Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.

André Gide

JENNIE

The following morning, nothing happens. I go to class, but I can barely focus. I should be excited about my first day at Wilton. It's the top school in the nation, and I've worked my ass off to get here. But the thrill of a stellar education is overshadowed by my fear that I won't live long enough to complete it.

The day after passes by uneventfully, too. I am still alive, which is nothing short of a miracle after messing with the Romano family. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. I go to class like I should and even receive an interview request from the campus coffee shop, which I applied to online before moving to New York.

And the next day is normal again. I go to my classes. I even do well in the interview and get the job. Days pass, and eventually, I am finally able to breathe normally. The fear of death subsides, but I still remember that night. From the hookup to the police call, it's pinned to the back of my mind, but at least I'm able to move on with my life. A part of me starts to consider that they'll leave me alone. That the Romano family doesn't care enough to retaliate.

It's a naïve thought that I have no business thinking.

It's a month after the incident, and I'm about to leave work at the coffee shop. I shove my little green apron into my employee locker and sling my leather backpack over my shoulder. It was a splurge from my first paycheck, along with a brand new iPhone to replace the cheap flip phone I lost to the Hallway Incident. Hell, I've even downloaded the Tinder app, however I haven't created an account yet. When I do, though, I know what my number one swipe right criteria will be—no mobsters.

I'm not paying attention as I exit the break room and bump into someone, spilling the coffee I'm holding all over me. I curse, though I'm grateful the coffee is iced not hot.

"Watch where you're going."

I know that voice.

It's painfully familiar.

Krystal Jung lives in my hall. She and Doyeon have butted heads since the beginning of the school year, so as Doyeon's roommate and friend, I'm an enemy by default. And I'm getting sick of it.

I can't pass by her or her snooty friends without them sneering at my clothes or my hair or whatever they decide to make fun of that day. It's grinding on my nerves, but I've been telling myself that, if I ignore them, they'll stop.

I'm wrong.

They haven't stopped.

If anything, it has only gotten worse.

And when I look up at Krystal and see the look on her face, I know that she bumped into me on purpose. There's a satisfied smirk on her lips, and she's lifting a goading brow as if to say, "What are you going to do about it?"

Of course, I do nothing.

I sigh and turn around, returning to the break room. I may have started ignoring her jabs with the hopes that they would stop, but now it's too late. I'm too committed to staying quiet, and I feel trapped in my stupid plan. Like if I speak up now, it'll be a victory for her, a confirmation that she's pushed me to my breaking point when she hasn't.

So, the only other alternative is to act like I don't care.

After slamming the break room door on her face, I drain the rest of the coffee down the sink and toss the empty cup into the trash. Looking in the cheap full-length mirror that hangs behind the door, I assess the damage.

The coffee is completely soaking my hoodie. I'm glad I have a job and can now afford to buy another one, because it's completely ruined. I take it off and throw it away, too, knowing I won't be able to remove the stains from my Signature Mocha Prevent a Nap Frappe—who names this stuff?—with heavy whipping cream instead of milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, an extra shot, one and a half scoops of java chips, a caramel drizzle, and one stalk of vanilla bean blended in. Oh, and extra whipped cream.

Yes.

I'm one of those obnoxious drink orderers, but I make my own drinks, so who cares?

I feel naked in my silky spaghetti strapped camisole that dips low into my cleavage. It clearly looks like it belongs to a lingerie sleeping set. It actually is a part of the skimpy pajama set my last foster father gave me.

He's creepy, and I know that he only bought it for me so he could see my body in it, but I kept it anyways. Beggars can't be choosers. At the time, I didn't own a lot of clothes and needed whatever I could get my hands on.

I actually grew to love how it looks on me, so I've never tossed it, even though I probably should have. I mean, who keeps lingerie sleepwear bought for them by their unnerving foster dad? Apparently, I do. And I like it. The clothes, not my foster dad. I ran away from that guy as fast as my social worker would let me.

But I was wearing the camisole and panties this morning when I woke up late. I didn't even have time to change. I just threw on yesterday's hoodie and black skinny jeans and high tailed it to work as fast as I could.

Now, I'm regretting my decision, but the dorms are across campus, and I have less than five minutes to get to Dr. Rolland's lecture. There's no time to change if I want to make it to class on time. And I do. Dr. Rolland is a spit talker, so I have to get to class early if I want a seat outside the splash zone.

I leave through the back door in a rush, hoping to avoid Krystal. I make a mental note to leave through the back door from now on. It's cowardly, but the last time I tried to be a hero, I ended up calling the cops on the mob. I still can't sleep comfortably at night. The bags under my eyes are a testament to that.

