She Will Never Know
Victor Reeves was the golden boy. Handsome, rich, arrogant, confident. He had always been on top—top grades, top attention, top spotlight. He thought the world revolved around him. And then, in ninth grade, Cleo Shen appeared.
She wasn’t rich, not a great beauty. But she was brilliant. Smarter than him. Topped every exam, won every teacher’s praise, earned the admiration that used to belong to him. What he hated most that She didn’t even look at him. She didn’t treat him as competition. She only focused on herself, living in her own world. That indifference was unbearable.
Victor became obsessed. His entire high school turned into a silent battle with her. He tried everything—studying harder, showing off, petty tricks to get her attention. But she never faltered, never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging him. In his head, he wasn’t chasing grades anymore. He was chasing her. Watching her. Stalking her, if he was honest with himself. For four years, she consumed him. And when high school ended, she left him with nothing but emptiness.
Years passed. Victor built an empire—an architecture company, wealth, recognition. No one had ever beaten him since her. But even in his success, her shadow lingered. He hated it. He thought he’d outgrow it. He never did.
One day, curiosity broke him. He searched for her. He needed to know.
He found her. But she wasn’t the radiant rival he remembered. She was miserable. Working in her landlord’s café to pay rent, struggling to sell her paintings. It should have satisfied him—her downfall. But it didn’t. Because it wasn’t his doing. Her misery wasn’t born from his victory. That enraged him.
He dug deeper. He learned she had attended a prestigious art college, but her life was destroyed there. A council of professors who exploited and ruined countless artists had done the same to her. She fought back, even filed complaints, but they buried her under false accusations. She was even jailed for months. Buyers were pressured to avoid her work. They tried to make her submit, even assault her. She refused. She survived, but at the cost of everything.
For the first time, Victor felt real rage. Not because she bested him, but because someone else broke her. That was his right, his alone. In his twisted logic, no one else had the right to ruin Cleo Shen.
So he acted. He pulled strings, used his wealth, created a web to expose those professors. Protests followed. Students rose. The crimes were revealed. One professor was even killed in the chaos. Cleo watched the news and cried—not out of fear, but with bittersweet relief. For once, justice was real.
She came to him. Hugged him. Thanked him. And in that moment, as her head rested on his chest, Victor felt his entire world crumble. He wanted to wipe her tears, kiss her lips, devour her. He told himself it was only for her ruin, only to pull her into his world and break her later. But deep down, he knew the truth he couldn’t stop.
She started to visit him. She gave him a portrait of himself, so detailed it left him breathless. He teased, tried to draw out memories of school. She admitted she remembered him well—he was popular, always talked about. He confessed he thought she never noticed. She told him softly, “How could I not?” That admission destroyed him. For years he thought she ignored him. But she had always seen him.
They kissed. First softly, then rough, consuming. He told himself it was part of the plan. To seduce her, make her dependent, make her revolve around him as he once revolved around her. She suggested they try dating—grateful, attracted, though not in love. That was enough for him. He would make her fall.
Victor designed every date to center her attention only on him. He opened her an art gallery, pulled favors, arranged buyers. She refused to accept his gifts for free, insisted on paying. That infuriated him. He wanted her dependent. But she never let herself be. The more she resisted, the deeper his obsession grew.
She trusted him blindly, saw him as harmless, even adorable when he got territorial. But his sulks weren’t harmless. They were real threats in disguise, masked as childish jealousy. He guarded her fiercely. To her, it was endearing. To him, it was war.
Months passed. She moved in with him, half manipulated, half willing. He made her emotionally dependent—her joys, her sorrows, all tied back to him. She clung to him, found comfort in his presence. And he thrived in her touch. He branded her with his kisses, his marks, his control. Yet, for all his obsession, he never crossed the line of cruelty. He couldn’t. Her independence burned him, but it also consumed him with desire.
Years turned into decades. Cleo proposed to him. He accepted, not because he wanted marriage, but because he could never say no to her. She gave him children—three. He cared for them only because they were hers. When doctors nearly lost her during pregnancy, he chose her over the babies without hesitation. By miracle, all survived. He promised himself she would never cry again except in his arms.
Now, thirty years later, she is still by his side. She never once saw the darkness in him. She never knew the truth—that he had wanted her ruin more than her love. That he had stalked her, controlled her, fed off her dependence. She only saw devotion, safety, trust.
And Victor let her believe it. He would take this truth to his grave.
Because the cruelest twist of all was this: in trying to ruin her, he ruined himself.
She would never know.
