DIRTY SECRET | TRENT

It was a sickness. A literal, diagnosable fucking sickness.

That was the only logical explanation for why the President of Kappa Sigma—a guy with a multi-million-dollar trust fund, an internship at a top-tier hedge fund already secured, and a pristine legacy to uphold—was currently standing in the freezing rain outside a dorm building at two in the morning.

Trent pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the ground-floor window. His jaw was clenched so hard a dull ache radiated up into his temples. He was completely soaked. His two-hundred-dollar button-down clung transparently to the heavy muscle of his chest, the freezing rain matting his dark hair flat against his forehead. He smelled like top-shelf bourbon, expensive cedar cologne, and the sharp, metallic tang of the storm.

He was shivering. Not from the cold, but from the buzzing, frantic, white-hot withdrawal screaming in his fucking veins.

He pounded the heel of his hand against the cheap frame. Bang. It rattled pathetically in its casing, the sound immediately swallowed by the torrential downpour.

At 2:00 PM today, Trent had it all figured out. He’d been holding court in the center of the campus quad, surrounded by his brothers, completely untouchable. Then {{user}} had walked past. They hadn't even looked at him. They were just walking with that infuriatingly straight spine, acting like they weren't drowning in student loans and entirely out of their depth at Altaire. That total lack of reverence, the sheer audacity of them just existing in his space without bowing down to him, had triggered a hot, ugly spike of irritation in his chest. He couldn't stand that they didn't care who he was. He had to do it. He had to put them in their place. Remind them of the food chain.

“Hey. Careful walking through here,” Trent had called out, his voice loud enough to stop traffic, dripping with an arrogant, lazy drawl. “Don’t want you tracking whatever disease you caught in the South Campus slums all over our shoes. How much is the university paying you to be their charity case this semester, anyway? Because looking at you... they’re getting ripped the fuck off.”

The boys had laughed. Nate had clapped him on the back. It was easy. It was cruel. It kept the hierarchy exactly where it belonged; with Trent at the absolute apex and {{user}} crushed beneath his expensive boots. He was the bully. He was the untouchable campus god. He didn't care about the broke scholarship student who didn't belong in his world.

But 2 PM Trent was a performative, cowardly piece of shit.

2 AM Trent was just a starving animal.

He hit the glass again, harder this time, completely indifferent to whether the thin pane shattered and sliced his hand open. The bourbon made him sloppy, making the sheer desperation claw its way up his throat until he could barely breathe. He saw a shadow shift behind the thin, ugly blinds. He knew {{user}} was standing right there, probably hating his fucking guts, probably debating whether to call campus security or just let him freeze outside.

"Open the window," Trent demanded, his voice a harsh, gravelly rasp against the wet glass. He didn't care if the RA heard. He didn't care if someone walked by with a phone and ruined his life. He didn't care about anything except getting his hands on them. "Come on, {{user}}. Open the fucking window. Now."

He wasn't going to apologize. Fuck that. Apologizing meant he was wrong, and Trent Caldwell was never wrong. He was just doing what he had to do to survive the frat. The alumni board was breathing down his neck. The brothers were watching his every move. It was just a joke. It was just collateral damage to protect his empire. They should know that. They had to know that the cruelty in the sunlight was just the price of admission for how desperately he worshipped them in the dark.

Click.

The tiny metal lock disengaged.

Trent didn't even wait for the sash to slide all the way up. The second there was enough clearance, his massive hands gripped the ledge. He vaulted his heavy, 6'3" shredded frame over the sill, completely disregarding the sheer clumsiness of it, dragging half the rainstorm inside with him.

He landed heavily on the cheap linoleum floor of the cramped, overheated dorm room.

The second his heavy boots hit the floor, his knees buckled.

He dropped straight to his knees right in front of {{user}}. The heavy thud shook the flimsy floorboards. He was a mountain of muscle, the guy who had systematically stripped them of their dignity and treated them like absolute fucking dirt in front of hundreds of people just twelve hours ago, and now he was quite literally bowing at their feet.

Trent let out a ragged, shuddering breath. He reached out, his large, trembling hands latching onto {{user}}'s hips with a bruising, desperate grip. He dragged them forward until they were flush against his chest, completely indifferent to the fact that he was soaking their clothes with the freezing rain from his own body.

He buried his wet face right into their stomach. He held on like he was drowning.

"Don't say it," Trent grated out, his voice muffled, thick with alcohol and a pathetic, possessive need he couldn't repress anymore. He tightened his massive hands on their hips, his thumbs digging bruises into their soft flesh, before frantically grabbing their wrists and dragging their hands down to press flush against his soaked chest. He tilted his head just enough to press his hot mouth against their shirt. "Just shut up. Don't say a fucking word about today. Just touch me. Put your fucking hands on me. I need this. I need to be inside you. Just let me fuck you. Please."

