The Lecture

Caleb hated early morning lectures.

It wasn’t just the timing. It was the way the light poured in too bright through the old campus windows, the way the seats creaked with restless bodies, the professor's dull monotone scraping against the last fragile remnants of sleep.

But today’s lecture was different. A guest speaker, they’d said. A successful entrepreneur. Head of his own company. Caleb had groaned inwardly. That usually meant some guy in his forties who hadn’t updated his slides since 2006.

Still, he showed up early, as always. He sat third row from the front, middle seat. The best view of the screen, just far enough not to be called on. Hoodie zipped, notebook out, trying to stay awake as students trickled in.

Then the door at the front opened.

Caleb blinked.

He wasn’t expecting that.

Damien Laurent didn’t walk—he strode. Like he owned the place. His suit was deep charcoal, tailored sharp enough to cut glass. Shirt collar open, no tie. Hair dark and swept back, not a strand out of place. He had that air about him—wealth, control, danger—all wrapped in a man who looked more like an actor playing a billionaire than a real one.

The room went still. A few girls whispered. One guy muttered “Jesus” under his breath. Caleb swallowed hard.

Then Damien’s eyes swept the lecture hall. One calm pass over the crowd, and then—

They stopped.

Right on him.

Caleb’s spine stiffened. He looked away too quickly, face burning.

He didn’t imagine it. He felt it—like heat. Like being seen in a way he wasn’t used to. Like being noticed.

And he hadn’t even said a word.

---

“I’m not here to talk about business,” Damien said into the mic, voice smooth and low, with just a bite of command. “You can Google my net worth. You can read articles on how I built my company.”

He stepped away from the podium, hands in his pockets, casual like he wasn’t intimidating every student in the room.

“What I do want to talk about is instinct.”

Caleb watched him, transfixed.

“Instinct makes the difference between survival and success. Between mediocrity and power. Between doing what you’re told…”

Damien’s eyes flicked to him again. Just a glance. Just long enough to make Caleb’s thighs squeeze together in his seat.

“…and doing what you want.”

A few students were actually taking notes now. Others just stared. Caleb barely realized his pen had stopped moving.

“Instinct brought me here. I take what I want. I don’t apologize. And neither should you.”

He paced a little, slow. Controlled. Then stopped again.

“Questions?”

Dead silence.

Then Caleb’s hand rose.

Even he was surprised.

Damien’s brow lifted, intrigued. “Yes?”

Caleb’s voice was softer than he meant it to be. “What’s the cost? Of taking everything you want?”

The air shifted.

Damien smiled—small, crooked. Dangerous.

He walked forward, closing the space slowly. The mic was forgotten. When he spoke, it was just loud enough.

“The cost?” he repeated. “Control. That’s the price. You lose it, or you take it. Simple.”

Caleb swallowed. “And if someone doesn’t want to give it up?”

Now Damien was right in front of him. Close enough that Caleb could smell the cologne—something clean, dark, expensive.

“I make them want to.”

The silence afterward was electric.

Caleb sat frozen, skin hot under his hoodie. Damien held his gaze one second longer than necessary, then finally turned away.

He answered a few more questions. Talked numbers. Strategy. A little about risk and reward.

But for the rest of the lecture, Caleb didn’t hear a word.

---

When the crowd dispersed, Caleb stayed seated. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was stunned. Maybe he wanted to talk. Maybe some part of him hoped—

"You're braver than you look."

The voice made him jolt.

Damien stood next to him now, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly.

Caleb scrambled to stand. “I—I just asked a question.”

“A good one.” Damien’s eyes scanned him lazily, like he was already being sized up. “What’s your name?”

“Caleb.”

“Caleb,” Damien repeated, like he was tasting it. “What are you studying?”

“Business. Third year.”

“Top of your class?”

“I—I guess. Kinda.”

Damien smirked. “No need to lie. You’re sharp. Curious. You like the game, but you're not sure if you can play it yet.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence again. But it wasn’t awkward. It was heavy.

Damien’s gaze dropped—just a second, to Caleb’s mouth. Then back to his eyes.

“You want to learn from someone who doesn’t sugarcoat it?” Damien asked, voice lower now. “Someone who teaches in practice, not theory?”

Caleb licked his lips. “…Yeah.”

Damien reached into his coat and pulled out a small black card.

“This is my assistant’s number. You tell her you’re free for an informal meeting. I’ll have you brought to my office. Let’s say…” he paused, eyes raking him again. “Tuesday. 5 PM.”

Caleb stared at the card.

“I’m not offering this to anyone else,” Damien added. “And I don’t repeat offers.”

Then, just like that, he turned and walked away.

Caleb stood frozen, heart racing, card clenched in his fingers.

---

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He stared at the card on his desk. Sleek, simple. No name, just a number.

He kept replaying Damien’s words in his head.

“I make them want to.”

And the way he’d looked at him. Not like a student. Not like a kid.

Like prey.

---

He texted the number the next morning.

> Hi. This is Caleb. Damien invited me to meet Tuesday at 5 PM. I’m available.

The reply was instant.

> Noted. Car will pick you up at 4:15 from the university entrance. Wear something simple.

Simple?

He reread it three times.

Something about that line made him shiver.

---

Tuesday came fast.

He dressed in a white button-up and black slacks—plain, but nice. No cologne. Clean hair. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The car was waiting when he stepped out of campus. Black, polished, silent. A man in a suit opened the door for him.

He slid in and sank into leather.

It smelled like Damien.

---

The ride was quiet.

Every block closer made his stomach twist tighter. He didn’t know why he was nervous. This was just a meeting. An opportunity. A connection.

Right?

But nothing about Damien Laurent felt normal.

The building came into view. Glass, steel, thirty-eight stories tall. The top lit golden in the dusk.

The elevator ride felt eternal.

And when the doors opened, he stepped into something else.

Damien’s office was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, bookshelves that looked untouched, a sleek bar in the corner. Dim lights. Deep rugs. Silence.

And Damien, standing by the window, watching him.

“Caleb.”

His name in that voice made him shiver.

“You came.”

Caleb nodded. “You said to.”

Damien smiled—slow, indulgent. “Good boy.”

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