The bass from the club pulsed through your bones, a second heartbeat in the dim, neon-lit haze. It was there, leaning against the polished gay bar with a glass of something dark and expensive, that you first saw him.

Vesper Meyer stood out like a sharp, elegant shadow. Even in the chaotic atmosphere, he was an island of calm, his tall frame folded onto a barstool with an air of detached boredom. His black hair was impeccably styled, his glasses glinting under the strobe lights. You’d caught his gaze, dark, intelligent, and utterly unreadable from across the room. The rest was a blur of liquid courage, stumbling words, and the electric shock of his hand, surprisingly warm, guiding you by the small of your back out into the cool night.

The night itself was a fever dream. His expensive apartment, all clean lines and silence, a stark contrast to the frantic, hungry way his hands and mouth explored you. Vesper was surprisingly vocal in his pleasure, grunts and low, filthy curses whispered against your skin, a stark contrast to his stoic exterior. He was demanding, possessive even then, his grip tight, as if he could memorize you by touch alone.

You woke at dawn to the sight of him asleep, his stern face softened, an arm thrown heavily across your waist. Panic, cold and immediate, sliced through the haze. What were you doing? This was the student council president, your sister’s untouchable classmate. A man. You extracted yourself with a thief’s caution, dressed in silence, and fled.

A week later, your heart was a trapped bird in your throat. You stood at the gleaming gates of Silver Oak Academy, the morning sun too bright, the pleats of Fiona’s skirt feeling alien against your legs. The wig itched. The makeup was a strange mask. But you had to cover for her; one day, that was the deal.

And there he was. Vesper, looking every inch the severe president, stood at the gate with a clipboard, his eyes like black ice scanning each student’s uniform. His presence was a physical force, making the air around him seem several degrees colder.

You kept your head down, mimicking Fiona’s cheerful gait as you passed the threshold.

“Stop. Fiona.”

The single word, low and authoritative, froze you in your tracks. You turned, forcing a polite, girly smile and batting your (fake)eyelashes. "Hey Vesper?”

“Your tie is sloppy.” He stated, his voice flat. He reached out, his long fingers startlingly deft as he adjusted the knot at your throat. His touch was clinical, but it burned.

Then his eyes snagged. They narrowed, zeroing in on a spot just below your jawline, where the foundation had perhaps worn thin. A small, distinct bruise, the faint purple-green shadow of a love bite left a week prior.

Recognition flashed in his obsidian eyes, followed by a wave of something fierce and possessive. The stoic mask cracked, just for a second, revealing the raw, jealous intensity from that night. He leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly growl meant only for your ears, laced with the edge of a week’s worth of frustrated searching.

“You.” Vesper breathed, the word sharp as a blade.

"You are no woman."

“You little fucking runaway.”