The Bittersweet Revenge

Through Her Window

Zara was standing in the middle of her small dorm room with nothing but a towel wrapped around her body because she had just gotten out of the shower, and the room was quiet since it was almost midnight and most people on her floor were already asleep. She was rubbing the towel over her wet hair when her window suddenly opened, and a person climbed through it without making much noise because he moved carefully, placing his feet on the floor like he had done this many times before.

The person was tall with wide shoulders, and he was wearing dark clothes, and his black hair was messy like he had been running his hands through it. Zara recognized his face immediately because of the way he was smirking at her—that annoying, confident smirk she had seen so many times—and she realized it was Damon Blackwood, the richest and most infuriating boy at Westbrook Academy.

She couldn't breathe for a second because she was so surprised, and then her heart started beating very fast because she was scared and confused about why he was in her room in the middle of the night. Damon brushed some dust off his jacket like he wanted to look casual, and he didn't seem worried at all even though Zara could hear people shouting outside from two floors below because campus security was looking for someone.

"Evening, stalker," Damon said, his voice low and sounding like he was having fun, and Zara's fingers held her towel tighter because she didn't want it to fall off.

"Are you insane?!" she said, her voice coming out louder than she meant it to.

"Probably," Damon said, looking around her small, simple room with an expression that told her he found it funny. "Cozy," he said. "Very scholarship chic."

"I will scream," she said, but Damon just shook his head.

"And get us both caught?" he asked, taking a step closer. "Security is already looking for me, and if you scream, they'll come here, and then you'll have to explain why you know me." Zara stepped back, but her legs hit the edge of her bed and she stopped moving. "Besides," Damon added, his voice getting quieter, "you don't want that, do you? It wouldn't look good for the little spy."

The word spy made Zara feel cold inside because she knew exactly what he was talking about. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, but Damon laughed—a low, dark laugh.

"You think I didn't know?" he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and spinning it between his fingers. "My mother has been paying you for months, Zara, and you send her my schedule and my grades and you tell her who I talk to and where I go." He leaned closer, and Zara could smell his expensive cologne mixed with something that smelled like mint. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

Zara's mind tried to think quickly because she had been so careful—she used a burner email address and different drop points, and she never even met Damon's mother in person. "How long have you known?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

"Since the first week," Damon said, smiling in a way that wasn't nice at all. "You're good at this, but I'm better."

Security shouted something outside, and flashlights moved past Zara's window, but Damon didn't move. "You should go," Zara said through her teeth. "They're looking for you."

"They're always looking for me," Damon said, stepping closer again. "But I came here for a reason."

"And what's that?" Zara asked, but Damon didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached out and pulled on the edge of her towel, and Zara's breath got stuck in her throat. "Don't," she said.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Damon said, his voice softer now. "I just wanted to see something." Then he leaned in and kissed her.

The kiss wasn't soft or slow. Damon kissed her like he was trying to prove something, putting one hand in her wet hair and his other hand flat against her lower back, pulling her closer until her body pressed against his. His lips were warm—warmer than Zara expected—and for three full seconds, Zara forgot how to breathe, forgot about the money and the spying and the fact that she was standing in front of a boy wearing only a towel, forgot that she hated rich boys.

She forgot everything except the way his thumb moved in small circles against her hip and the way his mouth moved against hers, and then she remembered something important—this was her first kiss—and the thought hit her hard because she had imagined her first kiss would be different, not with a player like him.

Zara pushed him back so hard that he stumbled and hit her desk, making some of her textbooks fall on the floor. "What the heck, Damon?!" she said, but Damon was already smiling and lifting his phone up so he could look at the screen, and on the screen there was a photo of them—Zara in her towel pressed against Damon like she wanted to be there, his lips on hers, her eyes closed, her hand curled into his shirt.

"You didn't," Zara whispered.

"I did," Damon said, turning the phone toward the moonlight so he could see the photo better. "Look at you. All that attitude, and you kiss like you've been waiting your whole life for someone to shut you up."

Zara jumped toward him to grab the phone, but Damon held it above his head because he was much taller, and Zara grabbed his wrist and tried to pry his fingers open while he laughed at her. "Give it back, you entitled—" she started to say, but Damon wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her against him.

"Be careful," he said. "If you make me drop it, the whole school will see this blurry mess, but if you let me keep it, they'll see the high-def masterpiece I captured." They kept struggling, and Zara's feet slipped on the thin carpet as she pulled his arm down and he twisted his body, and then they both started to fall onto her bed, landing just barely on the mattress.

Zara landed on her back with Damon half on top of her, one of his knees between her legs and his phone still clutched in his hand, and her towel had moved because of all the struggling so it wasn't covering her properly anymore. For one moment, neither of them moved, and then Damon stared at her—not at her face but lower—and said, "Not bad. I didn't know a nerd girl could have such a hot body."

"Get off me," Zara said.

