Chapter 6: Temptations, Whiskey and Ghosts.

Lucien Pov

"What do you want?" I ask.

I'm swirling in frustration—Professor Miranda just had to come in and ruin the moment. I walk around and settle behind the desk, jaw tight.

"What was that about?" she asks. "Don't tell me another one of these female students came to seduce you. I could help you talk to—"

"Professor Miranda, I don't need your help in handling my students."

I just needed a distraction from my straining erection, and her chirping bickering tone wasn’t helping. I hate when those girls throw themselves at me, but I wouldn't mind if Sophia Carson did. That... that’s just a fantasy.

God, if it had been Sophia—just once—I wouldn't have said no.

Her heels click on the tiled floor as she walks further into my office.

She stands in front of me, smiling. I notice her tight shirt—two buttons undone. A whiff of overpowering floral perfume clings to the air, just too much.

"Professor Miranda," I say, voice low, warning, "we’ve talked about this. Dress modestly while entering my office. I don’t want people thinking we’re doing something in here."

If someone walked in right now… Christ. I’d be ruined. A scandal in the making.

And Sophia—would she ever look at me the same again?

Funny. I didn’t think about any scandal when Sophia's cute little fingers were pressed over my boner just a few moments ago.

She smiles again and leans against my desk. I turn my face from her large boobs.

For fuck’s sake—why can’t some married women act like they’re married?

“Don’t pretend you're above this, Lucien. I know you want me. I can see it in your eyes."

My eyes drift to her face. Maybe part of me wants those words to be true.

Her makeup’s too much. She’s not attractive to me. The boobs? Sure, they’re pretty. But I’ve always been drawn to lean women.

"You better leave my office before your husband comes looking for you."

I pick up my laptop, trying to finalize things for tomorrow’s assessment.

But she doesn’t move.

Instead, she turns to my side and shuts my laptop.

A hiss escapes me. Her fingers brushed mine—warm, unwelcome, lingering too long.

"Professor Miranda—"

"Hush," she says, dragging her manicured fingers over my lips. "Call me Miranda. Or Mimi."

I can’t help it—my mind drifts.

Sofia, bent over in my house, in just a mini dress and an apron, feeding me cookies while I work.

Fuck. I shift in my seat. My lower region strains more.

"Look at you fighting it," she coos. "I know you want me. Why fight it?"

I snap out of the unholy fantasy. Her lips are inches from mine.

I blink.

"Fuck off."

I shove her lightly. Her eyes widen at the harshness in my voice.

"Look," I say, eyes dark, "I’m not attracted to you. Get that into your head. Stay away from me."

She gets off my desk, but she’s still smiling like a weirdo.

"You can keep pretending," she whispers. "Let’s see how long you last resisting me."

"Get this into your head," I growl, "I don’t mess around with married women. Next time you try this nonsense in my office, I’ll ask your husband why he can’t put a leash on his wife."

Her face twists.

Amusement turns to horror.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly.

The words sank in this time.

"Fuck you, Lucien."

She turns on her heels and storms to the half-open door.

"If only you could."

I scoff, running a hand through my hair.“I didn’t walk away from a billion-dollar industry to get pawed at by married women.”

I glanced down at the stubborn bulge pressing against my pants, feeling completely done with this mess.

This damn thing wasn’t going down—no matter how much I wanted it to.

Guess I had no choice but to handle it.

I grab my phone—

and Sofia’s phone—off the desk.

I grab my laptop and decide to head home first. No lectures today anyway.

The door slams harder than necessary behind me.

Outside, I tug at my collar as I head to the parking lot.

My body still burns where Sofia touched.

A cold shower. That’s what I need.

Something to remind me I’m still in control.

I start the engine and ease onto the road, trying to stick to the speed limit—one of the few things I’ve learned in the last two years: drive cautiously.

At a red light, I glance up—and freeze.

A new Cacien’s billboard.

The latest collection.

Three models, different races, their necks heavy with sapphire I designed years ago.

One of my weakest sketches. Camilla had said I must’ve drawn it with drunk hands. She’d laughed for five whole minutes.

Now it read: A Lover’s Obsession.

Trashy.

Camilla would've called it soulless—with that dramatic gasp and her signature eye roll.

She always had a flair for truth.

Michael must be running out of ideas. Even our worst sketches are being recycled now.

I pull into my mansion half an hour later.

The lights blink green as the steel gate glides open like muscle memory.

Inside, I kick off my shoes and drop my keys—and Sofia’s phone—on the cabinet.

Italian cabinet.

I run my fingers over the edge. Done this a hundred times.

She’d insisted on it—Italian, Lucien, she said. Said it would bring warmth to my cold world. She'd wanted this exact piece. Solid walnut. Said it would outlive old.

It arrived a week too late.

I draw my hand back, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Then I walk to the whiskey cabinet.

I pour two glasses before I even think.

Old habits die like the rest of us.

I drain one.

The other stays—untouched.

A reminder I lost her.

Sofia's phone screen lit up with a new message. Probably from one of her friends. Bold of her to sneak into my office to steal test answers.

The lock screen glows with a picture of her feeding an old lady chocolate. She has this cheeky smile on, and her clothes—just a lacy nightgown that shows her butt cheeks.

Almost like the first moment she entered my class last year. I just knew—felt it—deep down, I wanted her. The way her eyes had glinted with mischief when her friend whispered something into her ears.

I shouldn’t be obsessing.

God—this isn’t just wrong, it’s pathetic.

But one look at her—

All this pent-up lust and frustration lashes out.

I shouldn't be having sexual fantasies about a girl that young, but that moment when her fingers curled around my length, that flash of hesitation—

I was caught in the look in her eyes.

I would have loved to know what she was thinking.

There was disgust, I’m pretty sure… but a flicker of curiosity too.

I’m horny as hell.

I need that cold shower.

I run a hand through my hair and grab the second glass of whiskey, drowning it in a single go.

Would Camilla hate me if she knew I was lusting after a college girl?

“We’re meant to correct them, not yelled meaninglessly at them.”

That’s what she said once when I scolded my staff too harshly.

She would’ve seen this for what it is—manipulation.

she wouldn’t want me manipulating anyone.

She would definitely give the student she caught in her office trying to steal an answer booklet a second chance.

But Camilla isn’t here.

She never would be here again to reprimand me.

Feeling the liquid burn in my throat.

I hate myself.

I should probably return Sofia's phone. Treat this whole shit like a stupid memory.

I set the glass aside, going upstairs to get that cold shower.

---

I walk out of the bathroom after letting the cold shower wash the frustration off me for over an hour.

The towel hangs low on my hips, the chill clinging to my skin—but I don't feel better.

I exhale, reach for the closet—

“Hello, brother.”

I jolt, almost losing grip on the towel.

Michael’s on my bed, legs crossed, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

“Michael,” I snap, “what the hell are you doing in here?”

"Looks like someone's been avoiding me."