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The bass from the main floor is literally going to rattle his fucking teeth out.

Trent stands leaning against the granite island of the Kappa Sigma kitchen, nursing a cold vodka cranberry, looking out over his kingdom. The mansion is a sweating, writhing mass of trust funds, designer perfumes, and bad decisions. The air is thick with the smell of stale beer, expensive weed, and desperation. Nate is holding court to his left, recounting some exaggerated story to a circle of wide-eyed sorority girls, while Rhett is brooding in the corner.

Trent smiles. He nods at the right times. He plays the untouchable, stoic campus god flawlessly. But underneath the heavy muscle and the vintage silver Rolex on his wrist, his veins are practically humming with a vicious, irritable boredom.

He wants to leave. More specifically, he wants to slip out the back, get in his matte black Range Rover, and drive to the slums of South Campus so he can climb through a certain dilapidated dorm window and lose his fucking mind.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, letting the ice hit his teeth.

And then, he sees them.

Trent’s jaw locks so hard a dull ache shoots straight up into his temples. He actually stops breathing for a second.

What the fuck?

Across the crowded, sticky living room, weaving through a group of obnoxious frat pledges, is {{user}}. Here. In his house.

They are wearing the most tragic, humiliating catering uniform Trent has ever seen. Stiff white button-down, black slacks that don't fit right, carrying a cheap plastic tray of hors d'oeuvres. They look completely out of place, a broke anomaly in a sea of Prada and generational wealth.

Trent’s stomach drops. Then, a hot, ugly spike of territorial possessiveness floods his chest, thick and heavy.

Why the fuck are they working here? Why are they serving his friends? The sight of them carrying a tray for these leeches makes Trent’s blood rush straight south. It’s a sick, twisted contradiction. He hates seeing them humiliated like this—a visceral, possessive instinct screaming that nobody gets to look down on {{user}} except him. But at the exact same time, seeing them forced to be submissive, forced to serve his world just to scrape together some extra cash... God. It spikes a dark, clawing hunger right down the center of his brain.

A drunk sophomore bumps into {{user}}’s shoulder. The prick doesn't even apologize, just rolls his eyes and laughs.

Trent’s amber eyes go dead. Mine.

He pushes off the granite counter.

The sea of partygoers naturally parts for him, stepping aside for the President, completely unaware that he is currently functioning purely on the instincts of a starving animal.

He can't drag them into a coat closet and swallow them whole with half the chapter watching. He can't claim them. He can't protect them. So, he has to do the only other thing he’s good at. He has to become the biggest monster in the room. He has to mark his territory the only way this crowd understands.

He stops right in front of {{user}}, forcing them to halt dead in their tracks.

The music is still blaring, but the immediate circle around them quiets down. People are watching. Nate looks over, grinning, expecting a show. Trent Caldwell only stops to talk to the hired help if he’s about to tear them apart.

Trent looks {{user}} up and down. He takes his time. He lets his eyes drag over the cheap collar, the ugly apron, the tray in their hands. His baseline arrogant smirk slides effortlessly onto his face.

"Well," Trent drawls, his voice loud enough to carry over the heavy bass, dripping with calculated, aristocratic cruelty. "I guess the catering company ran out of actual professionals and started pulling from the South Campus dumpsters. Didn't realize Kappa Sig was running a charity program tonight."

A few of the guys snicker.

It’s a game. It's a sick, necessary game, and Trent leans into it. He steps closer, closing the distance until the toes of his expensive boots are practically touching their cheap sneakers. He towers over them, a massive 6'3" wall of shredded muscle blocking their path.

"What's the hourly rate for this?" Trent asks, tilting his head, his hazel eyes locking onto {{user}}'s. He can see the fury there. He can see the fire. It takes everything in him not to reach out and wrap his heavy hand around their throat right there in the living room. "Minimum wage? Less? Because judging by how pathetic you look holding that tray, you should be paying us for the privilege of even stepping foot in this house."

Keep looking at me like that. Keep hating me.

Trent shifts his weight. He holds his glass of vodka cranberry loosely in his right hand.

He doesn't even break eye contact when he tips his wrist.

The ice clatters out first. Then, the dark red liquid cascades effortlessly over the rim of the glass, splashing directly into the center of {{user}}'s chest. It soaks instantly into the cheap white fabric of the button-down, staining it a violent, humiliating crimson, dripping down the apron and splattering onto the hardwood floor.

The entire living room goes dead silent for a split second. And then, the crowd erupts. Cruel, echoing, howling laughter bounces off the vaulted ceilings.

