7

Jasmine

I stood across the street from a renovated warehouse building in Lower Manhattan, staring at the address on my phone for what had to be the tenth time.

This was it.

Professor Jackson’s studio.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag as I looked up at the building again. It was the kind of place that belonged in an architecture magazine—all exposed brick, industrial windows, and black steel framing. Quiet, expensive, and intimidating.

Not at all what I’d imagined.

Every instinct was telling me to turn around and leave before I made an even bigger mess of my life.

For a moment, I seriously considered it.

I could walk away right now. Go back to campus. Pretend this arrangement had never happened and hope Professor Jackson eventually lost interest.

The thought lasted all of three seconds, then a laugh slipped from my lips as reality settled heavily in my chest.

He wasn’t going to lose interest. And I couldn’t afford to take that risk.

One rumor was all it would take—one accusation. The scholarship committee wouldn’t care that I’d been drunk, or that I hadn’t known who he was when I went home with him.

They wouldn’t care about explanations. They would only see a student involved with her professor, and everything I’d spent years working toward could disappear overnight.

My throat tightened as I thought about my mother picking up extra shifts whenever money got tight. About every application I’d filled out, every exam I’d pushed myself through, every sacrifice it had taken to get here.

Then, because apparently my night wasn’t miserable enough already, my mind drifted to Jason.

I saw him exactly as I’d seen him that day—his hand on my best friend’s waist, the guilt flashing across his face when he’d realized I’d caught them.

The memory hit like a bruise.

If he hadn’t cheated, I wouldn’t be here.

If he hadn’t broken my heart, I never would have walked into that bar. And if I hadn’t walked into that bar, none of this would have happened.

I closed my eyes briefly and released a slow breath before looking back at the building.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to turn around and leave, but I kept walking anyway. By the time I reached the entrance of the building, my stomach had twisted into knots.

The front door wasn’t locked. Neither was the elevator.

I wasn’t sure why that bothered me, but it did.

The ride to the fourth floor felt far too quick. When the doors slid open, I found myself staring down a quiet hallway with only one door at the end of it.

My pulse picked up as I approached.

The handle turned the moment I touched it.

Unlocked.

As if he had known I would come. The thought irritated me more than it should have.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, only for every expectation I had to dissolve almost immediately.

The studio wasn’t what I had imagined.

I had expected something dark and uncomfortable. Something that would confirm every terrible thing I’d thought about Professor Jackson since the day he made his offer.

Instead, the space felt strangely lived-in.

The studio stretched across most of the floor, with exposed brick walls, enormous windows overlooking the city, and wooden floors worn smooth with age.

Warm lamps cast pools of golden light throughout the room, softening the industrial edges of the space. Books were stacked on shelves and tables. Covered canvases stood against the walls.

Some sketches lay scattered across work surfaces.

The faint scent of charcoal lingered in the air beneath the smell of fresh coffee. And somehow, that unsettled me far more than if the place had matched my worst expectations.

“You’re late.”

I jumped slightly and turned toward the voice. Professor Jackson stood near one of the windows.

Without the lecture hall and the suit, he looked different. More relaxed. More dangerous.

He wore dark trousers and a black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. The city lights spilled through the windows behind him, outlining his broad frame in shadow.

For a moment, seeing him here instead of in a classroom felt oddly disorienting.

My pulse stumbled.

“By three minutes,” I said, crossing my arms defiantly.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Still late.”

I rolled my eyes, grateful for the familiar irritation. It gave me something to focus on besides the nervous energy twisting inside me.

He crossed the room slowly.

The closer he got, the more aware I became of him. His height. His poise. The steady way he looked at people, as though nothing could rush him.

“You came.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t have much choice.”

A flicker of emotion swept across his face before disappearing.

“Fair enough.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Can we just get this over with?”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment, then he nodded.

“Follow me.”

I trailed after him deeper into the studio.

The farther we walked, the more artwork I noticed. Sketches. Portraits.

Some were finished, while others had been abandoned halfway through.

I frowned. “You still paint.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I do.”

“I thought you quit.”

“So did everyone else.”

That answer only raised more questions, ones I had no business asking—yet somehow, I wanted to.

Which was dangerous.

Curiosity had never been my friend.

We stopped near a large open workspace. A raised platform stood beneath several overhead lights.

The sight of it made my stomach tighten.

Reality was suddenly impossible to ignore.

This wasn’t a conversation anymore or a threat hanging over my head.

This was real.

Professor Jackson folded his arms. “Before we begin, there are rules.”

I swallowed.

“Three months,” he said. “Sessions happen here. Whatever happens in this studio stays in this studio.”

The words settled heavily between us.

“No discussion outside these walls.”

I looked away first. “Fine.”

“And during sessions...” he continued, his voice lowering slightly. “...I need your trust.”

I looked back at him.

Trust.

The word felt almost laughable.

A humorless smile tugged at my mouth. “You blackmailed me into being here, and you need me to trust you?”

His expression remained frustratingly calm. “And yet I still need your trust. Yes.”

I hated how reasonable he sounded.

I hated it even more because he wasn’t behaving the way I’d expected.

No smug threats.

No obvious satisfaction.

Just professionalism.

It should have made me feel better. But instead, it made me more uneasy because I couldn’t figure him out.

My gaze drifted toward him. He was adjusting one of the overhead lights, completely focused on the task. Calm. Unbothered. As if none of this was strange.

Maybe he felt my stare because he looked up suddenly. Our eyes met, and something shifted in his expression.

“You can still leave,” he said, the words catching me off guard. “You can walk out that door.”

A bitter laugh almost escaped me. We both knew that wasn’t true.

Then he turned away and adjusted the light above the platform. The bright beam spilled across the space, sending a nervous shiver through me.

“First sessions are always the hardest,” Professor Jackson said quietly.

His expression was composed, unreadable. For some reason, that made me more nervous.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.

This was really happening.

There would be no more delaying it. No more pretending it wasn’t real.

Professor Jackson held my gaze for a moment before speaking.

“Take off your clothes, Jasmine.”

There was no cruelty in his voice. If anything, it sounded disturbingly close to reverence.

My breath caught.

And everything inside me froze.

Despite the embarrassment threatening to choke me, I slowly reached for the zipper of my dress.