Chapter 4

Who Am I?

Igor Pov

The morning light shines through the high windows of the mansion, brightening the house. I stand at the glass, a cup of untouched coffee in my hand, and stare at the perfect lawn. The world outside is as meticulously ordered as the one I've built. The wealth, the status, the power, it’s all a perfectly constructed life.

A sigh escapes me, a hollow sound that seems to get swallowed by the quiet space. I should feel something. Contentment, satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment. But all I feel is a gnawing emptiness. The memory of that night returns, a vivid, jarring color.  A club, a boy, a moment of reckless, unthinking abandon. It was raw, honest, and utterly real. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I felt something. The shame is a cold wave, crashing over me. A married man. For heaven's sake, I'm a man who has built a life on discipline and control, and I threw it all away for a stranger in a dark room.

“Darling,” a voice, as cool as the floors, calls from behind me.

My wife, Elara, floats into the room. She is a statue of elegance, draped in a silk robe that cost more than a small car. Her face is a perfect look of polite indifference. Our marriage is an extension of my business, a five-year contract designed to secure a merger between our two families. We share a name, a home, and a legacy, but we have no children and no real connection. We are partners in a cold, profitable venture.

She comes to me and places a hand on my arm, her touch light and detached. She leans in and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek, her lips cool and dry against my skin. The gesture is a formality, a programmed movement. I don't feel anything. No warmth, no desire, no love. The emptiness that has been with me for years now feels like a permanent fixture. I got out of a 32-year marriage, and in five years in this new marriage, I feel the same thing. I have always known something was missing. I just never thought I would find what it was in a place like that, or in someone like him.

"You look tired," she says, her voice devoid of genuine concern. "Are you going to see Dr. Adams today?"

"No," I say, my voice a low rumble. "He broke a few bones playing tennis. He called this morning. I'm taking his place for the first class."

She nods, a flicker of professional interest in her eyes. "Good. You need to keep busy. The boredom is not a good look on you." She turns to leave. "Try not to be late for dinner tonight. The Reynolds are coming."

And with that, she is gone, leaving me alone with the thoughts of a stranger and the hollow reality of my own life. I finish my coffee and head out, the drive to the university a brief journey from the suffocating order of my home. My mind is a chaotic mess of thoughts. I am a conflicted man. I've never been gay. The thought of it feels foreign, impossible. It was just a moment, a temporary insanity brought on by the alcohol, the atmosphere, the anonymity. Just a youngster’s fling, a one-time thing to get a taste of freedom and chaos. But as I pull into the campus, a new feeling begins to stir, a mix of fear and an almost shameful excitement.

I enter the building, a modern structure. The place is a hive of activity, a vibrant energy that feels so different from my own quiet, controlled world. I walk into the classroom, the low chatter of students is a familiar background noise. I take my place at the front of the room, behind the lectern. I am clear my head, putting away all thoughts that scattered my mind, I am here to teach, to impart wisdom, to command a room, not to think about a mistake.

I clear my throat. “Good morning, everyone.” The room falls silent, all eyes on me. I feel their assessment, the way they look me over, sizing me up. “ I am your new professor, Mr. Igor Davies. I am taking over for Professor Adams for a few weeks And I think you’ll find that I am a man who cares about his students and what I will teach. Most importantly I need your respect and I will give you mine.” I let my eyes scan the faces in the room, a professional gesture, before I feel something. A tremor. A jolt of electricity that shoots through me. My eyes land on a face, a beautiful, devastating face I know intimately, a face I’ve been trying to forget for the last twelve hours.

It's him. The boy from the club. My student.

He is sitting in the back, his head down, staring at his laptop screen. He looks different from the wild, desperate boy from last night. He is wearing a simple, dark hoodie, his hair slightly unkempt. The change in his appearance is a small thing, but it’s a desperate attempt to hide the raw, primal energy I know he possesses. The memory of his trembling hands, the perfect shape of his lips, the way he moaned my name as he came… it all rushes back. I feel a hot, possessive wave of desire wash over me. I am a professional. I am a professor. I can’t want him.

"Before we begin," I say, my voice steady despite the frantic beat of my heart, "I need to take attendance." I pick up the roster and begin calling out names. The words feel like a series of obstacles I have to overcome to get to his name.

"Adams… Benson… Davis…" I pause, my eyes lingering on his form. He still has his head down. "Hayes?"

He flinches. The movement is subtle, a small, almost imperceptible tremor. He raises his head, and our eyes meet. His eyes widen in shock, and for a moment, he is a ghost. A deer caught in the headlights. My heart pounds a frantic, triumphant rhythm. He remembers me. He feels the same way I do. The shock on his face is a mirror of my own.

I look away, my voice still controlled. "Hayes? Killian Hayes?" I need to say his name. I need to make sure I heard it right. I need to claim him.

"Here," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

I nod and continue the roll call, but my focus is shattered. The room is now a stage, and he and I are the only players. I notice the other students. The girls in the front rows are subtly eyeing Killian, their expressions a mix of awe and possessiveness. They are a pack of lions, all gushing over a beautiful boy, unaware of the hunger in a man they don’t even know. The guys are more direct. I see their cold, appraising glances, the way they seem to challenge him with their eyes, a primitive display of dominance. They see him as a rival. 

I begin to teach, but the words feel like a performance, an empty script. I am a man of total control but all I can think about is a boy with a bruised mouth and a terrified look on his face. My lecture is on business ethics, the irony of it not lost on me. I talk about honesty and integrity, about building a foundation of trust. All the while, my gaze keeps drifting to the back of the room, to Killian, who is trying so hard to be invisible, to disappear into the shadows.

When the bell rings, I feel a rush of relief. The class is over. The students begin to pack up, their voices filled with loud chatters. I watch as Killian's friend, the one I saw him with at the club, gives him a concerned look, a quiet question in his eyes. Killian shakes his head, a desperate attempt to deny what is happening.

The room empties, and it is just the two of us.

I close my laptop and stand up, my gaze fixed on him. “Mr. Hayes,” I say, my voice low and authoritative. “A word.”

He freezes, his face filled with shock and dread. This is not a discussion. This is not a request. This is a command. 

My perfect, planned life is a lie. But his is about to be over.