I was maybe an eight before the Hallway Incident, but now I'm more like a six. I catch a glimpse of my reflection on a window and wince. It's more like a five and a half. I look really exhausted. Between the stress of retaliation, my upper division coursework, and the long hours at the coffee shop, I have reason to be.

Miraculously, I arrive to class on time. The lecture is almost starting, so all of the good seats in the center and back rows are filled. As if my day can't get any worse, I have no choice today but to sit in the splash zone. I take a seat in the center of the front row. I'm sitting in the splash zone anyway, so I might as well get the best view of the board while I'm at it.

I jump in surprise when someone sits down next to me. I thought I was the last person in here. At maximum capacity, only one person has to sit in the splash zone. That's me, so who is this? I turn to whoever it is, ready to warn him or her about the splash zone, when I'm met with familiar brown eyes. I realize who it is immediately.

Lalisa Manoban.

Oh, God.

I feel the panic instantly kicking in.

Is she here to kill me?

I must have said that aloud, because the serious look on her face is replaced with one of amusement. It cuts through her frosty demeanor like the ultimate icebreaker but does nothing to ease my concern.

"Am I that scary?" she asks, a brow arching in doubt.

I swallow and nod.

If this was a cartoon, there would be an audible gulp coming from me.

Her brow returns to its normal position. "Serves me right."

Lalisa's eyes darken, the brown transforming to dark in a heartbeat, and I see the hint of danger there. It's always been there, but the shadows accentuate it until I can't focus on anything else.

"In all honesty, I was here to…" Her eyes dart around the room, probably looking for eavesdroppers.

It's a fruitless effort. We both know everyone will be paying attention as soon as they realize she's here.

She glares at someone and lowers her voice until I'm straining to hear it. "… take care of you."

I turn away from her, so she can't see the horror etched into my tired face. If there's one thing the gazillion mob movies and books I've watched and read during my post-Hallway Incident research has taught me, it's that "take care of" is code for:

I'll kill you and hide your body six feet under a construction site, where they'll build a Section 8 housing complex over you and won't find your body until fifty years later when some rich, Trump-wannabe billionaire buys the complex, evicts the poor, knocks it to the ground and builds an apartment tower over it.

She'll even further desecrate your memory by not allowing minorities to rent there.

Oh, and Shawn Spencer will come in to solve your murder case, so at least they'll figure out who did it, and it'll be funny.

Scratch that.

Psych was cancelled.

So, Reese and Harold will get your social security number from their AI machine, and they'll find your body and bring your killer to justice.

Scratch that, too.

Person of Interest was cancelled…

Why are all of my favorite shows always cancelled?!

I hate T.V. networks. They always cancel my favorite shows and leave me with a cliff hanger. What am I supposed to do with that? Write my own damn ending? Nobody has time for tha—

Fuck me, I'm rambling.

Actually, I'm mentally rambling, which is worse, because when I mentally ramble, I have a tendency to mouth the words I'm thinking. Like a damn loon. I'm glad I'm looking away from Lalisa, because if I don't die by her hand today, I'll definitely die from embarrassment.

Winded, I stop myself. Thinking of her words, I can feel a panic attack coming on. I can't breathe. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. How can she be so brazen? Coming into my class, sitting next to me, and all but telling me in public that she's here to kill me. Will she do it in public?

I eye the clock. It's 9:10 A.M. on the dot. Class is about to begin. I have 50 minutes to think this through before I have to leave. I don't even have to think about it to know that she'll be following me out of class. The knowledge causes another panic attack to begin, before I even have the chance to get rid of the last one.

I can feel Lalisa leaning towards me.

"Hey," she says, her tone surprisingly gentle but firm.

I can't look at her. It would just make this worse.

"Hey," she says again, but this time, she places her fingers on my chin and turns me to face her.

When I finally do, I want to turn away again. There's a crease in between her eyebrows that wasn't there before. It's a look of concern that seems out of place on her stony features, but I don't know if it's for me or because of me.

Probably the latter, because no way is Lalisa Manoban concerned on my behalf.

Right?

"Calm down, Jennie," she says, frightening me with her knowledge of my name. Her voice is full of condescension and annoyance, which only confirms my theory. She's not concerned for me. "You're drawing attention to us, and you don't want to do that."

I take a shaky breath. "W-why shouldn't I?" I swallow, gathering the courage to speak again, even though my words are ridden with stutters. "G-give me one r-reason why I shouldn't s-scream."

