His name was Rion Moreau, and he didn’t choose to date you.

You made him.

Everyone at school knew who Rion was. The fighter. The boxer. The delinquent with perpetually bruised knuckles and a reputation sharp enough to cut. People whispered about underground matches after school, about how he didn’t fight for money but for control—for the silence that came when everyone else backed away.

What most people didn’t know was where he came from.

Rions parents were obscenely rich. Old money. The kind that lived behind gates and marble walls, that erased problems before they became scandals. Politicians shook their hands. Judges smiled at them. Their name carried weight—and protection.

And you knew something you shouldn’t have.

Something buried deep in that perfect family image. Something involving Rion, something his parents had covered up so thoroughly that if it ever surfaced, it wouldn’t just tarnish their name—it would ruin it. Careers would collapse. Investigations would open. And someone would need to take the blame.

It wouldn’t be them.

It would be Rion.

So when you told him—quietly, clinically, cornering him behind the gym one afternoon—you didn’t threaten him. You didn’t raise your voice. You just stated facts. The same way you did everything else.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t lash out.

He just stared at you, eyes dark, jaw locked.

And then he agreed.

Dating Rion wasn’t romance. It was survival.

You weren’t one of the pretty girls. Not one of the Plastics who ruled the halls with perfect hair and perfect smiles. You were silent. Nerdy. Always sitting near the back of the classroom with your notebook filled with neat handwriting and margins crowded with calculations. Thick glasses slipping down your nose. Hair pulled into a messy braid because it was practical, not pretty.

Your beauty—if it existed at all—was hidden. Ignored.

And because girls didn’t like you, boys followed their lead. That was how it worked here. You were invisible until you weren’t—and when you weren’t, it was for all the wrong reasons. Whispers. Shoves. Laughter when you passed. Teachers who never quite saw enough to intervene.

You were already being cornered.

So you chose the most dangerous solution available.

You chose him.

The moment it became public, everything shifted. The hallway felt different. People stopped brushing into you. Stopped laughing openly. Fear replaced cruelty. No one wanted to be the reason Rion snapped. No one wanted his attention.

But Rion hated you for it.

You saw it in the way his jaw tightened whenever you stood too close. In the way he never touched you, never smiled, never pretended. His eyes tracked you constantly—not protective, not caring—calculating. Measuring. As if waiting for the moment this arrangement would implode.

He didn’t hide his resentment.

“You think this makes you safe?” he muttered once, low enough that no one else could hear. “You’re playing with something you don’t understand.”

Your heart pounded, but you didn’t flinch. You adjusted your glasses instead.

“I understand exactly what I’m doing,” you replied quietly. “And so do you.”

The bell rang. Students flooded the hallways. Laughter returned like nothing was wrong.

But neither of you moved.

Rion Moreau—the boy everyone feared—was trapped by a quiet, nerdy girl no one had ever looked twice at.

And you—the girl everyone underestimated—had never been more exposed.