PLEASURED BY MY ENEMY'S FATHER

Chapter 6 Realization

The Office of Student Affairs was on the second floor of another building… administrative, structured, exactly what I expected.

I walked in with purpose. No hesitation this time.

A staff member looked up from the desk. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like to file a formal complaint,” I said.

Her expression shifted into a more professional and more attentive.

“Alright,” she replied. “Please have a seat. We’ll assist you.”

I sat. She handed me a form.

“Please write a detailed account of the incident,” she said. “Include the date, time, exact location, and any individuals involved or suspected. Once submitted, this will be forwarded for investigation.”

I took the pen. This time, my hand didn’t shake.

“I’d also like to request a review of the CCTV footage in that area,” I added.

She nodded. “That request will be included in your report. If the cameras cover the location, the administration can authorize access for investigation purposes.”

“Good.”

I lowered my gaze to the paper. And started writing. Every detail. Every second. Every feeling I could translate into something factual.

Because this wasn’t just anger anymore. This was evidence. And if they thought I would just endure it, they were wrong.

Because this time, I wasn’t just surviving. I was fighting back the right way.

Third Person POV

Wallace Rachford did not lose control.

Not in public. Not in private. Not ever. That had always been the rule.

And yet, the moment he pushed open the door to his usual spot, the secluded rooftop lounge reserved for a select few, something inside him snapped hard enough to echo in the empty space.

The metal door slammed shut behind him with more force than necessary. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the edge.

Hands braced against the cold railing. Jaw tight. Breathing uneven. Angry didn’t even begin to cover it.

It wasn’t the kind of anger he was used to… the clean, sharp kind that came with control and purpose. This was something else. Messier. Louder. It crawled under his skin and refused to settle.

His fingers curled slowly against the metal. What the hell was that? His mind replayed it without permission.

The slap. No one in his entire life has slapped him before… not even his parents.

The sound was sharp and unrestrained. The way his head had turned slightly with the force of it.

And then… her voice. Not shaking. Not afraid.

Furious.

Every word she threw at him had landed without hesitation, without calculation. No fear. No pause. Just raw, unfiltered defiance.

Coward. Asshole. Maybe you’re the miserable one.

His jaw clenched harder.

No one… no one, spoke to him like that. Not in this school. Not anywhere.

And yet she had. Like she had nothing to lose. Like he was… nothing.

A bitter scoff left him, low and sharp.

“Unbelievable.”

“Damn, who died?”

The voice came from behind him, followed by the sound of the rooftop door opening again.

Wallace didn’t turn.

Three of his usual circles stepped in… laughing, casual, completely unaware of the tension sitting heavy in the air.

“You look like you’re about to throw someone off the building,” one of them added, amused.

Another leaned against the wall, smirking. “Don’t tell me it’s about that scholar girl.”

A pause. Then a chuckle.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” a third said. “Rough day for her. Someone really went all out… paint, chemicals, whatever that was. She ran straight to the showers, I think.”

“Probably crying her eyes out right now,” the first added, shrugging. “Honestly, she should’ve just kept her head down. People like her don’t last long here anyway.”

Something in the air shifted. Subtle, but heavy. They didn’t notice it immediately.

Wallace still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t even looked at them.

“Hey,” one of them called out, pushing off the wall. “You started this, didn’t you? Guess your little plaything finally got what was coming.”

That was when Wallace turned, slowly and deliberately.

And the look in his eyes… It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t satisfied. It wasn’t anything they expected.

“Get out.”

The word came low, flat and deadly. They blinked.

“What?”

“I said,” Wallace repeated, his voice dropping further, sharper now, “get out.”

Confusion flickered across their faces.

“Wallace, what’s–”

“I’m not going to say it again.”

They instantly shut their mouths in shock. It was a thick and immediate silence.

Because this wasn’t irritation. This wasn’t one of his moods. This was something else entirely. Something none of them wanted to test.

