PLEASURED BY MY ENEMY'S FATHER

Chapter 17 His Plan

Three days before Wallace’s birthday, I did something I had never done for anyone outside the orphanage.

I cooked.

Not something simple or rushed, but something I actually put time and effort into. I woke up early, planned it carefully, even asked one of the dorm staff for help when I wasn’t sure about certain steps.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was… good. At least, I hoped it was.

By the time I packed everything neatly into a container, my chest felt light with a kind of excitement I wasn’t used to.

This is stupid, I told myself while walking toward the university’s sports complex.

But I was smiling anyway.

Wallace had mentioned he’d be at the football field that afternoon. Practice. Something important, something he couldn’t skip. So instead of waiting, I decided to bring the food to him.

It felt… personal. Something that was mine.

As I got closer to the training quarters, I could already hear voices from inside… laughter, loud and unfiltered.

I smiled. He’s with his teammates. That made it easier. More natural.

I adjusted my grip on the bag and walked toward the door, my steps slowing slightly as the voices became clearer.

I recognized them almost immediately.

Allan. David. Frank.

Wallace’s closest friends. But there were others too. Female voices. Light. Flirtatious. Too comfortable.

I frowned slightly, stopping just outside the half-closed door.

I was about to knock, then I heard it.

“I’m just saying, you’re taking this way too seriously,” Allan’s voice came through, casual, almost amused.

“Yeah,” David added. “Since when do you even do relationships like this?”

There was a short pause. Then Wallace spoke.

“You’re making it sound worse than it is.”

My hand froze mid-air, just inches from the door.

“She’s different,” he continued.

Different. The word should have felt good. It didn’t.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Frank said, a low chuckle following. “You don’t do different. You get bored.”

A woman laughed softly in the background. “Is this the scholar girl you’ve been bringing around?”

My grip tightened around the paper bag. Another pause. Then Wallace again.

“Watch it.”

Not sharp. But not playful either.

“Ooh,” Allan teased. “Touchy. You’re actually into her?”

“Just saying,” David added, his tone lighter but edged, “you’ve never kept one this long.”

Laughter followed. Not loud. But it cut through me anyway. My heart began to beat painfully.

“I’m not ‘keeping’ anyone,” Wallace said, more controlled now.

“Relax,” Frank replied. “We’re just messing with you.”

“Yeah,” Allan chimed in. “We’re just trying to figure out how long this little act is gonna last.”

Act. My chest tightened even more.

There was a brief silence inside, like something unspoken passed between them. Then…

A voice I didn’t recognize spoke, quieter this time. “So, what’s the plan then? You’ve been stringing her along long enough.”

My breath caught. Plan?

Another pause. Longer this time. He could’ve shut it down right there. He could’ve.

Instead, Wallace exhaled.

“You’re all overthinking it,” he said.

Something in his tone shifted. Colder and much detached.

“I told you already,” he continued. “Her guard’s down. That’s all that matters.”

My fingers trembled slightly against the bag. I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“What, so birthday night?” Allan asked.

“Yeah,” Wallace replied.

Just like that. Casual. Decided.

My heart started pounding, loud and uneven in my chest.

“She’ll be there,” he went on. “She won’t suspect anything.”

A low whistle came from one of them. “Damn. You really played that long game.”

I felt something crack. Quiet and sharp.

“She trusts me,” Wallace added.

Those three words, they hurt more than anything else. Because they were true. And he knew it.

“So, what, you’re just gonna do, what, dump her after?” David asked.

A small pause. Then Wallace gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Not exactly.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“We’ll make it worth it first.”

A deafening silence came.

“You serious?” Frank asked, his tone shifting slightly.

“Don’t start,” Wallace replied. “You wanted something entertaining, didn’t you?”

My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but it didn’t clear.

“She’s still a virgin?” Allan started.

“Yeah,” Wallace cut in. “She hasn’t done anything.”

A low murmur of reactions filled the room.

“Damn,” someone said under their breath. My stomach twisted violently.

“And you’re just gonna take it?” David asked.

“Obviously,” Wallace said. “She had been too naïve, but soon, she will surely give in.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just… certainty.

“And after that,” he continued, more quietly now, “I’m not stopping anyone.”

The words didn’t register at first. Not fully. My mind refused to process them. Until… they did.

And when they did, it felt like something inside me collapsed.

Laughter followed. Low. Disbelieving. Excited. I didn’t hear all of it. I couldn’t.

Because my ears were ringing, my heartbeat too loud, my thoughts spiraling too fast. I nearly dropped the bag.

My fingers tightened just in time, clutching it like it was the only thing keeping me upright. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

But his voice, it was. Every word. Every plan. Every intention was clear, deliberate and cruel.

My throat burned, and I didn’t even realize tears had started falling until one slipped past my lips.

I pressed them together, hard, forcing myself to stay silent. Don’t make a sound. Don’t let them know you’re here.

Inside, they were still talking. Still laughing and planning. Like I was nothing. Like I was just, something to use.

My chest rose and fell unevenly, my breathing shallow, controlled only by sheer will.