The glare she throws me vanishes any hope that I'll be speaking again. "Don't even think about it. I tracked you here. I can track you anywhere, except next time, I won't be so nice."

She's right.

I don't doubt for a second that, with her resources, she can follow me anywhere. I Googled her after the incident at Rogue. I was unsurprised to learn that she's a big deal here in New York, not just in the underworld but also in the business world, where she owns a Fortune 500 company that has made her one of the wealthiest woman in the city.

I couldn't find much on her illegal dealings, only some speculation and ridiculous tall tales that she has never been formally accused of. I was, however, able to find out quite a bit about her legal businesses, which are all controlled through her company, Black Enterprises.

I feel the shift in the air when people realize that Lalisa Manoban is here. Not only does she own a successful company, her possible mafia ties and gorgeous looks have made her a media darling. The paparazzi seem to follow her every move, and there are fan blogs all over the internet that post pictures of her all day long. I know without a doubt that the majority of people in this class know who she is, and this is a lecture hall of three hundred.

The classroom, which was previously silently waiting for Dr. Rolland, is now buzzing with whispers. I hear a few people get up, and from the corner of my eye, I see some girls walking down the steps and heading towards the front row. It's almost full now.

A pretty girl with big eyes and a sultry smile sits down next to Lalisa. She doesn't even glance her way. She's still looking at me with a slight frown on her face. I swallow, give her a nod to confirm that I won't be screaming, and look away.

Someone takes the seat next to me. It's one of Krystal's lackeys. Her name might be something like Nelly or Nessy. She eyes Lalisa curiously, not even bothering to conceal her interest. It annoys me.

This person probably wants to kill me, and she's looking at her like she wants to get hitched, have her babies, and be buried next to her. And not necessarily in that order.

It's the knowledge that Lalisa is probably going to kill me anyway that gives me the courage to say, "Why are you sitting next to me, Nelly? You don't even like me." I feel Lalisa shift in her seat next to me, but so long as I'm not staring at her, I still have the courage to speak.

Her jaw drops. She's probably dumbfounded that I'm actually saying something to her after a month of silently taking her torment. "It's Nella," she says stiffly. Her eyes shift to Lalisa. "And I was going to ask Lalisa if you were bothering her."

I almost snort. She's full of shit. No way did she not see that she was the one to approach me. It's a classroom tradition for everyone to see who has the misfortune of sitting in the splash zone. I don't believe for a second that she didn't see me here first. She probably even got a kick out of it, looking forward to seeing Dr. Rolland's spit fly my way for fifty minutes.

So, I finally call her out on her bullshit after a long month of tolerating it. "Bull." I cross my arms. "You saw me sitting here alone in the splash zone." I distantly hear Lalisa question the splash zone under her breath, but I ignore it. I'm on a roll, and even she can't break it. "You probably even thought it was funny. Then, you saw her," I nod in Lalisa's direction, "sit down and thought you would come over here all demure- and innocent-like to get into her pants." I take a profound breath, realizing that this can be an opportunity to get away. "Well, you're welcome to take my seat and try."

Her eyes widen in astonishment. This probably isn't the direction she thought I was headed. Hell, even I'm amazed with myself. I wanted to embarrass her. This is the perfect opportunity to do so, but getting away from Lalisa is far more important. My life is more important than these petty fights with Krystal and her crew.

I grab my bag and move to leave. I am halfway out of my seat when an arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back into my chair. Lalisa shifts her arm so that it hangs loosely around my shoulders, her long fingers casually dipping into the side of my slinky camisole.

I am distinctly aware that I'm not wearing a bra. I know she can feel my rapid heartbeat and the light sheen of sweat that is coating the area of my neck in contact with her arm. Hell, I can even hear the quickening of my breath.

I feel like I'm her prey, a meek little animal that she can toy with before going in for the kill. And when she leans into my ear and whispers, "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" I know that I'm right.

She's amused.

The bastard is amused by my fear.

I try to shrug her off my shoulders, but her grip only tightens. Her fingers are now digging into the side of my breast, bringing back memories of her hands and mouth on my nipples. It's strangely erotic but an unwanted assault nonetheless.

The fear and my stupid, stupid lust feels foreign together but also not entirely unpleasant.

It's official.

I am a dumbass.

My tombstone can read, "Here lies Dumbass: horny, lonely, and not entirely right in the head," and it won't be wrong at all.

Nella huffs and crosses her arms, eyeing the way her arm tightens around my shoulders with disdain. She can hate me all she wants. I'll be dead soon anyway. I eye the clock. Only two minutes have passed.

Damn.

I have to endure this for 48 more minutes, and now I am literally in my soon-to-be killer's arms.

