Obey me, Dean. (Erotica)
Bellmere University wasn't supposed to be a punishment. But it became one the second Aria Lancaster met him.
Sebastian Wolfe-the new Dean. Billionaire. Ruthless. And her father's oldest friend.
He's twice her age, cold as ice, and dangerously in control.
She's innocent, defiant, and off-limits.
One mistake lands her in his office.
One punishment strips her bare.
And one rule changes everything:
Obey him, or be expelled.
But what starts as punishment quickly turns into obsession.
And when secrets unravel and control slips, there's only one thing left to do:
Break the rules. Or break each other.
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Chapter 1
Aria's POV:
I heard it- a moan. Raw. Real. Human.
I froze.
Voices whispered. Someone laughed.
A soft whisper followed. I wasn't supposed to be there.
Not at the Wolfe mansion.
Not in Ivy's vintage Dior.
And definitely not in the west wing hallway where the lights were dimmed just enough to scream *wrong turn*. But tell that to the vodka in my bloodstream and the God complex I'd developed since being sentenced to Bellmere like it was some kind of elite prison cell wrapped in ivy. I blame the heels. Ivy's were a half-size too small, and after two hours of mingling with rich kids and wannabe political heirs who all reeked of generational wealth, I needed air-or a scene. Maybe both.
That's how I ended up slipping past a red velvet rope like it wasn't even there.
One wrong turn. One open door. One choice that changed everything.
The room was low-lit, warm-toned, and thick with a tension I didn't understand until it was too late.
The scent of sandalwood and leather hit me first, followed by a sharp click of something metallic. Chains? No. That had to be my imagination. I should've turned around. Instead, I stepped closer.
A gloved hand grabbed mine. Large. Firm. Commanding. I didn't scream. I didn't even flinch.
"You're late," a deep voice said behind me. British accent, low and gravel-rich. It wasn't familiar-but it wasn't threatening either.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My breath caught as a silk blindfold slipped over my eyes.
"Wait-" "Shh." Another hand cupped my chin, tilting it upward. Then the unmistakable sensation of warm breath against my neck.
"Speak again without permission, and I'll gag you." My entire body tensed. I should've told him. I should've said, *I think you have the wrong girl*. But I didn't. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the cold thrill racing down my spine. Or maybe-deep down-I wanted to know what it felt like to be owned, if only for a minute.
"On your knees," he commanded. I dropped.
The rug was soft beneath me, but I barely noticed. Every sense was screaming. My hands trembled at my sides.
"Hands behind your back." I obeyed. A silk ribbon tied my wrists, not tight-but tight enough to promise consequences. "I don't recognize you," he murmured, circling me. I could feel the heat of him-towering, restrained, predatory. "But I don't need to recognize you, do I?" I swallowed hard.
Then came the first touch. A finger under my chin. A soft brush of leather against my cheek.
"You're shaking," he observed. "Excited or scared?" I didn't answer.
A second later, I cried out. The sharp slap of a riding crop against my thigh made my skin erupt in heat.
"Answer."
"Both."
A chuckle. Dark. Pleased.
"I like honest girls."
Another strike. This one softer. Teasing. And just when I thought I couldn't take another second of it- The blindfold came off.
And I saw him.
Sebastian Wolfe. The Dean of Bellmere. My father's oldest friend.
And the man whose eyes-silver, furious-locked onto mine like they could cut through bone. His expression went from curiosity to horror to something feral, all in the space of a heartbeat.
"Aria?" My name in his mouth was a curse.
I nodded. He stepped back like I'd burned him. His hands curled into fists. The riding crop hit the floor with a dull thud.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled. I was still kneeling. Still bound. Still wearing the stupid blindfold pushed up to my forehead like a drunken crown.
"I-I didn't know," I said. He stared. No words. Just a loaded silence that cracked like thunder between us. And then he turned, storming out without another word. I sank into the rug, still breathless, still burning.
That was the first time I had spoken to Dean Wolfe in person. And it was the last time I felt like I was in control.
********
The hangover came the next morning, hard and unforgiving. Bellmere's sunlight had a way of being aggressively perfect-falling through ivy-laced windows like it belonged on a university brochure.
My head throbbed as I stared up at the ceiling of my overpriced dorm room, silently cursing the vodka, the Dior dress crumpled on the floor, and the six-inch heels that destroyed the arch of my feet.
Ivy had already texted me.
**Where the hell did you take my dress???** Followed by: **Dad said Dean Wolfe wants to see you in his office.**
That sobered me up faster than caffeine ever could. I barely made it out the door before Jules popped her head around the corner, a banana in one hand and a cup of iced coffee in the other.
"You look like you got hit by a billionaire," she said with a knowing grin.
I paused mid-step. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me. You've got post-scandal hair and a hickey on your thigh."
I pulled down my skirt. "You're hallucinating."
"Sure," she said, dragging out the word. "Where were you last night?"
