Kneel For Me, Playboy

"Got her in two days." That was the caption. Day two of us dating, my boyfriend posted a photo of me. He was careful to block my main account before he posted.

He forgot about my finsta. Three months later, photos of him on his knees, begging me to take him back, were all over social media.

I swiped past and left exactly one comment: "Nothing special." Chapter 1 Sebastian Thorne had the kind of face that promised heartbreak and felt nothing. I liked that about it.

A lot. So when he singled me out, treated me like I was different, asked me out, I said yes on the spot.

I called him a campus heartthrob because I am a sucker for a pretty face, and his happened to be flawless. I figured we might actually have one of those sweet college romances.

He had other plans. The very next morning, he posted a photo of me on Instagram. Caption: "Got her in two days." Some hard launch. I couldn't tell if it was more brag or more gloat.

I pulled out my other phone and checked. Yep. Blocked. A scoff slipped out of me.

The finsta I'd made back when I was stalking that pretty face of his had officially earned its keep. I wasn't planning to make a scene.

Screenshot it, shove it in his face, get my apology, break up like two adults. Over and done. Who doesn't run into a piece of trash or two when they're young?

But some people are born to live in the dumpster. My thumb refreshed the feed on autopilot. I was lining up the screenshot when two new comments slid onto the screen.

One: "She was so easy." The other: "She's been into me forever. Just dreading the breakup—crying, begging, the whole mess, like all the others.

Exhausting." Both were replies to himself. No question from anyone in sight. He wanted every follower he had to read those lines. I laughed out loud. It came out with an edge.

Forget me for a second. A man who trashes his exes to prove he's got game has none. My other phone buzzed twice. Him: [Cass, you up? I'm waiting downstairs.] Boyfriend of the year.

Nothing like the man strutting across Instagram. I looked from one phone to the other, at both of his faces, and let my lips curl. Slowly. Fine, Sebastian.

If this is how you want to play, I'll play. Consider today your first lesson. Know thy enemy, like Sun Tzu said. That's how you win every battle.

The girl you were too cocky to bother learning? She was never the sweet, helpless good girl you think you caught. Half an hour past his text, I finally strolled downstairs.

He stood by the flower bed outside the girls' dorm. Clean profile. Sharp, sculpted lines.

Something fierce around the eyes, a little predatory, folded into all that lazy, careless charm. No question about it. Sebastian had earned the right to be arrogant.

The face and the money kept a steady line of girls throwing themselves at him, one after another. For him, swapping girlfriends was a formality.

A new name, then a new story to laugh about with his friends over drinks. He had never once hit a wall on that road. He spent big, and he always ended things cleanly.

Politely, even. Why me? From a reliable source: someone told him "that physics girl, Cassandra Whitney, is impossible to get," and that was the whole spark. Too bad.

This time, he picked wrong. Like a bird chasing crumbs right into the net.

Chapter 2 He spotted me coming down and barely swallowed his irritation. "What took you so long?" Impatient, are we. I know you're in a hurry, buddy. Sit tight.

From the corner of my eye I checked the people pretending not to watch us.

Then I lit up, hooked my arm through his, and let it spill out like I couldn't stop myself: "Because it's you I'm meeting. I wanted to look my absolute best." A simple line.

But it was soft and sweet, pitched low on purpose, and it fed his ego exactly what it ordered. He cleared his throat, and his face finally eased.

The sweet talk rolled right off his tongue: "Don't bother next time.

You look good to me no matter what." I lowered my eyes to hide the urge to gag, then clung to his arm like the compliment had made me shy, and let him walk me off campus.

He strolled like he owned the sidewalk, ignoring every smirk from the people in the know. Me, I kept the act running. Sweet. Fragile. Trembling half a step behind him.

A clinging vine with nothing to hold her up but him. He loved it. The smugness settled right in.

He laughed under his breath, loose and easy, then took my hand like an act of mercy and soothed me under all the whispering. "Don't be scared, Cassandra.

You're Sebastian Thorne's girlfriend now." He looked down at me, eyes warm, tenderness included free of charge.

As if, in a whole world of pointing and whispering, he was my one shelter. My salvation. And I thanked my lucky stars, right then, that all I'd ever loved was his face.

That the sweet, helpless good girl he fell for was a costume I'd stitched just to get close to it. Otherwise, give it a month.

I'd be one more name on his list of exes who cried through their breakups while his friends laughed.

Because when a face you like that much is right in front of you, even an actress can lose the plot for a second. I gave my head a little imaginary knock.

It was aching, trying to grow feelings. Two more bags of cement over my heart tonight. Seal it shut. Only sane way to live.

Dating Sebastian looked, from the outside, like dating anyone else. The one difference: the man spent money like it bored him. Maybe that was the family fortune talking.

