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 5
Aria's POV:
For two whole days, I didn't see him.
Not in the halls. Not in the office. Not even on campus.
It was like Wolfe had vanished.
And maybe that had been the point.
After the contract. After the sex. After Sloan Maddox and the closet and the cold truth hanging between us like a loaded gun-maybe we both needed a break.
So I did the one thing I had been avoiding since Bellmere began.
I went home.
*******
The Lancaster townhouse sat like a fortress on the Upper East Side, white stone and steel gates and the kind of polished silence that screamed money.
My sister Ivy met me at the door. Perfect as ever. Hair curled. Lip gloss on. Her phone glued to her hand.
"You're alive," she said, barely looking up.
"Surprised?" I asked, stepping inside.
"Considering Dad almost pulled you out of Bellmere last week? Yeah."
I blinked. "What?"
Ivy finally looked at me. "You really didn't check your email, did you?"
Apparently, while I had been learning how to kneel and beg, my father had been firing off warnings to the Dean's office about "inappropriate distractions."
Warnings that had mysteriously disappeared.
I didn't need to ask who had deleted them.
Wolfe.
Dinner had been awkward.
Vincent Lancaster, king of real estate and silence, sat at the head of the table like a statue carved from arrogance.
"So," he said finally. "You're keeping your grades up."
I nodded. "Yes."
"And no more incidents?"
My fork froze mid-air.
"No," I said. "No incidents."
He looked at me, sharp and appraising. "You reminded me too much of your mother."
I didn't respond. That had been his favorite insult. One I wore like armor.
"Don't ruin this, Aria," he said. "Bellmere is a gift. Don't make me regret it."
I didn't tell him I had already broken every rule.
I didn't tell him I had signed a contract with the man he trusted most.
Instead, I smiled.
"Of course, Daddy."
*********
Back at school, things didn't go back to normal. But they did get quiet.
Too quiet.
Jules noticed.
"You had been weird," she said as we walked past the art quad.
"Define weird."
"Like... no moaning in your sleep. No blushing at your phone. No tension in your shoulders like you were hiding bruises in poetic places."
I laughed.
"I just needed a break."
"Mmm," Jules said. "Or maybe Daddy Dom ghosted you."
I rolled my eyes.
She wasn't wrong.
And yet, something told me Wolfe wasn't done.
Not even close.
********
The envelope appeared under my door three nights later.
Cream paper. Red wax seal.
My name written in that same sharp script.
No instructions inside this time.
Just a note:
You needed air. I gave it to you. Now come back to me.
There was no signature.
But I didn't need one.
I held the paper to my chest, closed my eyes, and smiled.
Not everything had to burn all at once.
Sometimes, it was the waiting that made the fire sweeter.
The calm never lasted.
That was something I should have known by now.
I had barely gotten through my Monday lecture when the storm hit.
It started with whispers.
Two girls in the hallway, giggling behind their hands.
A professor paused mid-sentence when I walked in.
Even Jules gave me a look. Not her usual nosy smirk-something sharper. Cautious.
"What?" I finally snapped.
She pulled out her phone, tapped a few times, then turned the screen toward me.
An anonymous post on the Bellmere Student Forum:
"Guess who's screwing the Dean? Hint: Her GPA's not the only thing getting disciplined."
Below it, a blurry photo.
Me.
Walking out of Room 207.
Face partially turned. Wolfe's coat over my shoulders.
My stomach dropped.
"Who took that?" I whispered.
Jules was already scanning. "Can't tell. It's blowing up though. People are reposting it everywhere. Someone's pushing it hard."
I didn't have to guess.
Sloan.
*****
The office door slammed behind me.
Wolfe looked up from his desk, jaw already clenched.
"You saw it?" I asked.
He nodded.
"I'm handling it."
"How?"
He stood, walking toward me with that lethal calm. "The Board had already called an emergency session. I'll get ahead of it."
Panic twisted in my gut. "They're going to fire you."
"Not unless they can prove anything."
"There's a picture, Sebastian."
He stopped short. The sound of his name-his real name-from my lips made him falter.
Then, softer: "I won't let them touch you."
I swallowed. "I don't care about me."
He stepped forward, cupping my face. "You should."
And that's when I realized... he meant it.
This wasn't just a game to him anymore.
That terrified me more than anything.
******
Later that night, Jules met me in the library.
"We had a problem," she said, sliding into the chair beside me.
"Just one?" I muttered.
She pushed her phone toward me again. "This one's bigger."
It was a video.
Grainy, but clear.
A shot of me, tied and blindfolded. Moaning. Collared.
In Wolfe's Red Room.
My knees buckled before I even hit play.
"Where did this come from?" I asked.
"No one knows. But it's spreading. Fast."
My pulse spiked. My skin turned ice cold.
"It was recorded without permission. That's illegal, right?"
"Aria..." Jules hesitated. "Someone wanted this out there. Bad."
Then it clicked-
Only one name came to mind.
Not Sloan.
Not even Ivy.
Dr. Elliot Graves.
******
I marched to Wolfe's office the next morning.
How could he have just left me alone after all that had happened? Did he just forget about me?
No, we had more than just sex; I felt more than that toward him.
We needed to sort this out soon.
The door was locked.
"Locked," I wondered. He never lock this door. Why had he locked it now? Or was it just closed? I checked again.
Not just closed-locked.
He was already in damage control mode.
I pressed my palm to the wood.
"You don't get to shut me out," I whispered.
I didn't know if he could hear me.
But part of me hoped he didn't.
Because if he opened that door, I wasn't sure I could stop myself from breaking.
I leaned my ear to the door to see if I could hear any sounds coming from inside.
"Yes Sebastian.. I'm almost there." I gasped as I was pushed back slightly by an unknown force. Did I just hear wrong?
Or was my ear playing tricks on me?
I leaned back again.
"Ohh yes, harder ...baby harder"
It was a woman's voice.
What?!
Then it clicked-
I remembered he had given me a spare key to his office so I could always have access to our secret letters regardless of if he was around or not .
I ran my hands through my purse; I couldn't find the key.
Found it.
The key fell from my hand due to my trembling hands. The fear and betrayal sunk down through my body.
Lump. Dump.
Lump. Dump.
I could hear my own heartbeat loudly, like it was racing against Usain Bolt.
I opened the door, and to my surprise, I couldn't believe the scene in front of me.
Oh no.
"JULES!" I yelled.
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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.