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 6
Aria's POV:
The world tilted.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
I stood in the doorway, fingers clawing into the wood like it could drag me back to a reality where this wasn't happening. Jules-my best friend, my sister in all but blood-was tangled in the sheets with him.
With Wolfe.
The man who'd ruined me. The man she'd spent months warning me about.
Their gasps hung in the air, thick with betrayal. The scent of sweat and something sickly sweet-her perfume, still on his skin-clung to the room. Jules jerked upright, her eyes wild, guilty, lips swollen from his mouth. Wolfe turned toward me, his expression slipping from pleasure to ice in a heartbeat.
"Jules." My voice wasn't mine-it was shattered glass, raw and bleeding.
She flinched. "Aria, please-"
" Don't."The word cut her off mid-lie. My pulse was a riot. "You don't get to explain this."
Wolfe stood, the blanket pooling at his waist, but I wouldn't look. Wouldn't let myself remember the way his body had moved over mine, the way he'd whispered "You're mine"like it meant something.
"Aria, listen-"
"Save it."My laugh was a weapon. "You ghosted after destroying my life, and now you're fucking my best friend? Real fucking poetic."
His jaw locked, but his eyes-dark, furious, almost wounded-didn't waver. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"I screamed , the sound ripping through the room.
"Enough."His voice cracked like a gunshot, that familiar command slamming into me-the same one he'd used when I was beneath him, gasping, begging.
It broke me.
I staggered back. Two traitors. One bed. And me-the idiot who'd loved them both.
"Aria-""Jules reached for me.
I was already gone
The door slammed behind me, but their voices followed, twisting like knives between my ribs. My vision blurred. The taste of salt, sharp and bitter, flooded my tongue.
Tears.
Pathetic.I scraped them away. Why cry? Over a man who'd played me? Over a friend who'd plunged the knife in deep ?
Best friends.The words were ash in my mouth.
A laugh bubbled up-hollow, jagged. Maybe I deserved this. Maybe the universe was laughing at me. My face was everywhere , my body a joke, my future bleeding out with every rumor. And Wolfe? He'd won.
"Hey, Dean's little slut."
The voice licked up my spine.
RAND.
The student president lounged against the lockers, all sun-kissed smirk and venom**. His yellow Nike shirt clung like a second skin, his hair artfully disheveled-calculated chaos.
"Not now," I muttered.
"Now's exactly the time." He pushed off the lockers, his breath hot against my ear."You're coming to my party tonight. Masked. Anonymous." An envelope slid into my palm, his fingers lingering too long." Be there, or I'll make sure your expulsion isn't just approved-it's a fucking spectacle."
I recoiled. "You wouldn't"
"Try me." His lips grazed my knuckles, a mockery of chivalry. "Eight PM. Don't be late."
The envelope burned in my grip.
Around me, whispers slithered like snakes:
"-heard Dean Wolfe *choked* her-"
"-total whore. Did you see the photos?-"
I clenched my fists. *Keep walking. Don't let them see you break.*
By some miracle, I made it home. Dad wasn't there. Small mercies.
Ivy cornered me in the foyer. "Where've you been?" Her gaze dropped to the envelope. "What's that?"
Before I could react, she snatched it. Her eyes lit up. "*Rand's party?* You're going!"
"No."
"*I am.* And you're coming with me." She grabbed my shoulders. "Masks mean no one recognizes you. Free drinks. A distraction." Her voice softened. "You look like hell, Aria."
I swallowed. Maybe she was right. Maybe I needed to forget-even for one night.
"Fine."
Ivy squealed. "I'll pick your outfit! You'll be unstoppable-
My phone buzzed. An unknown number:
**Meet me tonight. Vines Restaurant. Let me explain.**
My stomach twisted. *Wolfe.*
I deleted it.
---
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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.