A Warning

Amara sat alone in her dimly lit apartment, staring blankly at the laptop screen in front of her. The announcement from the university still echoed in her mind, each word cutting deeper, twisting like a blade into her chest.

A scholarship. A test. Harvard.

Her father's work—his life's research—was being put on display like a trophy, a prize to be won by someone who hadn't even known the weight of it. Someone who hadn't sat by his side late into the night as he combed through Dante's verses with a passion so fierce it had been the very thing that kept him alive.

Amara clenched her jaw, her fingers curling into fists.

It should be hers. It had always been hers.

And yet…

A sickening realization crept into her mind, sending ice through her veins.

The test. The scholarship.

She had no way of even competing.

Her tuition fees were still due. And without settling them, she wouldn't even be allowed to sit for the exam.

Her stomach twisted as she reached for the thin stack of unpaid bills on her desk. The numbers blurred together as she flipped through them. Overdue. Final notice. Warning.

There was no way around it. The university wouldn't make an exception—not for her. Not for the daughter of a professor they had so easily discarded after his death.

Her head dropped into her hands, fingers digging into her scalp. The weight of it all pressed down on her like a crushing force. It wasn't just about the research anymore. It was about survival. About proving that she wasn't someone who could be erased as easily as a forgotten footnote.

But the reality was brutal.

She was trapped. And she had no way out.

A sharp knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. Her breath hitched as she turned toward it, her heart thudding unevenly. No one visited her. No one cared enough to.

Another knock—slower this time. Almost… teasing.

She swallowed and rose to her feet, cautiously stepping toward the door. Her fingers trembled as she unlocked it and pulled it open just enough to see who stood on the other side.

The moment she saw him, her blood ran cold.

Professor Rafael.

A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips as he leaned against the doorframe, dressed in his usual dark attire that only seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his presence. His dark eyes flickered over her, taking in the disheveled state of her clothing, the exhaustion lining her face.

He knew.

Of course, he knew.

Amara's fingers tightened around the door. "What do you want?"

Rafael tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in his gaze. "I would have expected a warmer welcome, Miss Varela."

Her stomach twisted. She hated the way he said her name, the way he let it roll off his tongue like a private joke only he understood.

She forced a steady breath. "I don't have time for your games."

He let out a low chuckle, stepping just inside the doorway. "Oh, but you do." His gaze flickered toward her desk, where the stack of unpaid bills lay in plain sight. "I see you've been doing some thinking."

Amara stiffened. She had never felt more exposed than she did in that moment.

His smirk deepened as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming the small space between them. "Let me guess… you've realized something rather unfortunate, haven't you?"

She refused to answer, but he didn't need her to.

"You can't take the test," he said smoothly, voice laced with mock sympathy. "Not without paying your fees first. And, if I recall correctly…" He lifted a hand and traced an invisible line in the air as if drawing out his next words. "You don't have the means to do that, do you?"

A sharp sting of humiliation burned in her chest.

He was enjoying this. He had come here just to see the moment she broke.

Amara forced herself to meet his gaze. "Did you plan this?" she whispered, the words tasting like poison.

Rafael chuckled again, dark and indulgent. "Now, that would be cruel, wouldn't it?" He leaned in, lowering his voice. "But let's just say… I knew you'd reach this moment sooner or later."

Her hands shook at her sides.

He had been watching her. Waiting.

"You wanted this," she breathed, her voice trembling with fury. "You wanted me to fight for it—just so you could watch me lose."

Rafael's smirk faded slightly, but something darker flickered in his expression. "Not quite," he murmured. "I wanted to see how far you'd go before you realized the truth."

"What truth?"

He exhaled, tilting his head as if studying her. "That no matter how brilliant you are, how hard you fight… you are still bound by the rules of a world that does not favor you." His voice was smooth, velvety, but edged with something cruel. "And people like me… well, we own the game."

A tremor ran through her.

This had never been about the test. It had never been about her father's research.

It had been about control. About power.

And she had walked straight into the trap.

Her breath came unevenly. "What do you want from me?"

Rafael's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. "Oh, Amara… I think you already know the answer to that."

She swallowed hard, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.

The reality of it crashed over her like a tidal wave. If she wanted to fight, if she wanted even the slightest chance at reclaiming what was hers—she would have to play by his rules.

And he knew it.

Rafael took another step back, his gaze never leaving hers. "I'll give you some time to think, Miss Amara." His voice was gentle, almost kind, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. "But don't take too long."

Amara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her skin.

He turned toward the door but paused before leaving. "Oh, and one more thing." He glanced back at her, his smirk widening. "Desperation suits you."

Then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Amara standing in the silence of her apartment, her body trembling with rage, humiliation, and something far worse—

Defeat.

For the first time since her father's death, she realized that no matter how fiercely she fought, no matter how much she clawed her way through the darkness—

She was still in someone else's game.

And Rafael had just reminded her who held the power.

