she could pull away.
"I don't hate you."
She raised a brow. "No?"
"I don't know you enough to hate you."
She gave a slow, foxlike smile. "Then let's fix that."
The bell rang, abrupt and metallic.
Students began spilling into the hall, a tide of motion and idle chatter.
She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear.
"Midnight. Old library. Don't be late."
He didn't release her wrist. His grip was firm, not cruel but questioning.
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking."
"That's not an answer."
"What, you need a reason now?" She tilted her head, lashes lowered. "I thought you didn't care."
"I don't."
"Liar." She slid her hand free, but not before letting her fingers trail along his palm. "You care so much it's practically pathetic."
He clenched his hand into a fist. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you'll be there."
"And if I'm not?"
She turned, walking away, her voice floating behind her like smoke.
"Then I guess I'll have to find some other poor soul to ruin. But we both know you'd hate that more."
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Rinon watched her retreat, jaw tight, pulse hammering at his throat like it wanted out.
She was right.
And he hated that most of all.