A Scene of Their Own

The buzzing chatter of the drama club filled the rehearsal hall, voices overlapping in a chaotic mess of excitement and energy. Amara stood near the doorway, gripping her notebook tightly, her fingers pressing into the worn cover.

She had signed up for this. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Extra credit opportunities were dwindling, and with her academic situation hanging by a thread, she needed every point she could scrape together.

The problem?

She didn't belong here.

The students around her had already formed their groups, their laughter and whispered conversations forming an invisible wall that shut her out. No one looked at her. No one welcomed her in.

They didn't have to say it aloud—she could feel it.

She wasn't wanted.

Still, she stayed. Because she had no other choice.

"All right, settle down."

The club's president, a senior named Elise, clapped her hands for attention. Dressed in a designer blouse with effortless elegance, she barely glanced in Amara's direction.

"We've finalized the groups for the playwriting assignment," Elise continued. "Your task is to write a short dramatic act by the end of the week. Make it engaging, emotional, and powerful. You will present it in front of an assigned faculty advisor for feedback before finalizing it for performance."

Murmurs rippled through the group, students glancing at their partners, some grinning, some groaning.

Amara held her breath, waiting for her name.

Elise smirked. "And lastly, since no one else had room in their groups—Amara, you'll be writing your act alone."

Silence.

Then, snickers.

Amara's throat tightened.

"Wait, alone?" someone whispered. "That's brutal."

"I mean, it makes sense," another voice added, low and biting. "Who'd want her in their group?"

A sharp sting settled in Amara's chest, but she forced herself to keep her face neutral. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Elise feigned innocence. "Unless, of course, someone wants to take her in?"

No one spoke.

More laughter. Quiet, but not quiet enough.

Amara squared her shoulders. "It's fine," she said flatly. "I'll do it."

Elise's smirk widened like a cat toying with a trapped mouse. "Great. Your assigned faculty advisor will assist you with feedback and structure. You'll need to meet with them tomorrow."

She glanced down at her clipboard before announcing the name.

Amara's blood ran cold.

"Professor Rafael."

No.

Her breath caught in her throat as the name settled in the air around her, heavy and suffocating. A trap.

This wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be.

Elise moved on as if nothing had happened, continuing with announcements and schedules, but Amara barely heard any of it. Her heartbeat was a hammer against her ribs.

Rafael was here.

Not just lurking in the shadows, pulling strings from afar.

He was a professor.

Her professor.

The realization made her stomach turn. She needed out. She needed to find a way to switch advisors, to change the assignment, to disappear before she walked into whatever game Rafael was playing.

But deep down, she knew there was no escape.

Not from him.

The next day, Amara walked into the drama department with a pit lodged in her stomach. The weight of the previous night still clung to her like a second skin—her meeting with Student Affairs, the three-day deadline ticking away like a bomb waiting to explode.

She had spent hours trying to think of a solution, but there was none. No money. No safety net. No way out.

And yet, somehow, that wasn't even her biggest problem.

Because she was about to walk into his office again.

Except when she got there, the nameplate on the door was different.

Professor Callum Wright.

Her stomach twisted.

She needed to get out.

Now.

The escape didn't last long.

She took a slow breath and knocked.

"Come in."

The voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She stepped inside and, sure enough, there he was.

Rafael was leaning against the desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the top two buttons undone, as if he had dressed deliberately to unsettle her. He smirked when their eyes met, a slow, knowing thing, and she suddenly hated how aware she was of him.

"Miss Amara," he greeted smoothly. "I was expecting you."

Amara swallowed, keeping her expression unreadable. "You changed your name."

He chuckled, motioning for her to sit. "Names are just details, Amara."

She didn't move. "This isn't funny."

He studied her, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "Oh, I disagree. I think it's hilarious."

She clenched her fists. "Why are you doing this?"

Rafael tilted his head. "Doing what?"

She exhaled sharply, irritation curling through her. "Playing games. Pretending to be something you're not. First you burn my life down, then you put me here, and now you expect me to act like this is normal?"

He pushed off the desk, closing the space between them in slow, measured steps. "I never said this was normal."

Amara took a step back, but he followed, trapping her against the bookshelf. His presence was overwhelming, the heat of him seeping into her skin.

His hand came up, trailing along the edge of one of the books beside her. "You still owe me a scene," he murmured.

Her pulse spiked. "What?"

He smirked. "The act. You still haven't written it."

She had been too consumed by everything else—by him, by the nightmare of her finances—to even think about the assignment.

Rafael's fingers trailed lower, brushing along the book's spine. "Let me help."

Amara's breath hitched. "I don't need your help."

His smirk deepened. "That's cute."

She shoved past him, but he caught her wrist, halting her escape. The air between them thickened, charged with something dangerous, something that sent a thrill of panic and something else down her spine.

She hated him.

So why did her heart race every time he touched her?

He tugged her back, close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin. "Let's make this interesting."

She swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"

His eyes gleamed. "Write a scene. Any scene. About power. About control. And I'll help you perfect it."