Maybe he just understood you can't catch fish without bait. Gifts, dinners, whatever came up. He never blinked.

It reminded me of a take I'd read online once: A man who spends on you doesn't necessarily love you. But a man who won't spend on you? He definitely doesn't.

That's one difference between men and women. Men are realists. If he wants a girl, the wallet opens.

So when a man won't spend a dime and hides behind "I'm just a guy, I don't know how to do romance," he's told you everything. He doesn't like you.

He just wants your affection for free. Sebastian was no saint, but he clearly knew the rule. And credit where it's due, he minded his manners. No rushing me toward a hotel room.

No showing off just to show off. So for a while there, we really did look like a couple in love. Sweet. Inseparable. Every single day. All of it sweet. None of it real.

Chapter 3 Two weeks in, with everything running smooth, I broke the peace myself. New strategy. Little fights, little disagreements, sprinkled in here and there.

Because I could see it. He was starting to get bored. Couldn't have that. The show I'd built just for him hadn't even opened yet.

All that early sweetness had one job: to define me in his head. A girl with no spine of her own, so far gone for him she'd lost herself. Manufacturing friction was step two.

Let him taste my two sides. Sweet and docile on one. Sharp and headstrong on the other. Because only in the early days will a man tolerate your little tantrums.

He'll even find them cute. Fresh. So, to sell it, I dragged myself out of bed early three days straight and waited outside the lecture hall where he took his major classes.

Day three, I got my opening. From the second class let out, I trailed behind him, sulking, wearing every ounce of "something's wrong" I could put on. He held out most of the day.

Asking about my feelings would mean I ranked. I didn't. Not yet.

But I drooped like weekold lettuce all day long, and the car went so quiet the only sound was his fingers drumming the wheel.

The itch finally won. "What's wrong with you?" He probably filed that under being sweet to the new girlfriend. Rare, generous treatment.

What he didn't know: the second that question left his mouth, the bill for all his arrogance started running. With that one line, the show I'd tailormade for him opened.

I had the question I wanted. I narrowed my eyes at the window and let the feelings brew.

A long moment later, at a red light, with the car sitting still, I turned my head, gave him wounded eyes, and dropped the hit he never saw coming, barely above a whisper: "Sebastian, let's break up." The drumming stopped.

Two seconds. Then his head came around and he stared at me like I'd spoken another language. "What did you say?" Tsk. Deaf, are we.

I cleared my throat and raised my voice a notch, working in a tremble, the kind you get from swallowing tears: "I said, let's break up!" That, he heard. His face went blank.

He hit the gas, hunting for a spot to pull over, knuckles pale on the wheel as he spun it. Park. Shift. Engine off.

Face like a storm front: "Why?" The whole scene was honestly a little funny, but I stayed professional and delivered my prepared line. "I saw you today.

Chatting with someone…" I kept it vague. He'd fill in the rest himself.

He listened, one eyebrow climbing, then something clicked into place. "What is going on in that head of yours? She's a classmate. We were talking, that's it.

If it bothers you, I'll keep my distance from now on." He gave a small, indulgent laugh and patted my head. His idea of doting. Topic closed.

Except the girl who was supposed to drop it didn't give him that. I acted like his explanation had never reached my ears and reached for every drop of theater training I owned.

Bit my lower lip. Lifted my eyes to his. Mumbled it out, all injured innocence: "But…" "But what?" Chapter 4 His patience was going.

The look on his face said it plain: push one more inch, and we could just break up for real. His Highness didn't keep that kind of patience in stock for an unreasonable woman.

Going by that Instagram post, he'd been planning to find an excuse and dump me soon anyway. These months of playing boyfriend were a performance with one purpose.

Proof, for everyone watching: See? You all said Cassandra Whitney was impossible to get. Sebastian Thorne got her without breaking a sweat. But the breakup could not come from me.

That was a matter of a playboy's dignity. His pride. And if I made too much of a mess, he'd cut fast and clean, and dispose of the "problem." Too bad.

The problem he'd picked up was me. And I always pay my debts back. With interest. Today, he could want out all he liked. There was no getting out.

Because what came out of my mouth next was going to teach this spoiled trustfund brat what it means to be outclassed!

And that the deadliest hunters always show up wearing the face of a lovesick fool! The car sat dead silent.

I looked at Sebastian through eyes cried pink at the rims, acting like his irritation wasn't even in the room, and went right on finishing my thought: "But… I don't want to live scared of losing you anymore." That stopped him cold.

He'd been sitting there waiting to catch the breakup and run with it. I watched the plan stall out on his face. "You… scared of losing me how?" Hook, line.