I stayed there, frozen and listening. Because some part of me, the part that still hoped, needed to hear if he would take it back.

If he would stop it. If he would say something, anything, that proved this wasn’t what it sounded like.

He didn’t, and that… that hurt more than everything else combined.

I slowly lowered my hand from the door, my body feeling heavier, weaker, like something had been drained out of me.

She trusts me.

The words echoed in my head. Over and over. I swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in my chest.

I had trusted him. More than anyone else. More than I ever planned to. And now, I knew exactly what that trust was worth.

Nothing.

I looked at the door again. Still half-open. Still close enough to walk in, to confront them, to demand an explanation.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because if I stepped in, it would make it real in a way I wasn’t ready to face.

So, I stood there for one last second. Tears falling quietly. Heart breaking without a sound.

Then I turned and walked away. Careful. Silent. Like I was the one who did something wrong.

But with every step, one thing became painfully clear. I wasn’t confused anymore. I wasn’t nervous. And I definitely wasn’t excited.

I was done.

After an hour, I was summoned to the dean’s office.

The notification came through my student portal just after I stopped crying. It was formal, brief, and impossible to ignore.

I arrived five minutes early out of habit, though the familiar routine did little to steady the tension sitting quietly in my chest.

When the secretary called my name, I stepped inside.

The office was exactly what I expected… orderly, controlled, everything in its place.

The dean sat behind her desk, a slim folder already open in front of her. She looked up as I entered, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Ms. Patterson,” she said, gesturing toward the chair across from her. “Sit.”

I did, keeping my back straight, my hands resting neatly on my lap.

She didn’t waste time.

“I reviewed your academic record this morning,” she began, sliding a document toward me. “And I’m concerned.”

I looked down. My grades.

All of them lined up in neat columns, each one sitting just above the minimum requirement.

Not failing. But barely holding on.

“This is not the standard you were admitted with,” she continued, her tone even, controlled. “Your entrance results were exceptional. Your first term reflected that. This term does not.”

I felt my throat tighten slightly, but I kept my expression neutral. “Yes, Ma’am.”

She tapped the paper lightly with her pen. “You are aware that your scholarship is conditional.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And that maintaining only the minimum requirement is not considered satisfactory performance.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

She leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt deliberate, like she was measuring whether I truly understood the weight of this conversation.

“Let me be very clear,” she said. “If your academic performance declines any further next semester, your scholarship will be revoked.”

The words landed exactly as intended. Firm. Final. No room for negotiation.

I forced myself to hold her gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

A brief silence followed.

Then she asked, “Is there anything affecting your performance that I should know about?”

The question lingered. For a moment, my mind betrayed me. A half-closed door. Laughter. A voice I thought I knew.

She trusts me.

My fingers curled slightly against my palm. This was my chance to say something. To explain. To shift the weight somewhere else.

But I didn’t. Because saying it out loud would make it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.

“No, Ma’am,” I said.

The lie came out steady. She held my gaze for a second longer, as if testing it, then gave a small nod.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I expect to see significant improvement next term.”

“You will,” I replied.

“Good.”

She closed the folder, signaling the end of the meeting. “You may go.”

I stood, thanked her quietly, and walked out of the office without rushing.

Only when the door closed behind me did I let out a slow breath. I didn’t stop walking until I reached the far end of the hallway.

Then I slowed.

Eight months. The number came to me without effort. Eight months since I started here. Eight months since everything began to shift.

I glanced down at the paper still in my hand, my grip tightening slightly.

These numbers, they weren’t a reflection of my ability. They were a reflection of my focus. Or the lack of it.

I leaned lightly against the wall, my thoughts starting to piece things together in a way that felt sharper now.

My routine hadn’t collapsed overnight. It changed gradually.

Late study sessions that turned into long conversations. Planned schedules that bent around someone else’s presence.

Time I told myself I could afford to lose, again and again, until it started to show. At the time, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt… normal.

But now… now I could see it clearly. I let out a slow breath, my jaw tightening.

Wallace.

The way he had been patient. Careful. Consistent. Never too much. Never too little. Just enough to keep me there. Just enough to make me choose him, over everything else.

My fingers tightened around the paper, crumpling the edge before I forced myself to loosen my grip.

A familiar heat started building in my chest. Not confusion. Not sadness. Something sharper. Something steadier.

Anger.

Because now I understood. Not just what he did, but how well he did it. And that… that was the worst part.

I pushed myself off the wall, straightening my posture as I started walking again.

Fine.

If this was a game, then I finally knew the rules. And I wasn’t going to lose.

Not like this. Not after everything I had already survived. He thinks I don’t know.

Good.

Let him think that. I wasn’t going to confront him. Not yet. Not when he still believed he had control.

Because that was the only advantage I had left.

I lifted my chin slightly as I stepped out into the open campus, the noise of students and passing conversations filling the space around me.

I wasn’t going to let him ruin me. Not my scholarship. Not my future. Not my life.

Wallace Rachford made a mistake.

And soon, he was going to realize exactly what that mistake was.