"In a second," Damon said, holding himself up on one elbow. "I'm enjoying the view."

"You're enjoying a lawsuit," Zara said, and Damon snorted.

"You kissed me back," he said.

"I did not—"

"You definitely did, and your little hand was clutching my shirt like I was going to leave." He leaned down so his mouth was near her ear. "It's okay to admit it. I have that effect on people."

Zara wanted to hurt him, but she couldn't move because he was still half on top of her and her towel wasn't really covering her anymore and his body was warm against hers. "You won," she said, the words tasting bitter. "You caught me. Now get off."

Damon didn't move, just stared at her with his dark eyes. "You think this is a game?" he asked.

"Isn't everything a game to you?" she asked back, and something changed in his face—the smirk didn't go away, but it got a little softer.

"I know my mom pays you," Damon said quietly. "And you think you're helping your family by working for a woman who sees you as nothing but a tool."

Zara's jaw got tight. "You don't know anything about my family," she said.

"I know your mother works in my house," Damon said, saying it like it wasn't a big deal. "She's the new housekeeper, and she started three months ago, and she's a quiet woman with kind eyes who works too hard."

He knew about her mother, and all this time he had known, and Zara's voice cracked when she asked, "How?"

"I make it my business to know everything about everyone who steps foot in my home," Damon said, finally rolling off her and sitting on the edge of her bed. "Your mother doesn't know you're spying for my mother, does she?"

Zara grabbed her robe and put it on, her fingers shaking. "What do you want?"

"Finally," Damon said, stretching his arms behind his head. "An honest question."

"I'm not playing with you, Damon," Zara said.

"Good, because I'm not playing either." He pulled up the photo on his phone and turned the screen so she could see it. "Here's how this is going to work. You're going to stop spying on me, and you're going to tell my mother you can't do it anymore, and if you don't, I'll show her the picture."

"You'll show her the picture," Zara said.

"Bingo," Damon said, grinning. "And I'll send it to the school group chat, and probably to my father just for fun, and let's see how long that scholarship lasts when the school finds out their perfect little charity case spends her nights making out with the school's biggest problem."

"You're blackmailing me," Zara said.

"I'm motivating you," Damon said, standing up and putting his phone in his pocket. "There's a difference."

"What if I tell her myself?" Zara asked. "What if I walk into her office tomorrow and say your son hurt me in my dorm room?"

Damon laughed—a loud, sharp laugh. "Please, you didn't even push me away until the kiss was over, so do you think nobody's going to believe you?" He tilted his head. "Besides, we both know you can't afford to lose this arrangement because my mom pays you well. How much? Five hundred a week? A thousand?"

Zara didn't say anything, and Damon walked toward the window before stopping. "Oh, and one more thing. I don't trust you, so you're going to be with me everywhere I go—every class, every lunch, every study hall. If I'm at school, you're there, and if I'm at home—"

"I'm not going to your house," Zara said.

"You're going to be in my bedroom," Damon said, and the room got very quiet.

"I'm sorry?" Zara said.

"You heard me," Damon said, turning back to look at her. "If you're going to be within my sight, I need to know you're not sending secret reports from your phone in the corner, so you'll stay in my room and you'll sleep there and live there until I'm satisfied you've stopped working for my mother."

"And if I refuse?" Zara asked.

"Then that picture goes to everyone who has a pulse," Damon said with a shrug. "Your choice, stalker."

Zara's hands curled into fists because she was so angry, but she was a scholarship student and one wrong move would make Westbrook drop her very quickly, and if she lost this school she would lose everything—her future and her sister's future and her chance to get her family out of cleaning other people's houses.

"You're a monster," Zara said quietly.

"I'm a realist," Damon said, pulling something from his pocket—a key card with gold trim—and tossing it onto her desk next to her secondhand laptop. "My apartment is in The Blackwood building on the top floor, and you need to be there tomorrow at 6 AM."

"I have class at 8," Zara said.

"Then you'll be early," Damon said. "Don't be late."

He was already halfway out the window when Zara spoke again. "This doesn't mean anything," she said, and Damon stopped. "The kiss," Zara said, forcing the words out even though her lips still felt warm, "it didn't mean anything, and you're not my type, and I'm not going to like you just because you're rich."

Damon looked at her for a long time, the moonlight hitting his face, and then he said, "Good, because I'm not going to like you either. You're annoying and you're stubborn and you have the social skills of a cat that doesn't like people." He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "So as long as we're clear about that, we'll be fine."

"Clear," Zara said.

"Great," Damon said, swinging his leg over the sill. "See you tomorrow, stalker."

Then he was gone, and Zara stood in the middle of her room without moving, staring at the gold key card on her desk that glowed in the dark and looked like a bomb waiting to explode. Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up to see a message from a number she didn't know: "Sweet dreams, Zara. 😘" She threw her phone across the room, and it hit the wall and fell to the floor with a cracked screen that didn't break, just like her—cracked but not broken.