Chapter 10 : “The Game”

*Roanne’s POV*

The folder had felt like salvation in my hands, a paper shield crafted by Caleb's digital sword. I settled into the creaking embrace of my desk chair, the dim light of dawn peering through my dorm room blinds.

Fingers trembling with something akin to excitement, I peeled back the cover of the folder. The meticulous arrangement of schedules, the crisp printouts outlining my academic life rearranged, danced before my eyes. Each page fluttered like a hesitant heartbeat as I flipped through them, the gravity of what Caleb had done settling deep within my bones.

"Roanne," the note began, in Caleb's calculated scrawl, "It's done. Sebastian won't be an issue; not in your classes, not on your path. Your classes are now always at the opposite side of campus as his." I imagined him hunched over his computer, lines of code reflecting in his steely gaze—his way of righting wrongs that the justice system failed to address.

A hacker's sense of justice, dark and unquestionable. My lips curled upward, the first genuine smile in weeks. "Thank you, Caleb," I whispered into the quietude of my solitude.

As relief washed over me, my thoughts turned to strategy. In the corner of the room lay the three potential venues sprawled across sheets of paper, each a stage where the next act of my life could unfold.

My finger hovered, danced even, as I contemplated the possibilities. The options were a café known for its discretion, and where he would usually have breakfast. A secluded park bench under the weeping willow, where he jogged every morning. And the grand opening of the Art Gallery, the invitation next to it.

Each had its merits, but only one would play to my advantage. The gallery it would be. His family's name was etched into the donation plaque by the entrance—a symbol of their influence, and now, unbeknownst to them, my leverage. Anticipation sparked within me, igniting a fire that Sebastian's darkness had almost smothered. Would I be able to pull it off? I had to do it, I needed to.

I rose from my chair, my reflection in the mirror a specter of the woman who had once believed in fairy tales—now a warrior donning her armor. Tonight, I would step into the art gallery not just as a spectator. My fingers danced over the palette of eyeshadows, alighting on hues. The brush strokes were deliberate, darkening my eyelids like the waning twilight outside my window.

Why Aaron? I pondered while looking at my reflection. At school, I never was in his circles, and although everything about him made me melt, he was always out of reach to me, and yet now, thanks to the club, I was entering his circles.

Later at night, a nervous smile drew over my lips as the grand doors of the Art Gallery parted like the opening act. The scent of oil paint and varnish mingled with the perfume of the well-heeled crowd milling about. I stepped inside, permitting myself a moment of awe at the artistry surrounding me.

Sculptures bathed in soft light and paintings that held whispered secrets in their strokes. Each piece told a story, I reflected silently, my gaze caressing a canvas that captured torment and ecstasy in a single frame—the duality of the human experience laid bare for all to see.

The rich hues of an abstract canvas captured my gaze, the chaotic swirls of color resonating with the emotions swirling within me. I was entranced by the artist's boldness, the audacity to smear passion onto a blank slate for the world to dissect.

"Unexpected to find you lost in contemplation here, Roanne. Does art move you so deeply?"

I startled, a ripple of surprise skating down my spine as I turned to face Aaron. There was an intimacy in his proximity, close enough to blur the lines between patron and painting.

"Art has a way of doing that," I replied, holding his gaze, finding a thrill in the challenge it presented. "It strips us bare, doesn't it? Peels back the layers we all wear."

"Indeed, it does." His eyes reflected the gallery's ambient light, twin pools of curiosity and something darker, more promising.

My pulse quickened as I leaned back against the cool wall, letting the texture press into my skin through the fabric of my gown. I felt grounded, anchored in the moment as I tilted my head, offering him a smile. Inside, I was going crazy, but outside, I showed only resolve.

"Do you prefer the rawness of expressionism or the disciplined beauty of the renaissance?" My question was a dance, a step closer into his world, our conversation a mix of intellect and allure.

"Expressionism," he responded without hesitation, his attention fixed on me, and I knew I had caught his attention. "There's honesty in the chaos, a purity in the emotion it evokes."

"Each stroke tells a story, don't you think? A narrative of longing, of ecstasy, and sometimes... of darkness," I replied nervously.

