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text
Summary
During the worst years of my bipolar disorder, I paid to keep the school’s resident heartthrob-a struggling scholarship student-on my payroll.
One hundred thousand a month. I didn’t want anything else from him; I just wanted to slap that handsome face of his.
I trampled on his dignity and toyed with his body.
I got so used to the routine that when I suddenly found myself seven years in the future and saw him again, I instinctively lashed out with a slap.
“Do you want another slap? Speak up. Where the hell am I?”
The room fell deathly silent.
The man, now dressed in a sharp, expensive suit, stared at me coldly.
A few seconds later, his lips thinned into a hard line as he leaned in, offering his face to me.
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