The night air was thick with the scent of rain, a slow, creeping storm that hadn't yet broken but loomed overhead, suffocating in its weight. The streetlights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows on the pavement. Amara stood by the curb, her body rigid, arms wrapped around herself as if that could hold everything together.

The cold bit into her skin, but it was nothing compared to the ice spreading through her veins.

She didn't know why she was still standing there. Why she hadn't turned away the moment Rafael had strode past her, his coat billowing slightly in the night breeze, his presence commanding even in the eerie stillness.

But something held her in place. A feeling. A whisper of unease.

And then—he stopped.

Just before reaching his sleek black car, Rafael turned slightly, his profile sharp against the dim streetlights. He didn't look at her, not fully, not yet. Instead, he let the silence stretch, the anticipation coil, like a string pulled too tight, just waiting to snap.

"You know…" His voice was low, smooth, edged with something unreadable. "There's something quite fascinating about storms."

Amara stiffened. She knew better than to take his words at face value.

He exhaled, almost thoughtful, tilting his head slightly as he finally turned those dark eyes on her. "They don't just arrive, do they? No, no. They warn you first. The sky darkens, the wind shifts. If you pay attention, you can feel it long before the first drop falls." He took a step closer, and despite herself, she couldn't move.

"But the thing about storms, Amara…" He let the silence stretch, watching her with that slow, piercing gaze. "Most people don't take them seriously until it's too late."

Her fingers clenched against the sleeves of her sweater. "Is that what this is?" she asked, voice hoarse. "A warning?"

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but there was something cruel beneath it. "Oh, sweetheart." His voice was almost mocking. "Warnings are for people who have a choice."

Her breath hitched.

He stepped closer, close enough that the chill of the night barely registered anymore, because all she could feel was him—his presence, his power pressing into the space between them.

"You've been quite determined," he mused, like he was discussing something far less personal than the wreckage of her life. "So desperate to stand your ground. But tell me, Amara, do you think anyone cares?"

She flinched, the words cutting deeper than they should have.

His smirk widened, as if he saw it. As if he enjoyed it.

"You're trying so hard," he continued, his tone almost indulgent, "but there's a problem with fighting a battle no one wants you to win."

She swallowed hard, her throat burning. "And what problem is that?"

His gaze darkened, amusement flickering beneath something colder. "It's lonely, isn't it?"

Her breath came in shaky, uneven waves.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her. "You're already losing, Amara. You just haven't realized it yet."

She shook her head, stepping back instinctively, but his voice followed her, wrapping around her like a shadow.

"They won't let you take that test," he said, almost lazily. "They'll find a reason. A rule, a technicality. And even if by some miracle you make it through that?" He chuckled, deep and low. "They'll make sure you regret it."

Her chest clenched. "Why?" she whispered, hating the break in her voice, hating the way her eyes burned. "Why are you doing this?"

His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked mildly entertained. "Because I can."

The honesty in those words made her stomach drop.

Her breath turned ragged. "You're enjoying this," she accused, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't deny it.

Her vision blurred, the weight of everything—the betrayal, the cruelty, the hopelessness—pressing down on her until she felt like she might collapse under it.

A shaky breath escaped her, and before she could stop herself, before she could shove it back down, a tear slipped free.

Rafael stilled.

For a moment, just a flicker of a second, his gaze dipped, watching the way the tear traced down her cheek. Something unreadable passed through his expression, too quick for her to catch.

Then—he moved.

He lifted a hand, and she almost flinched, expecting another cruel game, another twist of the knife. But instead, his fingers barely grazed the corner of her eye, catching the tear before it could fall further.

A mockery of tenderness.

Amara inhaled sharply, body going rigid at the contact.

His touch was light, barely there, but it burned.

"You look good like this," he murmured, voice almost too soft, too intimate. "Fragile."

A fresh wave of humiliation crashed through her.

She jerked back, her breath shaky. "Go to hell."

He chuckled, completely unbothered, as if he had expected nothing less.

Then, as if the moment had never happened, he took a step back, slipping his hands into his pockets, the perfect picture of ease.

But then—he did something unexpected.

He sighed, almost as if he pitied her, before tilting his head slightly. "Come to me, Amara."

Her breath caught.

He took another slow step forward, his presence suffocating, overpowering. "I'll give you shelter."

The words were so deceptively gentle, so effortlessly cruel.

"You don't have to struggle," he continued, voice like silk, like poison wrapped in velvet. "You don't have to fight anymore."

Her throat burned. "I don't need your help."

His smile was slow, knowing. "Oh, but you will."

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"The storm's coming, sweetheart," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "And when it hits?"

His gaze locked onto hers, dark, consuming.

"You'll have nowhere else to go."

Then—he turned, walking to his car, leaving her standing in the suffocating silence.

The engine roared to life, headlights slicing through the night.

But before he drove away, his voice reached her one last time, a cruel, lingering whisper.

"Think about it."

Then—he was gone.

And Amara?

She wasn't sure if she'd ever breathe the same again.