"Is that what you see when you look at these paintings, Roanne?" His tone dipped lower, brushing against the edges of my name like a caress. Oh, why am I feeling butterflies all over again? I am the one who is supposed to seduce him, not the other way around!

"Among other things." I let the double entendre hang in the air, charged with the electricity of the exchange that was making me breathless.

"Perhaps you'll share your perspective with me," he ventured, stepping imperceptibly closer, erasing the scant distance between us.

"Perhaps." I replied with a promise, and a tease. As my mind and my heart both ran wild. "Then again," I added, my voice dropping to match the intimate pitch of our surroundings, "some stories are best experienced rather than told."

"Is that an invitation, Miss Mailen?" The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a half-smile, a glimmer of challenge in his expression. How much he still affected me!

"Only if you're daring enough to accept it," I answered, my heart racing with the exhilaration of a gambit laid bare.

The hushed murmur of the gallery patrons swelled into a crescendo, only to be silenced by the resonant voice that emerged from the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy the transformative ambiance as we dim the lights for an exclusive visual experience."

I felt the hum of excitement vibrate through me, like the softest touch along the curve of my spine. This was new and exciting. The lights began their descent into twilight, and the artwork around me started to stir with an almost ethereal pulse. My eyes were everywhere. It was as if each brush stroke, each hue, was infused with life, beckoning us to look closer, to feel more deeply.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Aaron's voice was a whisper against the backdrop of shifting shadows. "How darkness can reveal so much more than light ever could." I turned towards him, my eyes adjusting to the newfound dimness, my senses heightened.

The air between us charged with a palpable energy, I watched the paintings—a dance of colors and forms—cast their spell over his features, softening the hard lines of his jaw, bathing him in an otherworldly glow.

"Did you have something to do with this?" My question was barely audible over the collective intake of breath as the room surrendered to the magic of the moment.

Aaron stepped closer, the heat from his body mingling with mine. He moved slowly and deliberately around me and stood behind, his hands landing on my hips, a gentle yet possessive hold, and I couldn't help but lean back into the solidity of his chest. My heart hammered against my ribcage, echoing the rhythmic thrumming that enveloped us.

"I may have had... a hand in it," he confessed, lips grazing the shell of my ear, sending shivers cascading down my neck. "Art should move us. It should breathe and pulse with our deepest desires and fears. Don't you agree?"

Every word was a caress, every syllable a seductive promise. I felt myself falling into the depths of his revelation, the intoxicating notion that there was so much more to Aaron than met the eye. Was he not the man I thought he was? Was he someone else? Someone different?

"Power is not just exerting control. It's about inspiring awe," he continued, his breath warm against my skin. "It's about drawing out the beauty from the shadows, giving shape to the formless. That's what I strive for."

And in that darkness, with the art casting its hypnotic spell, I saw a side of Aaron I never knew—a man of complexity and vision, weaving his own story into the tapestry of night. How curious that in this absence of light, I was beginning to see him clearly for the first time.

I blinked, trying to remind myself that I was there to seduce and manipulate him. Though I started to feel like I was more and more falling into my own trap.

"Sometimes," Aaron continued, his gaze locked onto a particularly vibrant piece, "silence speaks louder than any noise."

"Like the paintings around us," I murmured, feeling his proximity like a magnetic field, pulling at the core of me.

"Exactly." His eyes flicked to mine, a storm indeed brewing within their depths. In that silence, the tension thickened, wrapping around us, tighter and tighter until it felt as though the air itself was charged with electricity. Our shared silence was a conversation, each beat of silence a word, each breath a sentence.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he closed the distance between us, turning me around and facing me. My pulse thrummed in response, a drumbeat announcing the collapse of walls I'd meticulously built. "Roanne," he whispered, and my name on his lips felt like a caress. “What is it that you really are doing here?”

"Admiring… art," I whispered. I tilted my head to the side and up, defiance and yearning intermingling within me. His eyes, dark pools of intensity, held mine with a captivating force.