His voice dripped with meaning, laced with something she couldn't ignore.

She tried to pull away, but he held her there, his fingers pressing just enough to remind her who was in control.

"What's wrong, Amara?" His voice was a whisper, smooth, intoxicating. "Afraid of what you might write?"

Afraid of him, she wanted to say. Afraid of herself.

Instead, she jerked her wrist free, stepping back like she had been burned. "Fine," she spat. "I'll write your scene."

He smiled, slow and victorious. "Good girl."

Her stomach twisted.

She needed to get out.

Now.

The room was silent except for the scratch of Amara's pen against paper.

She sat at Rafael's desk, hunched over, the flickering desk lamp casting golden light over the pages. Words poured from her mind, tangled with frustration and the heavy weight of knowing who would be reading them.

Who would perform them.

Who would judge her for them.

Rafael sat opposite her, watching, waiting. He didn't rush her, didn't speak, but his presence was suffocating—expectant. Like he already knew what she would write before she did.

And maybe he did.

Amara's fingers tightened around the pen as she finished the last sentence. The final line of the act.

She exhaled sharply, pushing the paper across the desk toward him. "There."

Rafael didn't move immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, his gaze never leaving hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he picked up the pages.

The room felt smaller.

His eyes flicked across her words, reading in silence, his expression unreadable. The seconds dragged, each one more unbearable than the last. And then—

A smirk.

Of course.

"Interesting," he murmured, setting the pages down. "Very interesting."

Amara crossed her arms. "Is that all?"

His gaze lifted to hers, sharp and knowing. "You wrote about us."

Her breath hitched. "No, I didn't."

He chuckled, leaning back. "Oh, Amara. You may lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me."

She clenched her jaw, refusing to look away. "It's fiction."

He tapped a finger against the page. "Is it?"

She said nothing.

Rafael stood, circling the desk, coming to stand behind her chair. His presence sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in, his breath warm against the back of her neck.

"Let's see how well it plays out, then."

Before she could protest, he reached for the script, flipping to the dialogue.

His voice dropped into a rich, velvety tone, reading her own words back to her. "You think I want to control you?"

Her stomach twisted. She had written those words in a daze, never expecting to hear him say them aloud.

Her own voice felt fragile in comparison. "The character says that."

Rafael ignored her. He took another step closer, his fingers ghosting along the edge of the desk beside her.

"I don't need to control you," he continued, "because you've already given yourself to me."

Amara swallowed. "That's not—"

He leaned down, just enough that she felt the warmth of his breath. "Say your line."

Her pulse hammered against her ribs. "No."

Rafael smirked. "Then I'll say it for you."

And then, in a voice that sent chills down her spine—mocking, cruel, knowing—he whispered her own words back to her.

"I hate you."

The air between them burned.

She shoved her chair back, standing abruptly, her heart racing. "This is ridiculous."

Rafael exhaled a slow, quiet laugh. "And yet, here you are."

Amara's hands trembled. She turned, grabbing her bag, desperate to leave—to put distance between herself and whatever game he was playing.

But before she could reach the door, Rafael's voice stopped her cold.

"The most interesting part?" he mused. "The next line you wrote?"

She didn't want to ask.

Didn't want to hear it.

But he said it anyway.

"Then why do you keep coming back?"

Her breath faltered.

She didn't turn around. Couldn't.

Because the worst part?

She didn't have an answer.

The act wasn't finished, but Rafael didn't care.

He wasn't interested in ink on paper, in meaningless words crafted in desperation. He was interested in her—in the way she reacted, in the way she fought against what was already inevitable.

Amara was predictable in her defiance, but fascinating in her silence.

And now, standing stiff in the doorway, refusing to acknowledge the very truth she had put on paper, she was the most intriguing thing in the room.

"Sit back down."

It wasn't a request.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "I'm done."

Rafael clicked his tongue, slow and measured. "Amara, Amara…" He sighed, walking towards her, unhurried. Patient. "You've barely begun."

She hated how easily he closed the space between them, how his presence filled every inch of the room like it was meant to consume her.

"I don't need your help," she said, voice quieter than she wanted it to be.

His smirk deepened. "But you do need something, don't you?"

She hated him.

Hated the way he looked at her like he had already won, like he was waiting for her to understand just how trapped she was.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Go on. Say it."

Her heart pounded. "Say what?"

His lips barely moved, but she felt the weight of the words before they even left his mouth.

"You need me."

The breath whooshed from her lungs.

Because the truth of it slammed into her like a freight train.

She needed money. She needed time. She needed a way out, and Rafael—

Rafael was waiting.

Amara swallowed, but the lump in her throat wouldn't go away. "You think this is a game."

He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, the touch featherlight but deliberate. "I know it is."

Her skin burned where his fingers had been.

She should leave. She should run.

But she stood there, heart hammering, as Rafael tilted his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Finish the act, Amara."

Her nails dug into her palms. "Or what?"

His smirk widened, wicked and knowing. "Or I'll finish it for you."

And that, somehow, was a far worse fate.