Chapter 8: The Disciplinary Committee Summons

Serena's POV

Sterling reached for me again, his hands eager and insistent.

I met his movement halfway, letting him press me forcefully back against the VIP booth's leather sofa, the weight of his body pinning me down as his breath came hot and uneven against my neck.

"Mr. Sterling, I think you've misunderstood something."

I said, tilting my head back to meet his eyes with a calm, unwavering gaze.

"I'm selling my time, not my body. Though..." I deliberately drew out the pause, letting my finger trace a slow line along the collar of his shirt before hooking it gently and pulling him closer.

"Since you paid a hundred thousand dollars, I should at least make sure you feel like you got your money's worth."

Tristan lunged forward suddenly, his hand gripping my waist with bruising force as he crashed his mouth against mine.

This wasn't a kiss—it was punishment, possession, a brutal claiming that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with dominance.

He forced my lips apart with aggressive insistence, his tongue invading my mouth with the sharp, burning taste of whiskey, sweeping through every corner as though he could consume me entirely, erasing whatever remained of the girl who had once looked down on him from the heights of the Kincaid name.

"You think you can still act so high and mighty?"

His eyes were bloodshot, feverish with something darker than lust as he forced his knee between my thighs, spreading them apart and pinning me completely beneath him.

"You're nothing now—just a broke girl who owes three million dollars. I paid a hundred grand for you, and I'll do whatever the hell I want with you."

"Mmm..."

I let out a soft, compliant sound, my hands sliding up to grip his back. Tristan's breathing immediately turned ragged, his chest heaving against mine as his control began to fray at the edges.

He yanked down the strap of my dress with impatient, clumsy hands, exposing my bra and a wide expanse of bare skin beneath.

I lay still on the sofa, watching his face contort with frustration and arousal, his features twisted into something ugly and desperate.

"Why aren't you fighting back?"

He panted, his fingers roughly tearing at my bra until it came loose, spilling my breasts free into the cool air of the room.

"You had so much to say earlier. Keep talking!"

He lowered his head and bit down on my nipple, hard enough to make me gasp.

His teeth grazed the sensitive peak before his tongue took over, rough and insistent as it circled and flicked, then sucked with greedy, punishing intensity.

His other hand wasn't idle either—it kneaded my other breast roughly, fingers digging in hard enough to leave red marks blooming across my skin like evidence of his claim.

"Tristan..."

I breathed his name softly, arching slightly as my fingers slid into his hair, pressing his head down more firmly against my chest, guiding him deeper into the illusion of control.

He responded with even more fervor, the wet sounds of his sucking filling the small space, obscene and raw.

His hips ground against me, and through the fabric of his expensive suit pants I could feel him—thick, hard, almost painfully rigid—pressing insistently against my inner thigh, rutting against me with graceless, desperate thrusts.

"Serena... you're such a fucking tease..."

He mumbled against my skin, his words slurred and breathless, warm air ghosting over my wet breast and sending involuntary shivers down my spine.

He shifted his full weight onto me, fumbling frantically with his belt buckle, his coordination shot to hell by the combination of alcohol and arousal.

"You little bitch... I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk."

He yanked his zipper down, freeing himself with shaking hands. Just as his fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear, ready to tear them away—

DING!

The wall clock chimed softly, the sound cutting through the heated haze like a blade.

"One hour's up," I said, my voice pleasant and businesslike as I looked up at him with a small smile. "Sorry, Mr. Sterling. I'm not doing overtime tonight."

Tristan froze, his entire body going rigid above me.

I watched the confusion and disbelief wash over his face, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his brain struggled to catch up with what I'd just said.

I pressed my palms against his shoulders and pushed him back, sliding out from beneath him and rising to my feet with practiced grace.

He remained kneeling on the sofa, pants undone, shirt half-unbuttoned, looking utterly lost.

"You're fucking with me!" he snarled, reaching for me again, but I'd already stepped back beyond his reach, smoothing down my dress with unhurried movements.

