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Honestly, I don’t think this was love.

Love surely can’t be this just…just plain fucking dirty, right?

Rather, this crazy sexual chemistry between us was just that, two people wanting to fuck each other’s brains out, and maybe…maybe I should just forget about that three-day reprieve and just have his cock start plowing my pussy?

It’s not like I had any romantic dreams about true love, anyway. Even though I had liked Johnny…



I started twirling my pen in a bid to quell my anxiety. I had never fancied myself in love with Johnny, but I had found him cute from the very beginning. I had also fancied myself attracted to him for years, and there had been more than a few times I had masturbated to the thought of him.

He had been the only guy I had allowed myself to become close to, and yet the moment the sheikh had entered the picture…

I couldn’t even remember the last time I had thought of Johnny.

I guess, it was back when I had that phone call, and I had learned about him and Dahlia hooking up? While the speed in which he had thrown me over for my twin still hurt my pride, I realized uneasily that my heart was no longer aching at the thought of those two together.

And the reason for that was…

I must be a gold-digger at heart?

Land, seated on my right, shot me an odd look. “What did you say?”



Had I said that out loud?

I quickly shook my head. “Nothing.”

“I heard it, too,” T.G. piped in from my left. “Is this about the sheikh?”

Seven, who was seated in front of me, turned around at hearing the other girl’s words. “What’s this about a sheikh?”

I glared at all three of them. “There is no fucking sheikh—-”


The four of us quickly and rather guiltily turned our gazes back to the board, and Professor L shook her head in visible amusement. “Just give me ten more minutes of your time, and as soon as we’re done with the lecture, we can talk about Story’s sheikh.”

“Professor L!” I groaned out loud, but the sound was easily drowned out by the other girls’ cheers.

Teachers weren’t supposed to encourage classroom gossip, dammit, but then again, when did Professor L ever do what was expected?

Despite her unquenchable air of innocence and rather adorably dorky way of tripping over anything and everything, it was no secret that the sweet-looking professor still held the title of the world’s most notorious gold-digger.

It was all a huge misunderstanding, really, and IMHO? The only ones who persisted in thinking of the professor that way were just secretly jealous of her fairytale-like life. Her Greek billionaire husband wasn’t just hot, he actually penned an entire fucking book just to declare his love for her. Also, she had the cutest little girl as a daughter, and one so smart I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d one day become the President of the United States of America.

But anyway, my point was, someone who had gone through as much shit as Professor L did should’ve come out of it a lot tougher and more cynical, but nope. She was, like, the sweetest thing ever, and that was probably why the other girls and I had found ourselves trusting her with our secrets.

People in school thought that the B.G. Club stood for Book Girls (and, technically, that was the name we had officially registered as well), but actually what it really meant was Bullied Girls. All four of us, and the professor, too, had been victims of bullying for all sorts of reasons, and it was what bonded us together. It was what made us trust each other without question, and so when – ten minutes later – Professor L cleared her throat, beamed, and then said in dramatic fashion, “Once upon a time…”

The other girls started snickering while I slowly bent down to knock my head against my desk.

It was the only thing I could do, since it wasn’t like I could be a bitch to the woman solely responsible for making university life safe and fun for me and the other girls.

“There was a mysterious sheikh who did business with my husband.”

“So he’s filthy rich, too?” T.G. wanted to know.

“This sheikh, my husband tells me, has valid reasons for keeping his identity a secret, and that’s why I was never told his name.”

The other girls’ gazes quickly swung in my direction, and all three of them gasped when they saw me grimace.

“So…you don’t know his name either?” Seven asked incredulously.

“It doesn’t matter if I don’t,” I muttered. “Asshole works just as fine, anyway.”

The professor winced. “Story!”

I grudgingly apologized, having forgotten the professor’s insistence on keeping the language PG-13 while in class.

The questions came in at rapid-fire fashion after that, and I found myself struggling to keep the lies to a minimum. I told them about a mutual “friend” (a.k.a. the law firm) setting the two of us up in a blind date, and how it was this whirlwind romance since I was now living in an apartment the sheikh owned.

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