Her Voice In My Head

It was finally Friday.

The week had dragged its bruised knuckles across Callum's nerves, and now, standing in the empty classroom while the sun began to dip low against the windows, he breathed out a slow, tired sigh of relief. The students were gone, the halls were quieter than they'd been in days, and for the first time since Monday, he let himself hope.

He was surviving.

He hadn't looked at her today. Not once. He had made it a point to direct questions elsewhere, avoid eye contact, and keep every bit of his attention chained to the board. It had worked. He was proud. Maybe he could outlast this—ride it out, wait until she got bored, got caught, or simply moved on.

He stayed late to tidy up, pushing chairs in with meticulous care, stacking the week's lesson plans into a folder and locking it in his cabinet. Erase the board. Dust the shelves. Check the class list for next week. All normal. All safe.

A knock on the principal's door earlier had ended in nothing.

"It's out of my hands," Mr. Ramsey had said, voice apologetic but firm. "Certain things are above this office."

Bullshit. That's what it was. Bullshit.

Callum had clenched his fists, tried to argue, tried to demand sense—but nothing came of it.

Unless he resigned, there was nothing to be done.

And he couldn't. Not now. Not with bills, rent, and loans digging teeth into his back.

So he swallowed it. Swallowed her. Swallowed the rage.

Fuck himself for being too poor to have the luxury of walking away.

He sighed again and grabbed his bag.

Then paused.

There was an envelope on his desk.

Cream-colored. Unmarked. Sitting in the exact center like a quiet dare.

His stomach dropped.

He looked around. The hallway was empty. The lights buzzed softly overhead. No footsteps. No voices.

He opened it.

And froze.

Inside was a photo.

High-quality. Crisp. Cold.

It was of him.

And Lara.

In this very classroom.

Kissing.

His hand was at the back of her neck. Her lips against his. Her skirt slightly lifted.

The angle—perfect.

Too perfect.

Professionally taken. As if someone had been watching. As if someone had planned.

Callum's blood ran ice-cold.

If anyone saw this, he was done. Not reprimanded. Not quietly asked to step down. Done. Career over. Life over. No investigation. No trial. No chance to explain. Just the photo—and judgment.

There were no notes in the envelope. No instructions. But he didn't need them. He knew who left it. Who else would?

His heart hammered against his ribs as he shoved the photo back into the envelope and stuffed it deep into his bag. Every sound in the room grew louder. The faint ticking of the clock. The creak of the ceiling fan. The scratch of his own breath as it caught in his throat.

He bolted.

Didn't stop to lock the door. Didn't glance back at the desk. Just ran, walking too fast down the hallway, nearly colliding with a custodian cart in the process.

Outside, the air hit his face like a slap. His car was a blur in the distance, but he found his keys by muscle memory, unlocked the door, and sank into the driver's seat, hands trembling.

He sat there for minutes.

Mind spiraling. Jaw clenched. He stared at nothing. He couldn't even bring himself to cry.

What the hell was happening?

She had him.

He shut his eyes. Tried to breathe. Failed.

The drive home blurred past traffic lights and concrete, his grip tight on the wheel the whole way. When he reached his apartment, he climbed the stairs with lead in his legs.

Once inside, he locked the door. Then locked it again.

And dropped the envelope onto the table like it might bite him.

He was losing his mind. He knew it. And worse—she knew it too.

Blackmail.

It wasn't a guess anymore. It was the only answer that made sense. That photo—so clean, so perfectly timed—was a threat. A promise. A warning. She didn't need to say the words. She didn't need to write them. The image said everything: I can destroy you whenever I want.

He paced the apartment, one hand tangled in his hair, the other curling into a fist at his side. This wasn't seduction anymore. This was control. It was war.

She was playing him. And she was winning.

He had to talk to her.

Not in school. Not with walls listening. Not with eyes everywhere.

His mind raced. Where could he go? Where could he find her without someone watching?

Then it hit him.

The apartment.

Her apartment.

14-B. The luxury high-rise with mirrored glass and a front desk that didn't ask questions. The same place he had dropped her off once. The same place she had whispered her code with that smile: 0314.

She'd given him that code like it was harmless.

He had to go.

He had to end this.

Or at least understand what game he was playing in.

He grabbed his keys again. Jacket. Shoes. He didn't even stop to think.

This time, he wasn't running from her.

He was walking straight into her world.