A glance passed between them… uncertain, uneasy.

“Alright,” one of them muttered, raising his hands slightly. “No need to snap.”

“Yeah… we’ll catch you later.”

They moved quickly after that. No more jokes or teasing. Not even another questions.

The door shut behind them. And just like that, he was alone again.

Wallace exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

His chest still felt tight. His thoughts louder than they should be. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

He had seen people break before. Seen them cry, beg, apologize… seen them shrink under pressure until they learned exactly where they stood.

That was how this place worked. Power decided everything. And he had never had to question his.

Until her.

His gaze drifted back toward the city below. Somewhere out there, she was filing complaints. Cleaning herself up. Standing back up.

He knew it without needing to see it. Because Nyra Patterson didn’t feel like someone who stayed down.

And for some reason, that only made something in him burn hotter. Not satisfaction or victory. Something far more dangerous.

His grip tightened against the railing again.

“What the hell are you?”

The question slipped out under his breath. Not expecting an answer. But unable to ignore it anymore.

Because, for the first time in his life, Wallace Rachford wasn’t in control of the situation. And he hated it. Almost as much as he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The next morning, Nyra walked through the campus with a quiet sense of control she hadn’t felt before.

Nothing around her had changed… the same polished buildings, the same students dressed in effortless luxury, but something inside her had steadied.

Filing that complaint had not been an act of desperation; it had been a decision. And now, as she turned into the east corridor, she realized just how quickly decisions could shift the balance.

They were waiting for her.

Three girls stood directly in her path, the same ones who had always lingered in the background of her worst days, now no longer pretending to be invisible.

Two boys stood behind them, their expressions tight with irritation. The moment Nyra stopped, she noticed the tension in their posture, the way their hands gripped folded sheets of paper.

Official ones. Summons. It didn’t take much to understand. The university had moved faster than she expected.

“You,” one of the girls said sharply, her voice edged with anger that didn’t quite hide the unease beneath it.

Nyra didn’t answer immediately. She simply looked at them, calm and observant, letting the silence stretch just enough to make them uncomfortable. Then, slowly, a faint smirk touched her lips. “Me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” another snapped, stepping forward. “What did you do?”

Nyra’s gaze flickered briefly to the paper in her hand before returning to her face. “You got the letter,” she said, her tone even.

That was enough to ignite them.

“Our parents were called this morning,” one of the boys cut in, his voice rising. “Do you have any idea what you just caused?”

“I told the truth,” Nyra replied simply.

The words landed harder than any insult. For a second, no one spoke. The hallway noise around them seemed distant, like it had nothing to do with this moment.

One of the girls clenched her jaw, clearly trying to regain control of the situation.

“You think this is funny?” she demanded. “This is serious.”

Nyra let out a soft breath, something between a quiet laugh and disbelief. “It should be,” she said. “You poured something on me. You ruined my things. You made me miss my class.” She took a step forward, not aggressively, but enough to make them instinctively hold their ground. “And now you’re upset because you have to face it?”

They had no answer.

For the first time since she met them, there was no mockery, no confidence, no casual cruelty.

Just frustration, tightly wound and poorly contained. They were angry, yes… but not in control. Not anymore.

Nyra held their gaze for another second before stepping slightly to the side. “Go deal with it,” she said calmly.

Then she walked past them.

No one tried to stop her. No one reached out, no one dared to pull her back. The shift was unmistakable.

The same people who had no problem cornering her yesterday now stood frozen, bound by consequences they couldn’t ignore. Nyra didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

As she continued down the hallway, her grip on her bag tightened slightly, not from fear… but from resolve.

This place wasn’t fair. It never was. But it wasn’t untouchable either. Not if you knew how to push back.

Still, even as a quiet sense of victory settled in her chest, she didn’t let herself relax completely. People like them didn’t forget. And people like Wallace Rachford didn’t lose without rewriting the game.

This wasn’t the end. It was just the moment the rules began to change.