Chapter 3: Private Lessons

The address led me to the wealthiest part of the city. The houses here weren't houses; they were fortresses of stone and glass, hidden behind tall iron gates.

I checked the number on the heavy gate: 404.

My hands were shaking as I pressed the intercom button.

"Lin," I whispered into the speaker.

A buzz sounded, and the heavy gate clicked open. I walked up the long driveway. Professor Black’s house was modern, sharp, and intimidating—just like him. Large windows glowed with a dim, amber light.

I didn't even have to knock. The front door opened before I reached the step.

Professor Adrian Black stood there. He had ditched the blazer and tie. Now, he wore a black button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone, and dark slacks. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand.

"You're three minutes early," he said. His voice was low, blending with the night air.

"I didn't want to be late, Sir," I managed to say.

He stepped aside. "Come"

The house smelled of expensive wood and silence. I followed him down a hallway lined with framed degrees and abstract art. We entered his study.

It was exactly how I imagined. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace that wasn't lit, and a massive mahogany desk in the center.

"Sit," he commanded, pointing to a leather chair in front of the desk.

I sat. I clutched my bag on my lap like a shield.

Adrian walked around the desk but didn't sit. He leaned against the edge of it, towering over me. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then, he reached behind him and picked up a piece of paper.

My piece of paper.

"I read your... composition again," he said calmly.

My face burned. "Professor, please. I can explain. It was just a stupid—"

"Quiet," he snapped. Softly, but with authority. My mouth clicked shut.

He unfolded the paper. "Your grammar is decent. Your vocabulary is varied. But your pacing..." He tutted. "It’s a bit rushed, don't you think?"

I stared at him, confused. Was he critiquing my writing style?

He looked down at the page and began to read aloud.

"The Professor locked the door with a click. He loosened his tie and walked toward her."

Hearing his deep, raspy voice read my dirty fantasy was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to me. It was also the hottest.

He took a step closer to my chair.

"'You've been a bad girl,' he read." He looked up from the paper, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "'Punish me,' she whimpered."

The air in the room grew heavy. Thick.

"Tell me, Maya," he said, dropping the formalities. "Is this what you think about during my lectures on Constitutional Law? Being punished?"

"No! I mean... it's fiction!" I squeaked.

"Is it?"

He placed the paper on the desk and leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of my chair. He trapped me. Just like the character in the story.

"You have a vivid imagination," he murmured. "But you lack experience. The scene is derivative. Cliché."

"I didn't write it for a grade," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Are you going to expel me?"

Adrian studied my face. He looked at my trembling lips, then down at my cheap clothes.

"I should," he said. "Conduct unbecoming of a Sterling student. The Dean would have a field day with this."

Tears pricked my eyes. "Please. I have... I have responsibilities. I need this scholarship."

He paused. A calculated silence stretched between us.

"I know you do," he said cryptically.

He stood up straight, releasing me from his cage. He walked back to his side of the desk and sat down, becoming the cold professor again.

"I am currently working on a very complex case regarding international corporate fraud. The discovery files are extensive. My current assistants are incompetent. They lack... creativity."

He tapped my handwritten page.

"You write fast. You have an eye for detail, however... filthy that detail might be. And you seem desperate."

"I am," I admitted.

"Good." He slid a contract across the desk. "Then we have a deal."

I looked at the document. Personal Assistant / Archivist.

"You will come here every evening from 6 PM to 10 PM. You will transcribe my notes, organize my files, and do whatever else I require to facilitate my work. In exchange, this..." he held up my story, "...stays between us. And your scholarship remains safe."

I read the contract. It seemed standard, except for the hours.

"Do we have an accord, Miss Lin?"

I looked at the fireplace, then back at him. I thought of Milo. I thought of the rent.

"Yes," I said. "I'll do it."

Adrian smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf who had just caught a rabbit.

"Excellent." He stood up and walked to the heavy oak door of the study.

Click.

He locked it.

My breath hitched.

He turned around, his hand moving to his collar. Slowly, deliberately, he undid the top button of his shirt.

"Then let's begin," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Lesson one: When you write about a locked door... make sure you understand the implication."

I froze.

"Professor?"