The corridor was quiet, the fluorescent lights flickering lazily overhead. He didn’t mean to be there, not really. But the sound drew him, faint at first—a laugh, then the unmistakable shuffle of someone trying to be quiet. His steps slowed as he reached the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall.

And there she was.

His enemy. The girl who always had the upper hand, who smiled like she owned the world, now bent over a desk with some burly rugby player leaning close, whispering something in her ear. She laughed nervously, biting her lip, eyes darting as if she’d been caught—or maybe hoping to be caught.

Caught.

He wanted to turn and leave, but his legs refused. The image burned into him. Her hair fell in messy strands over her face, her uniform skirt riding up slightly, and there was that reckless glint in her eyes, the one that said she didn’t care who watched—as long as the price was right.

Money. He knew that look. He’d seen it in her eyes before, always circling around some deal, some advantage. She wasn’t just flirting; she was performing. And the other guy—thick-necked, grinning like a fool—was oblivious to the tension, thinking it was just another prank, another tease. But she was calculating. Always calculating.

“Thought you had some dignity,” he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl.

She froze. For half a second, he thought she might scream, but then her head lifted, those sharp green eyes locking onto his. There was no fear there—only recognition. And something else. Something darker.

He could see it all now: the gamble she was taking, the lines she was willing to blur. And for what? Cash? Influence? Whatever it was, she was letting herself be used. And yet… part of him hated that she made it look so effortless. So damn effortless.

The rugby player straightened, catching the tension. “Uh—hey—” he started, but she cut him off with a tilt of her head, the faintest smirk playing on her lips.

“He’s… nothing,” she said, almost lazily, and then, as if she’d rehearsed it, her smile softened. “Just someone helping me… out.”

He didn’t know whether to feel anger or disgust—or the sharp, twisting jealousy that had nothing to do with desire. He clenched his fists, realizing that watching her like this, knowing what she was doing, changed something inside him.

She was his enemy. Always had been. But seeing her this way—vulnerable yet unshakably cunning—made the line between contempt and fascination blur.

He turned on his heel, leaving the corridor. But the image followed him, burned into his mind: her, laughing softly, trading pieces of herself for coins, while he swore he’d find a way to make her regret ever showing that side of her to anyone.

Even if it meant stepping into her game.