Chapter 9

Emilia Jones

I wiped the last traces of evidence from my fingers, buttoned my shirt with careful precision, and checked my reflection one final time in the bathroom mirror.

My cheeks still held a faint flush. My eyes looked too bright. I forced my expression into something neutral, something bored, something that belonged to a student who had simply felt unwell and nothing more.

Then I walked back.

The corridor felt longer than usual. Every step toward the lecture hall tightened the knot in my stomach.

I could still feel the phantom pulse between my legs, the lingering heat that refused to fade completely.

I kept my shoulders straight and my chin level. No one needed to know what I had just done. No one could know.

When I pushed the door open, the low murmur of the class dipped for half a second. Heads turned.

I kept my gaze fixed on the floor as I moved down the aisle toward my seat.

The air felt heavier under so many eyes. I slid into my chair beside Charlotte without looking at anyone else.

Professor Reed now stood at the front, one hand resting on the edge of the desk, the other holding a marker. He had been speaking. He stopped.

I rose again almost immediately, keeping my voice steady and polite.

“I apologize for leaving so abruptly again, sir. I wasn’t feeling well.”

The lie left my mouth cleanly. No tremor. No hesitation. I even managed a small, respectful nod.

His eyes met mine.

The look lasted only a few seconds, but it felt much longer.

There was no obvious accusation in it, nothing the rest of the class could read, yet something in the quiet intensity of his gaze made my pulse stutter.

It felt as though he could see straight through the careful mask I had put on, past the polite apology, past the claim of illness, all the way to the bathroom stall and the way my fingers had still smelled of myself when I washed them.

I held his stare for as long as I dared, then lowered my eyes.

“Very well, Ms. Jones,” he said at last. His voice remained even, professional. “See me after class.”

A soft ripple moved through the room. Chairs creaked. Someone whispered.

I sat down again, spine rigid, hands folded tightly in my lap so no one would notice the slight tremor in my fingers.

Charlotte’s knee pressed lightly against mine under the desk. A small, steady pressure. She didn’t speak.

She didn’t look at me with open concern that others might notice. She simply stayed close, her presence quiet and solid, like an anchor I hadn’t asked for but desperately needed.

Mandy’s voice floated from somewhere behind us, pitched just low enough for nearby students to hear.

“She’s in trouble. Look at her face. He’s going to destroy her.”

A few soft laughs followed. I kept my expression blank. Inside, panic fluttered hard against my ribs.

I stared at the open notebook in front of me without seeing the words. The pen in my hand felt useless. Every time I risked a glance toward the front of the room, I found his attention already elsewhere...writing on the board, addressing another student, moving through the lecture as if nothing unusual had happened. Yet the order still hung in the air between us.

See me after class.

Charlotte’s fingers brushed the side of my wrist under the cover of the desk, a brief, secret squeeze. I didn’t look at her. If only she knew.

The small contact was enough to keep me from bolting a second time.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and forced my shoulders to lower.

The rest of the lecture stretched like pulled thread.

He knows I lied.

And in less than an hour I would have to stand in front of him again, alone, with no classroom full of witnesses to hide behind.