The world seemed to hold its breath as we moved closer, the anticipation as thick as the paint daubed on the surrounding canvases. Finally, our lips met, and the kiss was a revelation, an awakening. It was deep, passionate.

As the kiss deepened, the art around us blurred into insignificance. The only thing I was aware of was the intricate dance of our tongues, the urgent pressure of his lips, the way his hands came to rest on my waist, pulling me hard towards him, claiming me.

I felt feverish as he pressed me against the wall, against one of the wonderful works of art. He pulled my lower lip with his teeth, and when I felt his hand lower to my bottom, I didn’t know what I was doing, I just knew I wanted it. It was wrong, oh, so, so wrong, but I wanted all of it.

The firm squeeze of his hand on my ass made me moan in his lips, and I could feel the grin it provoked. Was he playing with me? Did I care?

Time ceased to exist. The murmur of the gallery receded into nothingness, swallowed by the depth of our interaction.

Oh, what had I done?

-

*Aaron’s POV*

Blake gave me a pat on the shoulder and nodded. “Glad your dad is not here tonight to ruin this for you, you made this happen, you deserve all the honors.”

I smiled, I was indeed proud of all the displays, worthy of a real art gallery, not the boring ones universities had. If my dad were here, he would have made comments about the waste of money in the extra details I personally wanted.

Then my eyes darted as soon as I spotted her; Roanne. She looked incredible, almost like a completely different person, and it woke up something dangerous in me. She looked ready to be devoured.

“Oh, you have your eyes on Mailen?” Blake’s words pulled my attention to him.

“You know her?” I was begging silently for him to say no.

“I am sure she doesn’t know who I am, we were many last night,” he mentioned casually and I frowned.

“Care to elaborate?” My words more like a demand than a question.

“Remember I mentioned weeks ago, that Flanagan’s secret club started to get more people?” He held my gaze as he waited for my reply, as soon as he noticed I wasn’t responding, he continued. “Well, the club’s name is ‘The Revenge Club’ and she just joined it last night, I am, of course, part of it.”

What the hell does Roanne want in a club like… oh, Sebastian. I noticed she was wearing a piece of fabric around her neck and it covered the bruises left by that asshole. She wanted revenge from him, and Violet loves the drama.

“Want to hear the funniest part?” Blake asked and I almost growled at him.

“I am not laughing,” I warned him.

“Oh, just wait to hear this. Every new applicant gets about 3 missions, and her first one was to seduce you,” he said in the most amused tone.

Seduce? Me? Why would she want to seduce me? This was ridiculous, and I did not believe in any of it.

Then again, Blake was always my most trusted friend and confidant. My friendship with him was real, true, and solid, and he would never betray me with such a lie.

“Interesting,” I said, and started to head towards her.

“Have fun!” I heard Blake say and I already knew this was going to be an interesting exchange.

And I was not wrong, I was having fun, everything she said was accurate; her appreciation for art was not a construct for tonight, this was not fake. Everything she said had double intention, of course, but she knew what she was talking about, she knew her surroundings, and I felt a bit of pride that someone so nerdy as her was praising the details I personally put into tonight’s display.

I could also tell she was nervous, but her choice of words helped her shield herself with everything she mentioned. If this was a game for her, I would make it worth my time as well. I would not become an easy target for a girl searching for revenge.

Yet as I enjoyed the way her body slightly shivered under my hands, something in her eyes felt different. I couldn’t understand, nor decipher, what was there behind those hooded eyes, but it drew me closer.

Maybe I needed to explore this girl more, maybe this game of hers would prove to be fun. But as soon as I felt her lips meet mine, everything within me screamed to claim her. Her lips molded mine perfectly, and my lower regions stirred with attention. I wanted nothing more than to crush her against the painting and fuck her to oblivion. I needed to stop, I had to stop, but I only kissed her harder.

When I felt her comply with my touch and respond to my kiss, it only made my manhood stand harder. I wanted to fuck her and maker her scream my name. I wanted all of the people around us to disappear to make it happen.

My hand squeezed her flesh, and her moan was ecstasy, and I felt like a drug addict needing more fix. She was intoxicating.

Fuck. This was not the plan.