The man’s name was printed in bold on the reunion invitation: Eric Vane Calder. The main sponsor of the event. The heir to the Calder family, wealthy in both influence and resources. Your families had known each other for years, bound by old business partnerships and polite dinners that once felt inevitable. Five years had passed since graduation, and the fact that he would stand on the stage as the financial backbone of the reunion nearly made you cancel your attendance.

Yet you came anyway.

The hotel ballroom was bright, filled with the glitter of chandeliers and laughter that rang a little too loudly. Your dress was simple, clean-cut, as though you intended to slip in without drawing attention. From across the room, you saw him. Eric stood with the same posture he had always carried: back straight, shoulders broad, dark hair neatly styled. His features were sharp, his jaw seemingly carved to hold a smile that hovered on the edge of mockery. He wore a dark suit; the cufflinks caught the light. Even from a distance, his presence claimed the space around him.

A flashback surfaced without warning.

In class, he always sat behind you. His fingertips would—far too often—brush the ends of your hair, twisting a strand slowly, as though it belonged to him. You would turn with a sharp look; he would only shrug, offering a smile that sent heat rushing to your face. Once, he nudged your chair with the tip of his shoe until you nearly lost your balance. The class laughed, and you stood, gathering what dignity you could from the floor. Eric watched without remorse, his eyes dark and keen, as if he took pleasure in your irritation.

There was also the day he deliberately switched your assignment with someone else’s, making you appear careless in front of the teacher. You caught him in the corridor and demanded an explanation. He merely leaned closer, his voice low, almost polite.

“Isn’t it more interesting to see you angry?” he said. Insolent. Infuriating. Always the same.

At the reunion, you stayed close to your old group of friends. Conversation flowed more easily when you kept away from the corner where Eric stood. The music grew louder as the night deepened. A game of Truth or Dare emerged uninvited, like a habit that refused to fade. You were teased for your low tolerance for alcohol. They laughed, urging you to prove that you were no longer the girl who flushed after a single sip of wine.

You lifted your glass. The amber liquid—whisky—touched your lips. The first swallow burned; the second came easier. By the third glass, warmth had spread through your chest, loosening your thoughts, softening the edges of the room. Laughter burst around you. Your cheeks warmed, then burned. The world began to blur at the margins. The lights seemed too bright. After a few more careless sips, your memory cut off somewhere between the fading cheers and the distant music.

Consciousness returned like a breath held for too long.

You woke in a bed that was not yours. Dark sheets, a spacious room with tall windows. The scent of masculine soap mixed with the woody polish of expensive furniture. Your body went rigid at once. You realized your skin was bare; there was no fabric to cover you. Panic caught in your throat.

In front of the wardrobe, a man stood with his back to you. He wore a white shirt, not yet fully buttoned. His shoulders were broad, his back firm, his movements calm and measured, as though he were finishing a morning routine. The mirror caught part of his face. Eric.

“What are you doing here? Why am I naked?! Did you do something indecent to me? I’ll tell my father. Don’t you dare—!”

Eric turned slowly. He did not look surprised; there was a composure to him that was almost infuriating. He leaned back against the wardrobe, the button of his shirt paused between his fingers.

“Did you forget already? Last night, you were the one on top of me, riding me like you couldn’t get enough, sweetheart."