The Unwanted Pact With My Enemy

Vesper's alarm blared, vibrating violently against the wood of her desk. She jerked awake. Her cheek peeled off the rough paper of her sketchbook. She groaned, rubbing her stiff neck, and looked down. The detailed schematic of the wooden rose was finished. She grabbed a clean flannel shirt-one already stained with old acrylic paint-and threw it on. She shoved the sketchbook into her bag and ran out the door. When she pushed open the heavy doors of the sculpture studio, she froze. The room was packed. Usually, there were only fifteen students, but today, even a few students from the neighboring painting studio had found excuses to linger by the open doorway, their curiosity piqued as they whispered and giggled among themselves. Vesper squeezed past them, dropping her bag onto her workstation. Professor Cromwell clapped his hands. "Settle down! Let's begin." The back door of the studio swung open. Slade walked in. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a tight black athletic shirt that clung to his chest. The whispers in the room instantly escalated into a loud hum. Slade ignored everyone. He walked straight to Vesper's table, placed both hands on the edge of her workstation, and leaned in. He flashed a devastatingly arrogant smirk. "Where do you want me, boss?" he asked, his voice low enough for only her to hear. Vesper's stomach did a nervous flip, but she forced her face to remain blank. She pointed a carving knife toward the center of the room. "On the platform. Sit on the stool." Slade chuckled, turned around, and easily hopped onto the elevated wooden platform. Professor Cromwell began a dry lecture on the anatomical structure of the human shoulder. Vesper picked up a piece of charcoal. Her hand shook slightly as she looked up at Slade. The physical elevation of the platform made him look even more imposing. Suddenly, Slade cleared his throat loudly. "Professor?" Cromwell stopped talking. "Yes, Mr. Forrester?" "Since this is a classical life-size sculpture," Slade said, his voice booming across the quiet room, "do I need to be fully naked like the Greek statues?" The entire class gasped. Then, a wave of hysterical laughter erupted from the girls in the back. Slade looked directly at Vesper and smirked. "My partner was asking me about nudity limits in her texts last night. Just wanted to clarify." Vesper's charcoal snapped in half. The sharp crack was drowned out by the laughter, but the heat that rushed to her face was unbearable. Her skin felt like it was on fire. Every eye in the room shifted to her, judging her, mocking her. But beneath the burning humiliation, a sharp spike of anger pierced through. The sheer childishness of his lie was almost as infuriating as the humiliation itself, she thought, her nails digging into her palms. He was a cornered animal, lashing out because I had him trapped, and this pathetic stunt was his only way to regain control. She forced her breathing to steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a visible breakdown. "That is entirely unnecessary, Mr. Forrester," Cromwell said sternly, banging his pointer. "Athletic wear is sufficient." Slade pouted mockingly and winked at Vesper. She grabbed a soaking wet rag from her bucket and slammed it down onto her block of raw clay. The wet, meaty thud echoed loudly, silencing the girls nearby. Slade's smirk faltered. Vesper didn't look at his face again. She went completely cold. For the next hour, she treated him like a bowl of fruit. Her eyes flicked over his shoulders, his biceps, the line of his neck, with the clinical, detached precision of a surgeon. She measured his proportions with her thumb and pencil, her expression entirely dead. Up on the platform, Slade shifted uncomfortably. The joke had worn off. Being stared at with such intense, emotionless scrutiny was making his skin prickle. He felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of irritation. He wanted her to look at him like a person, not a piece of meat. When the bell finally rang, Vesper didn't hesitate for a single second. She threw her tools into her bag, zipped it, and walked out without a backward glance.