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7.4
My mother was dying and desperately needed a half-million-dollar deposit for an experimental heart surgery by tomorrow.
I swallowed my pride and begged my wealthy husband, Garrick, to save her life.
Instead of helping, he laughed coldly and threw a thick stack of divorce papers right in my face.
"A hen that can't lay eggs gets slaughtered," he sneered, ruthlessly poking my flat stomach.
He revealed that his secretary, my supposed friend Lacey, was already pregnant with his heir.
To him, our three years of marriage was just a business transaction, and now that my family was bankrupt, I was nothing but damaged goods.
He flicked a humiliating five-thousand-dollar check at me as his final act of charity, then locked me out of our townhouse into the freezing, pouring rain.
I had spent years enduring agonizing hormone treatments for a fertility issue that wasn't even my fault, only to be discarded like trash when I needed him the most.
Was my dignity, my absolute devotion, and my mother's life really worth nothing to him?
Driven by pure, reckless desperation, I threw myself directly into the path of a moving Rolls-Royce Phantom on Fifth Avenue.
It belonged to Holden Tillman, the ruthless patriarch of the Tillman empire—and the uncle Garrick lived in absolute terror of.
I thought I was walking into my death, but instead, I became his fiancée, ready to make Garrick and Lacey pay for every tear I shed.
9.1
For ten years, Ran hid in the shadows as Hollywood star Jincheng Lu's secret girlfriend and assistant, starving herself to pay for his acting classes.
On their tenth anniversary, she sat in a cheap apartment with $9.87 in her bank account, watching him slide a massive diamond ring onto a wealthy heiress's finger on live television.
When she called the number she had memorized for a decade, she only heard a cold busy tone. He had blocked her.
Despair swallowed her whole. She forced down a handful of sleeping pills with stale whiskey and died alone on the cold bathroom tiles.
His mother found her rotting body three days later, calling her a "filthy bottom-feeder" before ordering a cleanup crew to dispose of her existence like industrial waste.
Jincheng didn't even ask if she suffered. He just ordered his PR team to digitally erase her ten years of sacrifice from the internet.
"Make sure the press release is airtight. She was an unstable former assistant. She had a history of mental illness. That's it."
Until her heart stopped completely, she didn't understand. She had abandoned her status as the hidden heiress of the wealthy Qin family to build his empire from the ground up.
How could he erase every trace of her without a second thought, using her corpse as a PR shield for his perfect new life?
Opening her eyes again, the sharp smell of hospital antiseptic burned her lungs.
She hadn't just died. She had woken up in the body of a notorious, D-list reality TV influencer who shared her exact name.
Looking at her new face in the mirror, a cold smile spread across her lips. She was going to tear his perfect life apart, piece by bloody piece.
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
7.7
In my past life, the bullet chambered in the gun on the desk was less lethal than the indifference of the two men standing beside me.
Dante and Matteo were supposed to be the future kings of Chicago, and I was their queen.
But they threw it all away for Sofia—a liar with a pretty face and a fake sob story about a gambling father.
They forced me into a gilded cage, making me serve Sofia like a maid while they played her saviors.
They let me rot in isolation until I swallowed a bottle of pills just to escape the coldness of their neglect.
They didn't even mourn me; they were too busy comforting the girl who would eventually destroy them.
I died realizing that my loyalty was my fatal flaw.
I had worshipped men who saw me as nothing more than an accessory, while they sacrificed their empire for a woman who played them for fools.
But the universe has a sick sense of humor.
It sent me back.
Back to the day that sealed my fate.
The Consigliere pushed the assignment papers toward us—the path to becoming Bosses.
"We are not going," Dante said, looking at me with cold eyes. "Sofia needs us. She is fragile."
In my past life, I begged them to stay.
This time, I stepped forward and picked up the pen.
"I will go," I said, signing my name in sharp black ink.
"I don't need your protection anymore."
7.2
My grandfather sold me to a man named Maverick to settle his gambling debts. I stood on the private platform at Union Station, a human payment waiting to be collected.
But he never came. An hour later, his assistant called to say the deal was off. I was told to disappear by morning or face the consequences.
My family blamed me for their ruin and threw me out onto the street. Homeless and disowned, I had no choice but to take a low-level job at Prosperity Group, the biggest investment firm in Chicago. I needed to survive.
I never understood why he rejected me. I had followed every rule, worn the red dress he demanded, and waited like a lamb for slaughter. Why would he agree to save my family only to destroy us at the last second?
On my first day, I was called into the CEO's office. The man behind the desk was Damien Maddox, the city's most ruthless billionaire. He looked at me with a chilling familiarity. He was the man who had bought me. And he was the man who had thrown me away.
9.8
I stood at my mother's open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule.
While the priest's voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?"
When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone-he brought Charla with him. He claimed she'd had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child."
He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me.
"He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect.
Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.