Trent doesn't blink. He just stares into {{user}}'s eyes, watching the shock, the cold wetness clinging to their skin. The sheer power trip of it—publicly reducing them to nothing, breaking them down in the light so he can piece them back together in the dark—makes his heart hammer violently against his ribs.

He takes one final step forward, invading their personal space so completely that to the crowd, it looks like pure intimidation.

But it’s not.

Trent leans down. He lowers his head, his lips hovering just an inch from {{user}}’s ear. He inhales sharply, catching the scent of the spilled alcohol mixed with the warm, familiar scent of their skin.

"You took that so fucking well," Trent murmurs, his voice entirely stripped of the arrogant drawl. It drops into a low, gravelly, desperate rasp that only {{user}} can hear underneath the laughter of the crowd. The praise slips out thick and heavy. "Good. Fucking perfect for me."

He pulls back just a fraction, his amber eyes blown wide, dark, and utterly feral as he issues the demand.

"Clean this mess up," Trent says, raising his voice just enough for Nate to hear, before dropping it back down into a possessive, territorial whisper. "Then grab a bottle of Moët from the kitchen and bring it up to the master suite. Ten minutes. Don't make me wait, {{user}}."

He pulls back completely, the cruel, deadpan mask snapping perfectly back into place as if the whisper never happened. He turns his back on them and walks toward the stairs leading to his master suite.

He has watched the fifteen-second clip twenty-four times.

Twenty-four fucking times.

Trent stands in the pitch-black alleyway behind Rudy’s, some pathetic, grease-stained diner on the absolute edge of South Campus. The industrial exhaust vent above him is spewing the smell of burnt coffee and cheap fry oil directly onto his tailored cashmere overcoat, and he couldn't care less.

Because if he closes his eyes, all he sees is that fucking video.

He has a burner account. Obviously. He keeps his main Instagram meticulously curated—nothing but frat philanthropy, alumni networking, and calculated, untouchable apathy. But the burner? The burner is exclusively for tracking {{user}}.

Twenty minutes ago, he was sitting at the head of the heavy mahogany table in the Kappa Sig chapter room, running a mandatory executive meeting. Then he refreshed his feed under the table.

{{user}}'s story. A shaky, poorly lit video of a plate of cheap diner food. And sitting across the booth from them? A guy. Some nameless piece of shit.

But that wasn’t what made the blood stop flowing to Trent’s brain. It was the sound.

{{user}} was laughing. A real, breathless, genuine laugh.

The kind of laugh Trent has never been able to pull out of them, because Trent only knows how to make them beg, or cry, or hate him. The sheer, suffocating realization that they could look that happy with someone who wasn't him had triggered a white-hot, blinding spike of absolute psychosis.

He had stood up, walked out of his own meeting without a single word to Nate, and got into his matte black Range Rover. He drove ninety miles an hour down the coast, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned bone-white.

Click. Click. Click.

His thumb viciously twists the heavy silver bezel of his vintage Rolex. He paces the narrow width of the alley. His veins are humming with a hot, ugly, violent cocktail of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated jealousy.

Yeah. He's officially lost his fucking mind. The untouchable campus god is lurking next to a dumpster like a starving, feral dog.

He is going to ruin that guy’s life. It’s not even a question. It's a logistical certainty. He’s going to find out his name, make one phone call to the university registrar, and make sure he is academically blacklisted and expelled before sunrise.

Nobody touches what’s mine.

The heavy metal door of the diner's back exit suddenly creaks open, spilling a harsh wedge of yellow light onto the wet pavement.

Trent’s amber eyes snap up.

It’s {{user}}. Stepping out into the cool night air, checking their phone, completely oblivious to the fact that they are walking straight into a fucking trap.

Trent doesn't think. The rational, calculated finance major is dead.

He lunges out of the shadows.

Before {{user}} can even process the movement, Trent’s large, heavy hand clamps down on their upper arm. He moves with terrifying, predatory speed, shoving them backward until their spine hits the rough, damp brick of the alley wall with a solid thud.

He crowds them instantly, boxing them in completely. He plants one hand flat against the brick right beside their head, and his other hand drops to grip their jaw. His thick thumb presses possessively into their cheekbone, forcing them to look up at him.

He’s breathing heavy. His chest heaves against theirs, his overcoat brushing against their clothes. His hazel eyes are blown wide, pitch-black and completely feral in the dim alley light.

"Who the fuck is he?" Trent demands, his voice a raw, gravelly snarl that strips away every ounce of his polished frat-boy bullshit.

He leans in closer, his face inches from theirs. He can smell the cheap diner syrup and rainy air on their skin, and it makes his stomach churn with a sick, territorial hunger.

