Alicia's POV
The thing about Xavier is that he likes to believe nothing happens without his permission.
It's a comforting illusion.
I let him keep it.
I don't confront him at school. That would be vulgar. Public. Messy. He's already walking too close to the edge there—too visible beside her, too careful in ways that draw attention instead of deflect it.
No.
I wait until Friday night.
Until his guard is low and his control is stretched thin by proximity.
I wait until he's already halfway compromised.
His house is quiet when I arrive. Too quiet for a place that large. The staff knows better than to linger. His mother is still at the hospital. His father is out—some board dinner, I think.
Xavier opens the door himself.
That's how I know this is the right moment.
"You're late," he says flatly.
"I wanted you alone," I reply, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
He closes the door behind me, slow and deliberate. His shoulders are tight. His eyes sharper than usual.
"You shouldn't be here," he says.
"I'm exactly where I need to be."
We stand there for a moment—two people who know each other far too well. He doesn't offer me a drink. I don't ask for one.
"You brought her here," I say casually, glancing up the stairs.
His jaw tightens. "That's not your concern."
"Oh, it absolutely is."
He turns fully toward me now. "You crossed a line last time."
I smile faintly. "You didn't stop me."
Silence.
There it is again—that hesitation he hates in himself.
I walk deeper into the house, heels clicking softly against the floor. I stop near the living room window, where the city lights bleed faintly through the glass.
"She fits here," I say thoughtfully. "Doesn't she?"
"Don't," he warns.
"She doesn't belong here," I continue anyway. "That's why you're drawn to her. You like variables you can reduce."
"She's not a variable," he snaps.
I turn, eyebrow arching. "That's new."
His expression shutters instantly.
Too late.
"You're involved," I say calmly. "More than you planned. More than you'll admit."
"You're projecting."
"No," I correct. "I'm observing."
I step closer, lowering my voice.
"You brought her into your home. You let my father—your father—see her. You let her sit in your space, touch your things, breathe your air."
I tilt my head.
"That's not strategy, Xavier."
"It's convenience," he says, too quickly.
I laugh softly. "You don't lie well when you're cornered."
He doesn't respond.
So I press where it hurts.
"You're being careful with her," I say. "Gentle. Controlled. You're offering protection."
"I'm preventing damage."
"You're creating attachment."
That lands.
His gaze hardens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about," I say coolly. "And so do you."
I move closer—just inside his personal space.
"This is the point where you usually pull back," I continue. "Where you recalibrate. Where you end the distraction."
"I don't end things out of fear," he replies.
"No," I agree. "You end them to stay alive."
His hands curl slowly at his sides.
"I won't hurt her," he says quietly.
There it is.
The admission he doesn't hear himself make.
I smile.
"I didn't say you would," I reply. "I said you will."
He looks at me sharply. "Explain."
I take a breath—not because I need it, but because this deserves ceremony.
"You can't keep this in limbo," I say. "Not her. Not yourself. If you keep hovering like this, people will assume intent."
"They already do."
"Yes," I say. "And soon, they'll expect outcome."
He doesn't interrupt.
Good.
"So," I continue, "we formalize it."
He exhales sharply. "Formalize what?"
"This," I say, gesturing vaguely. "Whatever you think you're doing."
"I'm not playing a game," he says coldly.
"That's where you're wrong," I reply. "You're already in one."
I meet his gaze, unwavering.
"You pursue her," I say. "Openly. Intentionally. You let her believe this is real."
His voice drops. "No."
"You let her fall," I continue calmly.
"That's not happening."
"And when she does," I finish, "you walk away."
The silence that follows is profound.
Dangerous.
His expression doesn't explode. It calcifies.
"You're out of your mind," he says.
"Am I?" I ask softly. "Or am I giving you an exit strategy?"
"I don't need one."
"Yes," I say gently. "You do."
I step back, giving him space to think. To rationalize. To do what he always does when emotions threaten structure.
"If you end it cleanly," I say, "you prove this wasn't love. Just influence. Control. A lesson."
"And if I don't?" he asks.
I smile again.
"Then you admit she mattered," I say. "And you know what that costs you."
He turns away from me, pacing once. Twice.
"This is cruel," he mutters.
"Yes," I agree. "And effective."
He stops.
"Who else knows?" he asks.
"No one who matters," I reply. "Marcus suspects. But he always does."
His jaw tightens at the name.
"And if I refuse?" he asks quietly.
I walk closer again.
"Then I stop protecting her."
The words are soft.
Devastating.
"You wouldn't," he says.
I meet his eyes. "Try me."
Another long silence.
I watch the moment happen—the exact second where his resistance shifts from moral to logistical.
"How long," he asks.
"Until she believes," I say. "Until everyone believes."
"And then?"
"Then you let her go," I reply. "Without mercy. Without explanation."
He closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them, something in him is gone.
"I don't lose," he says.
"You won't," I promise. "You never do."
"What do you get?" he asks.
I smile wider. "I get to be right."
"And if she doesn't fall?"
I tilt my head. "She already is."
That does it.
He nods once.
Sharp. Final.
"Fine," he says. "But you don't interfere again."
I laugh softly. "You don't get to set boundaries now."
"I'm setting them," he says coldly. "Or this ends."
I consider him for a moment.
Then nod.
"Agreed," I say. "For now."
I turn toward the door.
"One more thing," he says behind me.
I pause.
"If you hurt her beyond the terms," he continues, "I won't forgive it."
I glance back, amused.
"You already have," I say.
I leave before he can respond.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean. I breathe it in, satisfied.
The bet isn't spoken aloud again.
It doesn't need to be.
It exists now—in every smile Xavier gives her, every gentle touch, every carefully measured kindness.
She thinks she's being chosen.
He thinks he's in control.
And neither of them understands yet—
The most dangerous part of a trap isn't the fall.
It's the moment right before, when you still believe the ground will hold.