I choked back a sob and turned my face away, leaving him a back he could overread all he wanted. My mouth curled where he couldn't see it. Showtime. "Seb, you don't know.

The day you asked me out, that was a scene I never dared put in my dreams. "You're so good, and so many girls want you, and I've never been the special one. Not once, my whole life.

Being with you already made me feel lucky. Full. But people are greedy animals, you know? At first I thought, if I can just see you from far away, that's enough.

Then I thought, if I could have you, that would be enough. And then I had you, and I started thinking, if only you were mine and nobody else's.

I know you have your world, your circle, and I shouldn't try to squeeze into all of it.

But every time one of those girls shows up next to you, every one of them better than me, my heart drops. I can't control it.

I start thinking someone as worthless as me was never good enough for you in the first place, and God, that feeling is so small and so ugly.

So I thought… maybe if I give you up, go back to watching you from far away, maybe that's what's best for me. And for you. Then I wouldn't have to live scared every day.

And I'd stop dragging your mood down, stop making you unhappy." The whole little essay delivered, I let out a lost little sigh.

Then I turned back around and gave him a smile with the hurt folded in.

And Sebastian, who'd pulled over angry, sat there while that retreatasbait speech fried his brain, one process at a time. The impatience on his face melted into something blank.

Lost. Whatever breakup script he'd loaded burned off clean. Nothing left. He stared at me, holloweyed, this girl spilling her whole heart out loud into the space between us.

In all his years running the playboy circuit, it seemed nobody had ever been this honest with him. How could he have guessed?

The insecure little thing in his passenger seat was playing him at his own game.

Chapter 5 Nobody outruns the word "sincere." Especially not when it pours out of a girl who adores you, straight from the bottom of her heart.

So after half a minute of shock, Sebastian let out a long breath, like a man surrendering.

Then he leaned over and pulled me in tight, stroking my hair, soothing my "meltdown." He probably chalked it up to his soft playboy heart taking pity.

He never noticed the curl climbing his own mouth. I did. I stayed burrowed in his arms, voice crying, eyes bone dry and cold. Laughable. Your girl here has the face.

Your girl has the body. I could match you eight times over and take the scenic route doing it. Not good enough for you? I'm too damn good for you. That's the problem.

That cry rattled what little "conscience" Sebastian had. He started carving out more time for me. What he didn't count on: to everyone else on campus, it looked like I'd tamed him.

Like the playboy might actually be settling down. And Sebastian himself? Oh, him.

He was still marinating in the last act I'd staged, the girl who loved him so much she was terrified of losing him.

The second he showed any sign of sobering up, I ran the routine again and ground down what little guilt he had left. But that was only the opening move.

One good cry doesn't put down roots. It doesn't plant the seed of guilt I'd need him carrying for the rest of his life.

So once the breakup idea was dead in his head, I lined up my next gift: the broken windows effect.

The broken windows effect is about how environments whisper permission into people's heads.

Break one window in a building and leave it broken, and sooner or later somebody feels invited to break the rest.

In love, the broken windows effect boils down to one warning: never hand people your pain. They'll use it to hurt you, again and again, right where it's softest.

And I was going to take that rule and run it in reverse. After that hearttoheart in the car, something shifted between us.

Like a layer of dust had been wiped off the glass, and he thought he was finally seeing the pattern under the ice.

He started bringing me to hangouts with his friends, introducing me, open and easy, as his girlfriend. It almost sold the illusion.

I was the last girl, the one who finally made the playboy come home. Too bad every pair of eyes in those rooms was watching a show.

A girl with weaker footing would've sunk right into all that softness. When the timing ripened, I started working my way deeper into his life.

Started "opening up." Started handing him my "pain," one piece at a time. First up: family.

One night, on the ride back after dinner, I turned sideways in my seat and stared at Sebastian without blinking.

He caught it, amusement in his voice. "What are you looking at?" I propped my chin on my hand and kept staring. Casual on the surface.

Loaded underneath. "You." He hadn't expected me that direct. For a second, he just froze. Chapter 6 It took him a long moment to laugh, right into the quiet of the car.

The laugh came out rough, a little husky around the edges. Annoyingly attractive. "Look at you, Cassandra Whitney.

Running game on me now." "Hehe." I beamed at him, happiness stacked on happiness, every inch the girl whose whole world fit inside one boy. Smiling on the outside.

Swearing a blue streak on the inside. But the script had lines due, and lines get delivered. I looked at him and let it out slowly: "Seb.

It's just really good, having you." "I'm good?" "Mm. You're just especially good." The flattery pulled a smirk out of him. "Good how?

Go on, tell me." "Because at dinner tonight, you wiped my silverware and set my place for me." He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "That counts as good?" I nodded, dead serious. "Mm.

That counts.

