“Ethics in Modern Society isn’t just a graduation requirement.” Dr. Martinez’s voice cuts through Monday morning misery like she’s personally offended by our existence. “It’s St. Augustine’s way of pretending you’ll develop moral compasses before your trust funds kick in.”
Brutal honesty at 8 AM. Almost respect her for it.
I’m melting into this chair, watching my classmates pretend they aren’t doom-scrolling TikTok under their desks. Another mandatory soul-cleansing session designed to polish our college apps until they blind admissions officers.
“Today’s delightful topic: Sexual ethics and personal choice.” Her smile could cut diamonds. “I want honest discussion. No hiding behind Daddy’s donation wings.”
And here comes the anxiety spiral in 3… 2…
“Anyone brave enough to share their perspective on modern dating culture?”
Dead silence. You can practically hear everyone’s internal screaming—a whole symphony of rich kid terror.
Madison Chen finally sacrifices herself, raising her perfectly manicured hand. “I mean, everyone hooks up now? It’s just… what you do?”
“Define normal,” Dr. Martinez prods like she’s dissecting a particularly interesting corpse.
“Like, if you’re not fucking by date three, you’re basically joining a convent.”
Laughter ripples through designer uniforms. I stay silent, picking my cuticles until they bleed. Self-destruction technique number forty-seven: activated.
“Other perspectives?”
More silence. Then my mouth—apparently operating on its own suicide mission—decides to ruin my entire existence.
“I think waiting matters.”
Every single head whips toward me like I just announced my plan to bomb something. The air shifts, thick with judgment and barely contained hysteria.
Mom’s voice echoing in my skull: ‘Reputation is everything, Juliet. One mistake and you’re just another disappointment.’
“Elaborate, Miss Alden.” Dr. Martinez leans forward like she’s found fresh prey.
My pulse is hammering, but years of Mom’s coaching kick in. Voice steady, spine straight, game face locked and loaded. “I’m saving myself for marriage. Not because some dusty book told me to, but because I choose to.”
The silence isn’t just quiet—it’s archaeologically deep. Layers of shock settling like nuclear fallout.
“Holy shit,” someone whispers.
“Language, Mr. Morrison.”
Then this voice drawls from the back corner—smooth as expensive whiskey and twice as dangerous.
“So what you’re saying is, the rest of us are just wasting our time?”
Fuck. My. Entire. Life.
I turn, and there he is. Grayson West, lounging in his chair like he personally owns gravity. Black tie hanging loose, collar strategically undone—the kind of calculated rebellion that never earns detention. Storm-gray eyes that see straight through everyone’s bullshit. Devastatingly beautiful in that way that makes smart girls stupid and drives stupid girls actually insane.
Every girl at St. Augustine’s has fallen for that face at least once. My bestie, my lab partner, probably my mom if she ever met him.
And here I am, serving myself up like fresh meat at feeding time.
“I’m saying some things are worth more when they’re not passed around like party favors,” I fire back, holding his stare.
Someone actually gasps. Delilah, probably—girl lives for drama.
His mouth curves into something too sharp to be called a smile. “Interesting theory. Very… pure of you.”
He makes ‘pure’ sound like a terminal disease.
“At least I have standards.”
“Oh, I have standards too.” His voice drops, intimate enough that half the class leans in like he’s sharing state secrets. “They’re just more… flexible.”
“Flexible standards aren’t standards. They’re convenient excuses.”
His laugh is rich, dark, way too pleased. “Damn, Alden. Didn’t know you had claws.”
“You haven’t seen shit yet, West.”
Dad’s voice now, slurred from his study at 2 AM: ‘Don’t let them see weakness, Jules. The moment they smell blood, they’ll tear you apart.’
Thanks for the life advice, Dad. Really helpful between the bourbon and the Adderall.
Dr. Martinez clears her throat. “This brings us to today’s assignment. You’ll work in pairs exploring moral autonomy in modern relationships.”
She starts reading names and I’m mentally lighting candles to every saint who protects girls from their own big mouths.
“Juliet Alden and Grayson West.”
The universe officially wants me dead. Like, actually deceased.
Grayson spins in his chair, that infuriating smirk spreading like he just won the fucking lottery. “Looks like fate wants us better acquainted, Virgin Mary.”
“Don’t.”
“What would you prefer? Saint Juliet? Sister Chastity? The Nun Who Lived?”
“I’d prefer you keep my name out of your mouth entirely.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Mom’s voice again: ‘Perfect daughters don’t make scenes, Juliet. Perfect daughters don’t give people ammunition.’
Well, Mom, your perfect daughter just basically painted a target on her own forehead, so maybe we need to adjust expectations.
“Presentations are due Friday,” Dr. Martinez announces. “Start immediately.”
Bell rings. I grab my bag, determined to escape before—
“So, partner.” Grayson materializes beside my desk like some kind of beautiful nightmare. “Your place or mine?”
“Library. Public. Witnesses.”
“Afraid you can’t resist my charm?”
I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Afraid I might strangle you with your own tie.”
“Kinky. I like it.”
Heat floods my cheeks and I hate that he notices. Hate more that his eyes actually darken when he sees it.
This is just an assignment. Don’t read into it. Don’t make it weird. Be normal.
Except I’ve literally never been normal a single day in my life.
“This is just schoolwork, West. Don’t romanticize it.”
“Oh, I never romanticize anything.” He steps closer—close enough that his cologne hits me like a physical force. Something expensive and dangerous that probably costs more than my car. “But I’m excellent at reading between the lines.”
“There are no lines. There’s nothing to read.”
“We’ll see about that, Alden.” His voice drops to a whisper that sends actual shivers down my spine. “We’ll definitely see about that.”
