The Wicked Games we play for love

Dear Dairy

Fourteen years ago, Dorian Vanderbilt locked me in his closet and left with his new, rich parents.

He left me there. At the orphanage… and never came back.

Today I will finally find him.

My plan is simple. 

Find him. Make him fall hopelessly in love with me. Then destroy him… 

Easy peasy, right?

“Student permit, please.”

The guard lifts his hand without looking up from his booth. Troy slaps the diary shut and scrambles to dig out her papers.

Behind her, a guy moans. “Come on, we don't have all goddamn day.”

The guard checks the paper without acknowledging her, then gestures toward the next gate.

“Next!”

Before she can even move, she gets shoved violently to the front. She frowns back at the idiot behind her, now impatiently giving his papers.  Then she walks through the gates.

When she looks up at the huge building, hundreds, no, thousands of students gather in the open spaces between the huge, spread-out university buildings. All kinds of people. All genders, all races, and—she scans the crowd eagerly—all social classes.

Easy peasy? How will she even find him in this haystack? 

She doesn't even know what he looks like now. Except for his hair colour, she doesn't know what to look for. His rich, new parents stopped posting him on F******k when he was about thirteen. Now, he should be close to… twenty-two?

She steadies a nervous breath and steps onto the campus grounds.

Students brush past her. The lawn stretches out for hundreds of meters, almost the size of two soccer fields.

It hits her right in the chest. Reality sets in. She’s here. She made it happen.

Someone bumps hard into her shoulder, spinning her around.

Suddenly, a wave of shouting tears through the air.

Some students sound terrified, but most sound absolutely ecstatic. As if something long-awaited is finally going down. People bolt around her toward a central courtyard ahead.

Troy clutches her diary tightly to her chest before someone can knock it from her hands.

“It’s one of Dorian’s guys! He’s going to be so pissed!” someone yells, sprinting past.

“Oh, shit, I told you this was gonna happen,” another mutters.

Dorian?

The world around Troy empties at the sound of that name. Her feet freeze on the spot. Seconds pass. She can only hear her own ragged heartbeat and raging breath in her ears.

Then, she moves.

Slowly at first, then faster and faster, until darting toward the epicentre of the crowd.

A massive ring of bodies has formed. From the outskirts, the brutal sound of fists landing on flesh echoes over the cheering. Troy pushes through the shoulders and bodies, standing on her tippy-toes. She hops up and down, dodging sideways until she finally snags a clear lookout point.

Two bloodied guys are at each other’s throats. Punching, shoving, leaping, and swinging. Both are heavy-built, and their movements suggest actual combat training.

Nobody intervenes. The crowd treats it more like its entertainment than assault.

At this point, one is taken down, and his face is being bashed in.

Thud. Thud.

Blood gurgling in his throat.

Thud…

“Rex... Make one more move.” The voice comes from within the crowd, low and rough, and the warning beneath it is lethal. It cuts through the noise like a knife through butter.

He steps out from the crowd and into the circle. His movements are soundless against the concrete. Slow. Like a predator stalking prey.

His expression is bone-chilling. 

Long, silver-white hair flows over his back with loose braids woven through it. The sides of his head are shaved, exposing a dark tribal tattoo stretching across his scalp.

Blood drains from Troy’s face. Pins and needles all over her body.

The crowd silences instantly. Everyone knows exactly who he is.

Mid-punch, the guy sitting on top of the other, freezes and looks up, terrified.

The silver-haired man strides closer, and Troy forgets to breathe. 

That hair. It’s him.

The attacker instantly gets off the bleeding man. “Dorian, I’m sorry, he…”

“Not here.” Dorian cuts him off bluntly, his glare piercing so intensely that it seems like forcing submission.

He grabs the guy roughly by the arm and shoves him out of the crowd.

Bystanders rush toward the injured guy on the floor, but Troy barely notices. Instead, she slips through the crowd, tracking the silver-haired man from a distance as he walks away with Rex.

She lurks behind groups of students, keeping her eyes locked on his black backpack. The other guy walks beside him, frantically waving his free hand and trying to explain himself. 

Dorian doesn't even look at him.

The two men step onto the grass, heading toward a group of others. All of them are big, well-built, and alert.

You would swear this place is a fighting academy or an army camp, Troy thinks as she scans over them. What are they training for?

She subtly angles her body and walks toward a nearby tree, careful not to draw attention. Slowing her pace, she pretends to admire the ancient, 129-year-old university buildings towering around them.

This school is meant for elite achievers and wealthy families. But Troy isn't wealthy, nor does she have any family. Becoming a top achiever was her only ticket in. She studied night after night without sleep, nearly losing her mind to get this acceptance letter.

She reaches the shadow of the tree. 

Dorian seems agitated. She can’t hear the words, but she is close enough to see his face clearly now. His dark eyebrows settle into a deep frown, layering over silver-grey eyes. 

That’s his eyes, alright.

As if sensing her stare, his head whips toward her, his eyes catching hers in an unnaturally fast, primal movement. 

Troy almost drops her pen.

Spinning around, she quickly hides behind the tree trunk, her heartbeat drowning out the noise of the campus.

Taking one shaky breath, she bolts toward the entrance of the nearest building, praying he didn't catch a good look at her face. She bursts through the doorway and collapses against the wall, shutting her eyes tightly.

With trembling fingers, she flips to the last page of her diary, presses her pen to the paper, and writes:

Dear Diary...

I’ve found him…