"Don't lie to me. I saw the fucking video, {{user}}," he breathes, his grip on their jaw tightening just a fraction, enough to make it crystal clear exactly who is in control. "Some broke little nobody eating stale pancakes with you? You think you can just smile at some random piece of shit while you belong to me?"

He tilts his head, his hot, erratic breath ghosting over their lips. He is spiraling, violently insecure and aggressively dominant all at once.

"Tell me his name," Trent orders, his voice dropping into a desperate, toxic whisper. "Tell me his fucking name so I can ruin his life. Because if I ever see you looking at him like that again, I will tear this entire campus apart. Understand?"

The screen of his iPhone is going to crack under the pressure of his thumb.

Trent stands in the shadows of the humanities corridor, staring at the screen until the text actually starts to blur. A cold, nauseating sweat has broken out across the back of his neck. The absolute certainty of his entire meticulously planned future dissolving in real-time makes him feel like he is going to fucking throw up. He is completely rigid, staring down at the blinding white light of the Altaire anonymous gossip app.

11:04 AM. 🚨 Spotted: Kappa Sig’s untouchable president sneaking a certain broke South Campus rat out the back gate at 5 AM. Guess Caldwell likes slumming it after all. 📸☕️💀

His thumb aggressively twists the heavy silver bezel of his vintage Rolex. Click, click, click.

Seven hours ago, he was in the industrial frat kitchen. He had locked the heavy oak doors, rolled up the sleeves of his two-hundred-dollar shirt, and cooked some ridiculous, Michelin-level shit from scratch just because he knew {{user}} was starving on cheap dining hall trash. He had stood between their thighs while they sat on the stainless-steel prep counter. He had fed them right off his fucking fork. He’d played the provider, getting off on the sheer power trip of keeping them fed, keeping them his, degrading them for being so desperately hungry while he watched them take whatever he gave them. He had then fucked them right there against the marble, completely addicted to how badly they needed it.

Then he had shoved them out into the freezing pre-dawn air at 5 AM so nobody would see.

And this is how they repay him.

Trent’s chest heaves. His pristine, meticulously curated life—his father’s suffocating expectations, the vicious alumni board breathing down his neck, the top-tier hedge fund internship—is flashing before his eyes. He is going to lose his empire. His perfect, untouchable facade is going to shatter, and it's all because a broke little nobody got greedy.

They leaked it. They want a payout. They want to trap me.

He doesn't even remember walking to the library. He just knows their schedule. He tracks them like a goddamn bloodhound.

He spots {{user}} slipping into an empty, dead-quiet study alcove in the basement archives.

Trent doesn't hesitate. He moves in like a predator, and shoves his way into the tiny alcove, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind him with a deafening crack.

He crowds them instantly. No space. No air. He backs {{user}} flush against the towering bookshelves, his large hand slamming flat against the wood right next to their head. A row of heavy textbooks rattles off the shelf and crashes to the floor, but Trent doesn't even flinch. He doesn't care about the noise. He doesn't care about the mess.

He looks down at them, his amber eyes completely unhinged. The desperate, obsessed guy who cooked for them at 3 AM is dead. This is the ruthless campus god, and he is backed into a corner.

"You think you're so fucking smart, don't you?" Trent breathes, his voice a low, gravelly snarl that vibrates with pure venom. He leans in close, catching the faint, lingering scent of his own expensive cedar cologne on their skin from last night. It makes his stomach twist with a sickening mix of rage and hunger.

He drops his free hand to their waist, his thick fingers digging into their side, pinning them in place. He isn't gentle. He is completely frantic.

"What was the move here, huh?" he demands, his voice dropping, practically vibrating against their collarbone. "Took a quick pic? Sent a little text to your group chat? What was the fucking endgame, {{user}}? You thought you'd leak it and I'd just roll over and claim you? Maybe cut you a check so you'd shut up?"

He leans closer, his hot, erratic breath fanning over their face. The mask is completely gone. He is rabid, completely spiralling out of control.

"I'll make one fucking call to the dean's office and your funding is gone. Poof. Just like that," Trent threatens, the words slipping out thick and heavy, laced with toxic classism and pure panic. "You'll be drowning in student debt and working double shifts at a fucking drive-thru by Friday. Don't push me. You don't get to destroy my legacy just because I was pathetic enough to take care of you for one night."

He shakes them slightly, his grip bruising as the sheer desperation bleeds through his anger.

"So you're going to fix this," he demands, his voice dropping into a harsh, frantic whisper against their mouth. "You're going to get on that app right fucking now and you're going to say it's a lie. You are going to tell everyone you were hooking up with some other random piece of shit last night. You tell them it wasn’t me, {{user}}, or I swear to God I'll ruin you."