Sorry, But I Really Love You.

: Whispers at the Gate

“I heard she dumped Nathan for a Maybach.”

“No way. You think she really became some billionaire’s mistress?”

Ella Mendoza’s fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack. The campus gate loomed ahead, but the whispers stung like nettles. Laughter followed her like shadows in sunlight.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t flinch. Just walked. One step, two, three—until the glossy black Maybach came into view, parked beneath the blooming jacarandas like a sleek beast waiting to pounce.

The back door opened silently.

“Miss Mendoza,” Brandon said from the driver’s seat, his tone professional but tight. He adjusted the rearview mirror without turning. “Mr. Hayes is in a mood today. You may want to keep your answers brief.”

“I usually do,” she said, voice quiet.

The car slid forward, cutting through the campus traffic like it didn’t belong here—which, of course, it didn’t. Ella glanced down at her phone vibrating in her lap. Five unread messages. All from Nathan.

**Where are you?**

**We need to talk.**

**Ella, please. If this is about money—**

She powered off the screen with a sharp tap.

The ivy-covered walls of Ferris University disappeared behind them, replaced by steel and glass. Ella leaned her head against the window, catching her faint reflection. She looked calm. Too calm.

“So,” Brandon said after a beat, not unkindly, “you’re really doing this.”

Ella didn’t answer.

Silence stretched, taut as piano wire. Then she whispered, “He paid the hospital directly, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

A slow exhale. “Then I’m really doing this.”

Brandon didn’t nod, but something softened in his eyes.

They turned onto a private road lined with security cameras and looming hedges. At the top of the hill sat Rosewood Manor, all stone and shadow, gates yawning wide to swallow them whole.

Ella’s stomach flipped.

The car eased to a stop beneath the grand entrance. Brandon climbed out and opened her door.

She stepped out, legs stiff, chin high. Just like they’d agreed: dignity first, no matter what.

As she crossed the threshold, the marble foyer opened like a cold, empty stage. The scent of polished wood and something faintly metallic curled in the air.

Lucas Hayes stood waiting.

Black suit. Perfectly tailored. No tie. Eyes sharp enough to cut.

“You’re late,” he said.

“It’s five-oh-one.”

“That’s late.”

Ella clasped her hands together. “Sorry.”

His gaze flicked over her. “So this is the face of desperation. I expected more drama.”

“I left it in my dorm room.”

He laughed once. Cold. Unamused. “Still pretending to be innocent? Spare me.”

She met his eyes, forcing the tremble out of her voice. “You wanted a mistress, not a puppet.”

Lucas stepped closer, voice low. “Don’t mistake this for a relationship. This is a contract. You follow my rules. No school. No phone. No visitors. You're available when I say.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

He leaned in. The air between them snapped with something tense and dangerous.

“You’re here because you sold yourself, Miss Mendoza. Don’t try to wrap it in romance.”

“I’m not.”

He scoffed. “Good.”

Turning, he gestured toward the grand dining room. “Dinner. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Ella followed, heels echoing on the marble like guilt.

The table was absurdly long. A single place was set. She sat. Lucas didn’t.

Instead, he dropped a folded paper onto her plate.

Her eyes darted down.

**NOTICE OF SCHOLARSHIP TERMINATION**

The official seal mocked her. Ella’s lips parted—but she said nothing.

Lucas watched. “Just in case you forgot how this began.”

“I didn’t,” she said softly.

The meal passed in silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery and her shallow breathing.

When the dishes were cleared, Lucas gestured without looking at her. “Upstairs. Second door on the left. You’ll find everything you need.”

She stood.

“Try not to cry too loudly tonight,” he added, not unkind, not anything.

Ella paused. “Would that bother you?”

“No. But it’s tedious.”

She nodded once. Then walked.

Up the grand staircase, past oil paintings of faceless women and locked doors. The bedroom was elegant, impersonal. Silk sheets. No photos. No books.

Ella sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands.

She waited.

Time passed slowly, marked only by the tick of an antique clock.

The door creaked open.

Lucas entered. No jacket. Sleeves rolled.

Ella rose to her feet.

“I’m not here to play games,” he said.

“I’m not playing.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“Then why do you look at me like that? Like you expect something decent.”

“Because I have to believe some part of you still is.”

He laughed again, this time rougher. “Belief won’t protect you here.”

He kissed her, hard and cold. She didn’t resist. Not because she wanted it—but because resistance gave him power.

Afterward, silence.

Lucas lay on the far edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Ella watched the chandelier, crystal by crystal, as if counting might hold her together.

When she finally whispered, “You don’t have to be cruel,” there was no answer.

Only breath. Only space.

Only the realization that tomorrow, everything would begin again.