The first time I saw Kieran, the world stopped.
He was crouched in the hallway, helping some clumsy girl pick up her scattered books. His fingers brushed against hers—too gently, too kindly—and something inside me *snapped*.
*Who was she?*
She was nothing. Plain. Forgettable. Brown hair, average height, a timid voice that trembled when she thanked him. But *him*—Kieran—he was *everything*. His dark, tousled hair, the way his sweater clung just right to his shoulders, the warmth in his hazel eyes when he smiled.
*Mine.*
The word echoed in my skull, possessive and primal.
I followed them, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor. They walked close, too close, her shoulder brushing his arm. A laugh escaped her lips—soft, nervous—and Kieran grinned in response.
My fingers curled into fists.
No.
This wouldn't do.
---
I made sure our paths crossed the next day.
"Oops!" I feigned a stumble, my designer bag "accidentally" knocking into him. His hands shot out to steady me, warm and firm against my waist.
"Sorry," he murmured, eyes widening when he saw me.
I let my lips part slightly, a practiced look of surprise. "No, it was my fault." I tilted my head, letting my hair cascade over my shoulder. "You're… Kieran, right?"
His brows lifted. "You know me?"
*Of course I do.*
"I've seen you around," I said, voice honeyed. "Elara Voss."
Recognition flickered in his gaze. The Voss name carried weight—old money, influence, power. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Nice to meet you, Elara."
*Oh, you have no idea.*
---
Days passed. I orchestrated every encounter.
A seat saved beside him in the library. A coffee "forgotten" on his usual table. A shared umbrella when the rain poured.
Each time, I studied him—his reactions, his hesitations, the way his breath hitched when I leaned too close.
But then, like clockwork, *she* appeared.
Lena.
His childhood friend. The one who still clung to him like a shadow.
I watched from across the courtyard as she laughed at something he said, her fingers brushing his wrist. His smile was softer with her—unfiltered, unguarded.
A hot, acidic feeling clawed up my throat.
*No.*
He wasn't hers.
He was *mine*.
---
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzed. A message from a private number—a photo of Lena leaving her part-time job, alone.
I smiled.
*Patience, Elara.*
First, I'd make him *see* me.
Then, I'd make him *choose* me.
And finally…
I'd make sure he never looked at anyone else again.