Because you're just like my mom." "Your… mom?" More confusion now, with a pinch of offense at being filed under "mom." I pretended not to notice and kept selling the dream: "Mm.

My mom. When I was little, she'd do exactly what you did tonight.

Wipe my silverware clean before dinner, lay everything out for me." He didn't know whether to laugh or groan. "That's your bar, Cassandra?

One little reflex of a favor and you're all moved." "Besides, you're my girlfriend.

Taking care of you is just what I'm supposed to do." One sentence, and he'd promoted himself to topten boyfriend material. I didn't take the bait.

The script had built to this exact beat, and I wasn't letting him steer my mood now. When two players face off, the whole match turns on a single second.

I shook my head, folded away the adoring look, and let something wistful climb into its place. Then I told him a story. A story about the mom who used to set my place at dinner.

Authored, of course, by yours truly. On the spot. In the story, I had a miserable childhood. The misery came from my parents' marriage falling apart.

And the mom who wiped my silverware before every meal looked at the daughter who took after her father's face, and her love curdled into disgust, until one day she finally said it out loud: "You're nothing but bad luck.

I should never have had you!" Simple story. The effect I wanted was anything but. Because I told Sebastian this was why I didn't believe in love. Couldn't. But then I met him.

And he made me want to believe in something that flimsy after all. The dream I was selling him got bigger and rounder with every line.

I told him: "Maybe all that suffering was just me saving up luck.

Saving up so I could meet you!" And I painted the future right into his skull: "If I could marry you after graduation, that would be everything.

I don't need a ring or a big wedding. Just you, being good to me!" See? A girl who never believed in love, handing you her whole heart anyway. No hesitation. No net.

Chapter 7 He heard the whole story and never doubted a word. The heartache hit him on the spot, and he pulled me right back into his arms to console me.

His Highness had always done exactly as he pleased in love, and never once done the consoling. Faced with a girl crying herself into hiccups, he had no idea where to put his hands.

So he reached for what he knew. Money. "Don't cry, baby. I'll buy you a car, okay?" "And that couture place you love.

Oh, and my brother brought a jewelry set back from an auction house yesterday. You'll love it. I know you will." "Just stop crying, yeah?

Whatever you want, it's yours." I dried my tears against his chest, practiced and efficient. Didn't say yes. Didn't say no.

Knowing Sebastian, all of it would land in my hands sooner or later anyway. And I'm no saint. Why turn down damages?

That night, after he dropped me back at the dorm, I lay in bed and quietly pulled up the karma app on my phone, tapping my way toward buying back some good karma.

Hopefully my parents, off on their hundredth honeymoon somewhere, wouldn't mind the role I'd written them into. Kids say the wildest things, right? Forget twentyone.

I could turn forty and I'd still be their baby. They'd forgive me. Obviously! Family pain, delivered. Next on the menu: the pain of love. That opening was harder to find.

Mostly because Sebastian wasn't giving me one. The way he'd strutted on Instagram, I figured the man had some game in him.

Turns out, compared to all those exes who couldn't let go, he was shockingly easy prey for my routine.

Double buff active: "loves him past all reason" stacked on "tragic childhood." The man straight up played model boyfriend for two months.

Picked me up outside the dorm every day, on the dot. Sat through every one of my classes whenever he had none of his own. Lined up all my favorite things to do on the free days.

And every so often, out of nowhere, another surprise. I had to admit it. Maybe that line about exes crying and clinging through breakups wasn't pure bragging.

Maybe some of it was just true. Sebastian was trash, but he was honest trash, in his own way.

He knew his heart would never show up, so he worked overtime everywhere else to make it up to those girls. And no, I'm not defending him.

A few days back, my roommate had a birthday. She asked her boyfriend for one lipstick she'd wanted forever.

That boyfriend, so proud of their "great relationship," told her: "When did you get so materialistic? I can give, but you can't ask.

The second you ask, the gift changes flavor, and then I don't want to give it. You understand that, right?" She cried and did not understand.

That same day, I walked in carrying a bouquet made of lipsticks.

Sebastian's reason: "To mark our seventyfifth day together." If Sebastian weren't a playboy, he might have been worth keeping. Too bad.

There is no "weren't." If he weren't trash, he'd never have learned how to please a girl this well in the first place. It's a closed loop. You can't have it both ways.

Loyalty and worldclass romance never live in the same man. Not in the real world.

Chapter 8 To keep from wasting real time on Sebastian, and to make sure I never caught myself believing I was the one who could change him, I moved our dates to crowded places.

On purpose. And when his friends invited him out, I cried and clung and kept him home. His crew was getting anxious.

Genuinely worried their boy might slip for one second and end up wrapped around my little finger. They really didn't need to worry