CHAPTER 4: Beneath the Surface
931 Words
(HELL OF HEARTS)
Dylan’s POV
The bell rang, but I didn’t move.
I watched Isla through the glass window of the hallway. She walked quickly, head down, books hugged to her chest like armor again. But something had shifted.
She wasn’t invisible anymore.
And I hated it.
Not because she embarrassed Vanessa. Not because she talked back.
Because now… they saw her too.
I pushed off the wall and walked slowly down the hall. People parted for me, like always. Their eyes flickered to me, then away. They knew better than to linger.
But even with all that power—every glance, every whisper—I felt off-balance.
She had looked at me like I was human.
Like I wasn’t a monster wrapped in privilege and perfect cheekbones.
That was dangerous.
Because if she could see it…
Others might too.
I needed control.
I needed her to remember who I was.
Not some teenage dream.
Not the guy she stood up to in the cafeteria.
I was Dylan Blackwood.
And I don’t lose.
didn’t go to class.
Didn’t need to.
The halls were my territory. The teachers wouldn’t question me. Not when their kids depended on donations from my father. Not when my last name had more weight than any rule in this building.
I walked instead—slow, calculated steps—until I reached the back courtyard. The one no one really used anymore. Except me.
This was where I thought best. Alone. Away from the noise.
But even out here, she followed me. Not physically. Mentally.
That flash of fire in her eyes. That little crack in her voice when she dared to talk back. Isla Monroe.
The maid who didn’t know her place.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the security app—yes, I had access to the cameras in the house. Another perk of being the Blackwood heir.
I tapped through the feeds until I found her.
In the kitchen.
Washing dishes, hair tied back, lips moving like she was talking to herself. Probably replaying the scene in the cafeteria. Probably wondering if I’d retaliate.
Good.
Let her wonder.
But the problem was—I didn’t want to retaliate.
Not yet.
I wanted to watch.
To understand why someone like her could get under my skin. Because this wasn't about status anymore.
It was about curiosity.
Obsession.
And the part of me that wanted to see what would happen if I pulled her just close enough to burn.
---
I put the phone away and stood up.
She wouldn’t expect me to come home this early. That made it perfect.
When I walked into the mansion an hour later, the staff pretended not to look surprised. My father was at some board meeting, my mother probably at a spa in the hills. The house was quiet. Still
Except the sound of running water in the kitchen.
I leaned on the doorway, watching her.
She didn’t see me at first. She was humming—humming—like the whole world hadn’t tried to break her today. Like she wasn’t living in a house where her employer’s son enjoyed playing puppet master.
Interesting.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle in her bones.
Then I spoke.
“Your hands must be tired.”
She jumped, the plate in her hand clattering into the sink. Water splashed onto her apron as she turned.
“W-What are you—”
“Doing home early?” I finished for her. “I live here, remember?”
She looked like she wanted to argue. I almost wished she would.
“You know,” I said, stepping into the kitchen slowly, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. In the cafeteria.”
Her lips parted. A flush of panic rose in her cheeks.
“You really surprised me,” I continued, stopping a few feet from her. “The fire, the confidence. It’s new.”
She swallowed. “I just… I stood up for myself.”
“And that’s admirable,” I said. “But dangerous. Because now everyone thinks you can.”
My eyes locked onto hers. I wanted her to see it—that line between fascination and warning.
“I like watching people figure out who they really are,” I said softly. “And you, Isla Monroe… you’re just starting.”
Then I reached over and turned off the tap for her, fingers brushing hers—deliberate, cold.
“Don’t forget,” I whispered, “you work for me.”
And I left her there, drenched in silence and heat and confusion.
Exactly where I wanted her.
---
I headed upstairs, not bothering to look back.
I didn’t need to.
I could feel the tension behind me, like static in the air. She wouldn’t sleep tonight—not well. Not without replaying every word, every look, every inch of space I invaded.
And that was the point.
Control didn’t always come from screaming or threats. Sometimes it came in whispers. In a glance. In a touch that meant nothing—but could’ve meant everything.
I closed the door to my room and leaned against it.
My chest felt tight.
This game… whatever it was becoming… it wasn’t supposed to affect me.
But it did.
And I hated it.
Because beneath everything—her smart mouth, her guarded eyes, her stubbornness—there was something raw. Real.
I didn’t want real.
I wanted silence. Obedience. Fear.
But Isla Monroe didn’t fear me the way she should.
And that… made her dangerous.
- Writer
