My Lovely Headmaster
Description
When Jasmine Johnson's world collapses after a single night of heartbreak, she's left with a secret that changes everything. Years later, fate leads her to Blackwood Academy-a place of shadows, power, and the man whose scent still haunts her dreams. As forbidden truths surface and love collides with legacy, Jasmine must fight not only for her heart but for the future of the son who carries it. In a world where passion can ruin and redemption can save, one woman's courage will test how far love can go against the weight of destiny.
Chapter 1
Nov 27, 2025
The Kappa house throbs with bass that reverberates through my ribcage—each beat synchronizing with the vodka pulsing through my veins.
God, I'm already too drunk for this. The air tastes of cheap beer and someone's designer perfume—probably Ashley's. She always drowns herself in that shit like she's trying to cover up the smell of desperation. Crimson solo cups litter every surface like abandoned prayers to gods.
"Fuck, this music is literally going to make my brain leak out of my ears," Jessica announces, examining her manicure under the kitchen's flickering fluorescent light that makes us all look like beautiful corpses. "I swear to God, if Brad plays one more remix, I'm going to strangle him with his own aux cord."
I laugh, but it comes out wrong—too high, too desperate. "Have you seen Nathan? He said he'd be here by now, and I've texted him like five times." I hate how needy I sound, hate Jessica's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches in that way that means she's cataloging this moment for future ammunition.
"Oh my God, Jas, you're literally obsessed," she says, but there's something almost pitying in her voice that makes me want to disappear. "He's probably upstairs doing his whole tortured intellectual thing. You know, reading Nietzsche while everyone else is having actual fun." She rolls her eyes. "Marcus is here, by the way. Still quoting dead poets like anyone gives a shit."
"Nathan's not like that," I insist, even though he absolutely is. Even though that's exactly why I love him—loved him? Love him. Present tense. We're present tense.
"Whatever you need to tell yourself, babe." Jessica's already turning away, her attention caught by Marcus who's gesturing wildly, probably explaining why existence is meaningless or something equally pretentious. "He's probably in Tyler's room. Third door on the left. Try not to look too desperate when you find him."
I flip her off, but she's already gone, absorbed into the crowd of bodies that smell like sweat and possibility and youth rotting at its edges. I navigate through the living room, past couples grinding against each other like they're trying to merge into one person, past a group doing shots off someone's stomach.
My head spins—when did I become the girl who chases boys at parties? When did I become so fucking pathetic?
The staircase looms before me, and I grip the banister that's sticky with God knows what. Each step feels monumental, like I'm climbing toward something inevitable. The second floor hallway stretches out, doors half-open like mouths ready to confess secrets. Music pounds through the floor, muffled but insistent, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat that's suddenly too fast and loud.
Third door on the left. I can hear my Renaissance Lit professor's voice in my head: "Dante's hell has nine circles, but real hell is repetition." Well, here I am, about to repeat the same stupid pattern—looking for Nathan, always looking for Nathan, like he's some kind of answer to a question I don't even know how to ask.
The door is slightly ajar, lamplight spilling into the hallway like honey. I push it open, and my entire world cracks down the middle.
Nathan sprawls across Tyler's unmade bed, his dark hair—the hair I ran my fingers through just yesterday while he read me passages from The Secret History—fanned across the pillow. His shirt is twisted up, revealing those hip bones I traced like reading braille yesterday, trying to understand the language of his body.
Some blonde girl I've never seen before straddles him, her hands pressed against his chest where mine were twelve hours ago. Her head was thrown back in apparent ecstasy, making these little sounds that make me want to vomit.
The room smells like sweat and sex and betrayal, that particular cocktail that burns going down and coming back up. His eyes are closed, lost in her, in this moment that's destroying everything we built with pretty words and prettier lies.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't exist in this reality where Nathan—my Nathan, who called me his Beatrice, his muse, his fucking everything—is underneath someone else like I never existed at all.
My vision fractures like a dropped mirror. The tears come hot and immediate, transforming the scene into an impressionist painting of flesh and shadow. I watch for one more second—one more second of torture, of confirmation that yes, this is real, this is happening—and then I'm backing away, my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming, from vomiting, from making any sound that would let him know I've seen him. That I've seen who he really is.
I stumble backward, my heel catching on the threshold. Then I run.
You're so stupid, so fucking stupid. Of course he'd get bored with you. You're not smart enough, not pretty enough, not enough, never enough. All those pretty words he said, all those quotes from dead poets, all lies. You were just another girl to conquer, another notch in his intellectual bedpost.
The hallway blurs past, a tunnel of sound and humiliation. I can still see them behind my eyelids—her back arched, his hands on her hips, the way they moved together like they'd done this before. Maybe they had. Maybe while I was writing stupid love poems about his green eyes, he was fucking her in every room of every house at every party.
The stairs blur beneath my feet. I miscalculate the first step, my body pitching forward into the void, and for a moment I think: Good, let me fall, let me break something that hurts worse than this.
But strong arms catch me, pull me against a solid chest. Through my tears, I can't see his face, just shadows and the overwhelming scent of cologne—something expensive and dark, like autumn nights and burnt paper, like libraries after midnight.
"Whoa, careful," his voice is deep, unfamiliar, concerned. "You okay?"
I'm not thinking anymore. I'm just in pain wearing a dress, just vodka and rage in human form. Without thought, driven by hurt and alcohol and the need to feel anything but this agony, I fist my hands in his shirt and crush my mouth against his.
He stiffens—shocked—then responds, his lips moving against mine with unexpected tenderness that transforms into hunger. I pull him upward, away from the stairs, needing this anchor to keep from drowning. I don't know who he is and I don't fucking care. He's not Nathan. That's all that matters.
"Are you sure—" he starts to ask against my mouth.
"Don't talk," I gasp, pulling him harder. "Please, just don't talk."
My back finds the wall, then a doorframe, then the darkness of an empty room that smells like laundry detergent and nothing like Nathan's pretentious cologne. We fall onto cool sheets, and I let myself dissolve into sensation: his hands reverent and desperate, the weight of him like absolution, the darkness that hides who we really are.
We move together in the darkness, two strangers creating their own temporary universe where betrayal doesn't exist, where bodies can't lie, where I can pretend for just a few minutes that I'm not breaking apart from the inside out. I close my eyes and try to forget Nathan's face, try to forget everything except this moment, this oblivion, this beautiful mistake.
Dawn seeps through unfamiliar curtains like shame incarnate. I wake alone, my body aching in ways both familiar and foreign. The stranger is gone—of course he is. I gather my clothes with shaking hands and flee like the cliché I've become.
Our dorm room spins when I enter. Jessica stirs, mascara smeared under her eyes like war paint from last night's battle. "Jesus Christ, where the fuck were you? Nathan was looking everywhere for you. He seemed actually worried for once in his pretentious life."
The laugh that escapes me is bitter as burnt coffee. "I saw him with someone else," I say, my voice hollow as a dead tree. "Last night. He was... they were..." I can't finish. "I slept with someone."
Jessica sits bolt upright, suddenly completely sober. "Wait, what? Who? Jasmine, what the fuck? You've never even—did you use protection?"
Silence expands between us like a held breath. I touch my lips, still swollen, still tasting of cologne and catastrophe. My mind is blank where his face should be.
"Jasmine, answer me. Did you use fucking protection?"
I can't answer. I literally cannot remember. The silence grows teeth, grows claws, grows into something monstrous between us.
My Lovely Headmaster
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