{"id":255540,"date":"2026-07-13T04:24:48","date_gmt":"2026-07-13T01:24:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/calculated-obsession-a-dark-enemies-to-lovers-romance-alisson-bento\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T04:24:48","modified_gmt":"2026-07-13T01:24:48","slug":"calculated-obsession-a-dark-enemies-to-lovers-romance-alisson-bento","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/calculated-obsession-a-dark-enemies-to-lovers-romance-alisson-bento\/","title":{"rendered":"Calculated Obsession A Dark Enemies To Lovers Romance – Alisson Bento"},"content":{"rendered":"
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It was distinct. Rhythmic. Clump. Clump. Clump. Heavy boots. And the jingle of keys. A massive ring of keys swinging against a belt. \u2014Cole,\u2014 I whispered, my voice barely a breath. \u2014Someone\u2019s here. \u2014I see him,\u2014 Cole\u2019s voice was instant, sharp. \u2014Security patrol. He\u2019s early. He wasn’t supposed to be on this floor for another twenty minutes.<\/p>\n

\u2014He\u2019s coming toward the office,\u2014 I said. The footsteps were getting louder. Clump. Clump. \u2014Turn off the monitor,\u2014 Cole ordered. \u2014Leave the drive. I reached out and pressed the power button on the monitor. The room plunged back into darkness. The computer tower hummed quietly under the desk, the blue LED still blinking, working away at the password.<\/p>\n

\u2014Where do I go?\u2014 I hissed. I stood up. The room was a trap. One door. No windows that opened. \u2014Under the desk,\u2014 Cole said. I dropped to my knees. I scrambled into the knee-hole of the desk. It was tight. I curled into a ball, pulling my legs in, wrapping my arms around my shins. The smell of dust and old shoes filled my nose. The footsteps stopped. Right outside the door. I saw the shadow of feet through the frosted glass panel.<\/p>\n

Two dark blobs blocking the red light of the exit sign. A beam of light cut through the glass. A flashlight. It swept across the room. It hit the bookshelf. It hit the chair I had just vacated. I stopped breathing. I physically stopped the expansion of my lungs. I clamped my mouth shut, pressing my lips together until they hurt. The doorknob rattled. Chunk-chunk. He tried the door. It was unlocked.<\/p>\n

I hadn’t locked it behind me. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought he would hear it. Thud- thud-thud-thud. It was a drum solo of terror. The door opened. A wedge of light sliced into the room, widening as the door swung inward. The flashlight beam danced across the floor. It moved over the carpet. It moved toward the desk. \u2014Stay,\u2014 Cole whispered in my ear. His voice was the only thing anchoring me to the earth.<\/p>\n

\u2014He\u2019s doing a perimeter check. He\u2019s lazy. He won\u2019t look down.<\/p>\n

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It beat against the high, arched windows of the lecture hall with a rhythm that felt like a countdown, a relentless tap-tap-tap that synchronized with the erratic thumping of my heart. The room smelled of wet wool, damp canvas, and the sharp, acidic tang of anxiety that seemed to waft off the two hundred students crammed into the mahogany-paneled rows. But mostly, it smelled of money. Old money. The kind of money that didn\u2019t worry about the price of textbooks or whether the soles of their boots were wearing thin enough to let the water in.<\/p>\n

My boots were leaking. I could feel the cold dampness seeping into my left sock, a slow, invasive creep that I tried to ignore as I pressed my ballpoint pen into the paper. The pen was cheap, a generic stick of plastic bought in a bulk pack of ten for a dollar, and the ink was skipping.<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t run out, I begged silently, scratching the tip against the margin. Not now. Not in Hawthorne\u2019s class. Professor Hawthorne paced the stage like a metronome, his heels clicking on the hardwood. He was a small man with a voice that boomed like a cannon, a relic of a time when law was taught with fear rather than pedagogy. He didn\u2019t use a microphone.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t need one. \u2014The Fourteenth Amendment,\u2014 Hawthorne bellowed, stopping dead in the center of the spotlight. \u2014Due Process. Equal Protection. Beautiful words, aren\u2019t they? Ornaments on a tree that has been rotting from the roots up since 1787. He turned, his eyes scanning the amphitheater. The silence was absolute. You didn\u2019t breathe in Hawthorne\u2019s class unless you were called upon, and even then, you prayed your breath didn\u2019t hitch. \u2014Mr. Harrington,\u2014 Hawthorne barked, pointing a chalk-dusted finger at the third row. \u2014Define procedural due process.<\/p>\n

And do not bore me with the textbook definition. Give me the reality. I kept my head down, my hand cramping as I transcribed the question. My notebook was a chaotic warzone of ink. Every word Hawthorne said was potential ammunition for the final, and the final was the only thing standing between me and the abyss.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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