PLEASURED BY MY ENEMY'S FATHER

Chapter 2 Anew

A week later, I stood at the gates of the university.

The campus stretched out in front of me… wide, clean, overwhelming. Students walked past in groups, laughing, talking, completely at ease like they belonged here.

I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag.

This was it.

No more safety net. No more familiar walls. Just me.

For a brief moment, doubt crept in. A quiet voice whispering that I didn’t belong here. That I was out of place.

But I pushed it down. I had survived worse than this.

I lifted my chin slightly and stepped forward. Because I wasn’t here by accident. I earned this. And I was going to prove that I deserved to stay.

The door felt heavier than it should have.

I paused for half a second before pushing it open, steadying my breath like it was just another room, just another step. But the moment I walked in, I knew it wasn’t.

The lecture hall was already half full.

Voices overlapped – casual, confident, effortless. Laptops open, phones out, conversations flowing like everyone had already found their place before even sitting down. It wasn’t loud, but it was… alive in a way I wasn’t used to.

And then it shifted. Not silence… never silence. But attention.

It moved toward me in small, almost unnoticeable ways. Heads turning. Conversations pausing just slightly. Eyes lingering a second too long.

They were looking.

I kept my posture straight, my expression neutral, even as the weight of it settled on my shoulders. It wasn’t new… but here, it felt sharper. More deliberate.

Most of them looked like they belonged to a different world entirely.

Branded clothes that didn’t scream for attention because they didn’t need to. Watches that caught the light just enough. Shoes that were clean in a way that suggested they’d never seen rough ground.

Even the way they sat – relaxed, unbothered, like this was expected. Like they had always been here.

I moved down the aisle, ignoring the stares, focusing instead on finding a seat. Somewhere not too exposed. Somewhere I could breathe.

The boys were worse. Not all of them… but enough.

A few leaned backs in their chairs, watching openly, their gazes slow and assessing. Not curious but calculating. Like they were already forming an opinion based on how I walked, how I dressed, how I didn’t react.

I didn’t meet their eyes. I had learned a long time ago… attention only grows when you acknowledge it.

I scanned the rows, finally spotting an empty seat near the middle. Not too close to the front, not buried at the back.

Good enough.

I slid into it, placing my bag on my lap, grounding myself with something familiar. My fingers tightened slightly around the strap.

Just breathe. You earned this.

The thought steadied me… barely.

“Wow.”

The voice came from my right this time. I didn’t react immediately.

“Playing invisible already?” another voice added, lighter, amused.

I turned.

Three girls stood beside my row, clearly not just passing by. Their presence was… intentional. The kind that didn’t need to announce itself loudly to be noticed.

Their outfits were bold… confident to the point of being almost confrontational. Short, fitted, carefully styled. Not careless. Not accidental.

Intentional.

I didn’t comment. I didn’t stare. I didn’t react. That was my mistake.

The one in front tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, slow and precise. “You just walked in like that and thought no one would notice?”

Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried.

“I wasn’t trying to be noticed,” I replied calmly.

A small pause.

Then a soft laugh from one of them. “That’s exactly why it stands out.”

I held her gaze, steady but uninterested.

The first girl stepped a little closer… not invading, but close enough to shift the space. “You new?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly.”

Her eyes lingered on my bag, my shoes, the simplicity of everything I wore. It wasn’t curiosity. It was classification.

“You’re sitting in our spot,” the second girl said casually, though there was nothing casual about the way her eyes locked onto mine.

I glanced at the empty seats around me. “I didn’t see a name on it.”

Another pause. Shorter and colder this time.

“She’s serious,” the third one muttered under her breath, almost impressed… but not in a good way.

The first girl’s lips curved slightly. “Listen,” she said, her voice softening in a way that felt more like strategy than kindness. “You don’t seem like you understand how things work here yet.”

“I’m learning,” I replied.

Her smile thinned.

“Then here’s your first lesson,” she continued. “There’s a… certain environment here. People notice everything. How you walk, how you talk, what you wear.” Her gaze dipped again, briefly. “Where you fit.”

There it was. Clear. Polished. Precise.

I leaned back slightly, keeping my tone even. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The second girl crossed her arms. “You should. Because right now?” She tilted her head. “You don’t exactly blend in.”

“I’m not trying to,” I said.

That landed. Not loudly… but enough.

Something flickered across the first girl’s expression. Not anger. Not yet.

Interest in a dangerous kind.

“Well,” she said after a moment, straightening. “That’s going to make things harder for you.”

“Maybe,” I replied.

Silence stretched between us… tight, controlled.

Then she gave a small, dismissive smile, like she had already made her decision. “Good luck with that.”

They turned, walking away without another word, their conversation picking up again as if nothing had happened.

But it had. The air around me felt different now. I exhaled slowly, unclenching my fingers from the strap of my bag.

First class.

And already, I had been measured. Judged.

Placed somewhere on a scale I didn’t ask to be part of.

I leaned back slightly, letting my gaze drift across the room again. Different faces. Same system. Power just looked cleaner here. More refined. But it worked the same way.

I rested my hands on my lap, steady now. I didn’t come here to be comfortable. I came here to win. And if standing out made that harder, then I would just have to be better.

The lecture ended without ceremony. No dramatic conclusion. No moment that felt like a beginning.