No one is fazed when Dr. Rolland comes in, looking disheveled and wearing his coat inside out. Dr. Rolland teaches quantum mechanics and is always in his own world. He's undoubtedly a bright man, but his sheer brilliance is overshadowed by his inability to arrive to class on time and make eye contact with his students.

He's already starting his lecture on Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, and he hasn't even reached the front of the class. He doesn't even have the little lecture room microphone attached to his shirt yet. This is usually where I would strain to hear what he's saying, but with my death looming over me, I know I won't be paying attention to today's lecture.

Hell, it barely even amuses me when, in a grand act of karmic justice, Dr. Rolland opens his mouth and spit flies onto Nella's cheek.

Serves her right.

For the next half hour, Lalisa keeps his arm around my shoulders, holding me in place. I tried to get up earlier, when I thought she wasn't paying attention to me, but she only tightened her grip. It's almost painful now. I haven't tried again, even when her finger brushed against my nipple.

I'm still not sure if that was on purpose.

The worst part is that part of me is grateful that only this is happening. That I have—I glance at the clock—14 more minutes of guaranteed safety, even if I have to endure it with her fingers on the side of my breast. I'm comforted by the knowledge that she can't hurt me in a room full of witnesses, but really, I'm living on borrowed time.

The last month of life has been a generous gift. In the back of my mind, I know that. I'd be stupid to think otherwise. The Romano family is not to be trifled with. Far greater people than me have died trying.

The shallow, senseless part of me tells me to forget who Lalisa is. To acknowledge and accept that my life will soon be over. That part of me is encouraging me to just take a moment to enjoy the touch of a gorgeous woman before it happens.

Even if that gorgeous woman may eventually be my killer.

That's the part of me that hasn't gotten laid in years. Years. It's the part of me that remembers how it felt to have her finger in me, her tongue on my clit. It's also the part of me that's responsible for my hardened nipples, which are currently pointy peaks under my camisole.

It's then that Dr. Rolland decides to put his glasses on. His eyes take a moment to adjust before they focus.

Right.

On.

Me.

Or more specifically, my nipples.

He stares in alarm for an awkward moment before his eyes trail up to my face. His eyes aren't leery. They're just stunned. And then he sees the arm around my shoulders and follows it to its owner. I'm not taken aback when the clicker in his hand immediately drops to the floor.

This is mortifying. I have a mobster playing with my nipples in the middle of class, a professor who just stared at said nipples and is scared of said mobster, and 299 sets of eyes on me. 301 if you count Dr. Rolland's and Lalisa's.

I watch warily as Dr. Rolland picks up the clicker. His hands are shaky, as is his voice. He's rambling now about something Heisenberg is quoted to have said on his deathbed, but his words aren't really making any sense. I can feel the tension in the room, half sympathetic and half anticipating. Many of the students have eager looks on their faces, ready to see what Dr. Rolland will do.

He picks up a thick set of papers and scans through them. He's still rambling about Heisenberg, and his hands are still shaking. A sheet of paper slips from his fingers and slides across the floor, landing at my feet.

I look at Lalisa, hating myself for instinctively asking for permission to retrieve it. She gives me a pleased expression, which contrasts greatly with the aloofness of her eyes, and nods. And then, because I am clearly an idiot and don't want her to think she can control me, I stick my tongue out at her. It's quick, just a flash of a tongue lasting no longer than a quarter of a second, but still…

I. Stuck. My. Tongue. Out.

I'm a twenty year old woman, and I just stuck my tongue out at a mobster.

Of course, I did.

I'm mortified when I lean forward to grab the paper. Unable to help myself, I glance down at it. It's part of the class roster. My guess is that Dr. Rolland was searching for Lalisa's name on the list. He won't find it, but I hand the sheet back to Dr. Rolland anyway.

A part of me is even amused when Dr. Rolland, with his sweaty forehead and face red with fear, nods his head at the paper and continues on with the lecture. He pretended that Lalisa is enrolled in the class instead of kicking her out, which is university policy for lecture crashers, something that's actually surprisingly common at Wilton. Dr. Rolland is a horrible actor, and his reaction is an unnecessary reminder of the fear Lalisa garners in respectable people from all walks of life.

My amusement at Dr. Rolland's poor acting skills fades when Lalisa's arm returns around my shoulders, a heavy reminder of what's to come. I stiffen when people around us start packing up their things. I glance at the clock. It's 10 A.M. on the dot. I can hear the death bells ringing, taunting me in the privacy of my own head.

I'm going to die.

I'm going to die.

I'm going to die.