I pulled out the thick wad of bills he'd stuffed into my underwear earlier and tucked it into my purse.

Then I extracted a single crumpled one-dollar bill—the same one he'd used to humiliate me downstairs when he'd opened the bidding.

I walked back to him and carefully tucked that dollar bill into the open collar of his shirt, patting it twice against his bare chest with deliberate condescension.

"That's your tip."

I said, looking down at his face—shock, humiliation, and unsatisfied lust warring for dominance in his expression.

"You were slightly better behaved tonight than I expected. Don't forget to zip up your pants, young master."

I turned and walked to the door, pulling it open without looking back.

Outside, Asher was being held back by two security guards, a fresh bruise darkening the skin near his eye.

The moment he saw me emerge with my dress disheveled and my hair mussed, he shoved the guards aside and rushed to me, his eyes frantically scanning my face and neck, searching for signs of harm.

I met his worried gaze calmly. "I'm fine. Let's go home."

We'd barely made it to the first-floor lobby when my phone began vibrating violently in my purse.

I stopped walking and pulled it out, the screen already flooded with notifications.

Blackwood University's anonymous forum had exploded.

"One Hundred Thousand Dollars Per Hour! Fake Heiress Serena Suspected of Providing Special Services in VIP Booth!"

The accompanying photos showed my silhouette entering the second-floor VIP room, with Tristan following closely behind before shutting the door.

But worse than the images was the bolded red text beneath the headline:

"BREAKING: Blackwood University Disciplinary Committee to formally investigate tomorrow at 9 AM. If allegations of sexual transactions are confirmed, Serena will be immediately expelled!"

At a place like Blackwood, which prided itself on legacy and respectability, sexual transactions were grounds for instant expulsion—no appeals, no second chances.

The next morning, the summons email arrived in my inbox before I'd even finished my coffee.

When I entered the Dean's office, Chloe was already there, sitting with her hands folded in her lap, her expression the perfect picture of pained concern.

But what caught my attention more was the additional document lying on the desk beside the investigation file—my on-campus housing special application form.

I'd submitted it late last night, desperate to escape the Kincaid manor, to stop sleeping in that servant's room, to no longer endure the daily scrutiny of Julian, Chloe, and the household staff who watched my every move with barely concealed contempt.

If this application was denied, I'd have no choice but to return to that suffocating prison.

"I'm just worried about Serena," Chloe was saying, her voice trembling slightly as she addressed the person sitting behind the desk.

"She's been so desperate for money lately. I never thought things would go this far..."

She lowered her head, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt as though she were the reluctant younger sister forced to expose her older sibling's shameful secrets.

The man behind the desk was Professor Elias, head of the Disciplinary Committee.

"Miss Serena," he said, his tone formal and measured, "do you acknowledge that last night, in a private booth at the charity auction, you provided personal services—or rather, sold your body—in exchange for one hundred thousand dollars in compensation? This behavior, if proven, seriously damages the reputation of this institution."

When I didn't immediately respond, Professor Elias added.

"However, given that this matter involves student privacy, it would be inappropriate for other parties to remain present during the official questioning."

Chloe blinked, her performance of concern faltering slightly. "Professor, I'm only here because I care about Serena—"

"Miss Chloe," Elias interrupted gently but firmly, "the school will handle the rest from here. Please wait outside."

Chloe bit her lip, casting one last lingering, reluctant look in my direction before finally leaving the office, the door clicking shut behind her with an air of finality.

Once she was gone, Professor Elias slid a manila folder across the desk toward me. I opened it to find a series of photographs, each one more damning than the last.

The first showed me emerging from the VIP booth, my dress askew and my hair disheveled.

The second captured Tristan unbuckling his belt as he pressed me down onto the sofa.

The third was taken from an angle I hadn't even noticed—it showed the exact moment he stuffed cash into the waistband of my skirt, the bills clearly visible against my exposed skin.

Professor Elias lifted his eyes to meet mine, his expression unreadable.

"Miss Serena," he said quietly.

"Do you have anything you'd like to explain?"