Just the low hum of laptops closing, chairs shifting, conversations resuming like I had never been part of the room to begin with.

I packed my things quietly, taking my time… not because I wanted to linger, but because rushing would only make me look out of place.

Around me, people were already standing in groups, exchanging numbers, making plans as if this was just another step in a life that had always been mapped out for them.

I stood. Adjusted my bag. And walked out.

“Miss Patterson?”

I paused mid-step. A man in a neat, pressed uniform stood near the doorway, holding a tablet. His posture was straight, professional, his tone respectful but direct.

“Yes?”

“The registrar’s office has requested your presence. Immediately.”

A few nearby heads turned. Of course they did.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He gave a small gesture down the hall. “Second floor. Administrative wing.”

I didn’t ask why. I already had an idea.

The administrative building felt different. Quieter. Controlled. Every step echoed a little too clearly against polished floors that looked like they had never seen dirt. Glass walls, minimalist interiors, everything precise… like even the air had rules.

I stopped in front of the registrar’s office, smoothing the fabric of my sleeve without thinking.

Then I knocked.

“Come in.” The voice was firm, measured.

I stepped inside.

The office was larger than I expected… clean, organized, lined with shelves of neatly arranged files and awards that spoke of years of authority.

Behind the desk sat a woman in her late forties, maybe early fifties, her posture impeccable, her gaze sharp behind thin-framed glasses.

“Nyra Patterson,” she said, not as a question.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Have a seat.”

I did.

She studied me for a moment… not unkindly, but thoroughly. Like she was verifying something beyond just my name.

“I am Dean Alvarez,” she said. “And I prefer clarity, so I’ll be direct.”

I nodded slightly. “I appreciate that.”

A faint shift in her expression… approval, maybe.

“You’ve been admitted under the Presidential Academic Excellence Scholarship,” she began, sliding a folder across the desk toward me. “It is one of the most competitive grants this university offers.”

I opened it carefully. Inside were documents… structured, detailed, precise.

“This scholarship,” she continued, “covers one hundred percent of your tuition fees, laboratory expenses, and required academic materials. You are also provided with a monthly stipend.”

I blinked, just once. A stipend. I hadn’t expected that.

“It is not excessive,” she added, as if reading my thoughts. “But it is designed to cover basic living expenses… housing, food, transportation, provided you manage it wisely.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes didn’t leave mine. “Do you?”

I held her gaze. “Yes.”

She leaned back slightly.

“Good. Because this is not charity, Miss Patterson. This is an investment.”

The word settled differently. Investment.

“You were selected because of your academic performance, your entrance examination scores, and your evaluation under… less conventional circumstances,” she said carefully. “Which means expectations for you are higher.”

I glanced back down at the document. Minimum Grade Requirement: 1.50 GPA or higher.

No failing marks in any subject. Full-time academic load mandatory. Mandatory participation in academic evaluations and periodic reviews.

“You are required to maintain a grade point average equivalent to the top ten percent of your batch,” she continued. “Anything below that, and your scholarship will be placed under review.”

“Review,” I repeated.

“Suspension, if necessary. Termination, if not corrected.”

Clear. Direct. No room for misinterpretation.

“There are also conduct expectations,” she added. “You represent this institution. Any involvement in disciplinary cases, academic dishonesty, misconduct, violations of university policy, will result in immediate reconsideration of your grant.”

“I won’t give you a reason to do that,” I said.

“I expect you won’t,” she replied.

There was no warmth in her tone, but there was something else. Trust. Conditional, but real.

I closed the folder carefully.

“Ma’am,” I said, “may I ask something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Is there any work available within the university?” I asked. “Part-time. Anything I can do to support myself beyond the stipend.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly—not disapproving but assessing.

“You intend to work while carrying a full academic load under this scholarship?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question came quickly. Because I have to. Because I don’t have anyone else. Because I’ve never had the luxury of not working.

But I didn’t say any of that.

“I prefer to be prepared,” I answered instead.

A brief silence followed. Then she nodded once.

“There are limited opportunities,” she said. “Primarily under the Student Assistant Program. Library support, administrative assistance, research aid for faculty members.”

My attention sharpened.

“However,” she continued, “priority is given to scholars with stable academic standing. You are a freshman.”

“I understand.”

“Which means,” she said, leaning slightly forward, “your first responsibility is your performance.”

Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried substance.

“If your grades drop, even slightly, you will lose not just your academic standing, but your eligibility for any additional support programs.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Her eyes held mine for a moment longer. Then, slowly, she reached for a separate form.

“I will make a note of your request,” she said. “You may apply for part-time placement after your first evaluation period. That is typically midterm.”

“That’s more than enough. Thank you.”

She slid the paper toward me.

“Sign here,” she said. “This acknowledges that you understand the terms of your scholarship.”

I picked up the pen. For a second, my hand stilled. Not out of doubt. But because I understood what this meant.

This wasn’t just an opportunity. It was a contract. A line drawn between who I was… and who I had to become.

I signed.

“Welcome to the university, Miss Patterson,” Dean Alvarez said, closing the folder. “Don’t waste what you’ve been given.”

I stood, adjusting my bag once more.

“I don’t plan to.”

And this time… I knew I meant it.