004

Killian Davenport

Of all the women in New York, why did it have to be Elena Carson who walked into my classroom?

I lean against my desk, arms crossed, watching her stand awkwardly in the middle of the empty lecture hall. Messy bun, slightly wrinkled blouse, flushed cheeks. She looks like she barely survived last night.

The messy bun shouldn’t work, but it does.

Last night at the bar, I noticed her before I knew who she was. A beautiful stranger in a tight black dress. I looked twice. I don’t usually look twice.

Then she turned her head, and reality crashed into me. Elena Carson. Nora’s best friend. The quiet girl who used to trail behind my sister like a shadow. Always reading, always watching, never taking up space. I remembered her.

This version doesn’t fade into the background anymore.

Somewhere between thirteen and twenty, she learned how to command attention without trying. And that’s exactly why I pretended not to recognize her last night. Distance is safer.

I let the silence stretch between us. I know she’s nervous from the way she shifts her weight, the way her fingers tighten on her bag strap. She’s waiting for me to speak.

I don’t. I study her instead but she avoids my eyes. Smart girl.

For half a second, something almost softens in my chest. I kill it instantly.

“Sit down, Ms. Carson.”

She hesitates, then lowers herself into the front row. Her back stays straight, but her fingers tremble slightly against her thigh.

I remain standing. “Do you usually walk into rooms like you own them?”

Her eyes snap up to mine. “I… didn’t mean to be late. It won’t happen again.”

I don’t reply right away. I let the silence press down on her. She shifts again.

“It’s not just about being late,” I say eventually.

“Then what is it?” There’s a spark of boldness in her voice, but it cracks at the end.

I raise an eyebrow. Interesting.

“This course may not be the right fit for you.”

Her lips part. “Why, Professor Davenport?”

The way she says my title sends a low current through me. I don’t like it.

I look at her fully now. “Because I don’t need complications in my class.”

Her cheeks flush deeper. She holds my gaze longer than she should. I don’t break it first. That’s a problem.

My phone vibrates on the desk. Ronald. Perfect timing.

I glance at the screen, then back at her. “Don’t move. Ten minutes. My office.”

I don’t wait for a response. I grab my things and walk out, answering the call as I head down the corridor.

“Ronald.”

“Killian.” His voice is calm, but I know that tone. “Your father wants you at the house.”

I keep walking. “Not the penthouse. The mansion, I assume.”

A short pause. “Yes. He’s not doing well. You know that.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then stop acting like this is optional.”

I push open the door to my temporary office and step inside. “Everything I do is optional, Ronald.”

He exhales. I can almost see him rubbing his temples the way he’s done since we were kids.

“And what about the university?” he asks. “Your father doesn’t know you’re teaching.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

A firmer tone now. “You’re not untouchable, Killian.”

“Neither is he.”

Silence stretches. Ronald finally sighs. “Just… be careful. And one more thing, don’t let distractions become problems.”

I pause as my grip tightens around the phone. An image surfaces uninvited. Dark eyes. A black dress. A classroom door opening.

I shove it aside.

“They won’t,” I say flatly.

I end the call and drop into my chair. For a moment, I let myself breathe.

I’m back in New York for one reason: my father is dying. A few months left, supposedly. His last wish is to spend them with his children. One year. That’s what I promised. One year before I return to the life I built far away from all of this.

Temporary. Everything here is temporary.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

“Come in.”

Elena steps inside and closes the door behind her. She looks smaller in this space, but she still lifts her chin. I switch fully into professor mode.

No hesitation.

“I want you to drop my class, Miss Carson.”

Her brows pull together. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t repeat myself.”

A beat. Her grip tightens on her bag. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

I study her. She’s steadier now than she was in class. Less shaken.

“This isn’t a discussion,” I say. “You will drop the class.”

Her breath catches. “No.”

I lean back slightly, keeping my expression neutral. “Then you’re making a mistake.”

She doesn’t flinch. “That’s my mistake to make.”

I hold her gaze for a long second. “We’re done here.”

She gives me one last hard look, then turns and walks out, shutting the door firmly behind her.

I stare at the closed door for a long time.

She should have listened. She should have walked away immediately. Instead, she looked me in the eye and said no.

This was a mistake.

Not her presence in my class.

My reaction to it.