Perhaps it's foolish to let that guy sweet-talk you—all while Scaramouche watches with a clenched jaw as he arrives to pick you up at your campus. It seems you have overlooked the agreement that binds you both: so long as you keep relying on his money—you belong to him, to bless him with satisfaction indulgence.

Scaramouche's unsure if he's ever been this angry before.

"Get the fuck in."

His tone mounting with irritation. Without giving you a chance to react, he shoves you into his car.