My Professor #1

LUCY ANDREWS

Champagne bubbles tickled my nose as my heels clicked across the obsidian floor, LED lights shifting from deep purple to midnight blue. Heart racing, I paused at the smart-glass windows overlooking the glittering city from The Grand Hotel’s copper-domed turret.

“Get it together, Lucy,” I muttered, smoothing my blazer over a mini skirt and statement necklace. At 21, I was probably one of the youngest members of the Velvet Key Society—but did I belong here?

My fingers tapped my crystal flute. Soon someone tailored to my preferences would arrive. We’d have an hour to see if the algorithm was right, then choose a suite or walk away.

I drained the champagne and set down the empty glass. My red bob gleamed in the obsidian walls; my eyes shone with equal parts excitement and terror. “You’re Lucy Andrews. Marketing prodigy. Social-media savant,” I coached myself, forcing a smile.

The platform in the centre spun, revealing a velvet chaise lounge. My cheeks flushed. “Okay, maybe not that mature,” I whispered.

Sandalwood and musk drifted through the air. A soft chime, then the door’s keycard slid home. I held my breath as it swung open, revealing a tall, lean figure silhouetted against the soft light of the hallway. My heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned.

“Professor Jeffries?” I whispered.

He froze in the doorway, gray-peppered beard catching the dark sheen of the suite’s walls. “Lucy? I…didn’t expect—”

My cheeks heated. Me, his student, here in a room meant for far less academic pursuits.

He closed the door. “I should go—”

“Wait. The algorithm,” I blurted. “It really does boast a ninety-seven-point-eight percent success rate.”

He ran a hand through his hair, momentarily looking less like the stern critic of my marketing proposals. “It does.”

I grabbed the champagne from its crystal bucket. “One drink? To discuss how mortifying this is.”

He smiled—warm, almost shy. “A civilized approach.”

We seated ourselves at opposite ends of a velvet sofa. I raised my flute. “To algorithms.”

“To statistical improbabilities,” he countered, clinking glasses.

The champagne went down easier than expected, loosening the knot of mortification in my chest. "So," I said, crossing my legs and watching his eyes briefly follow the movement, "do we pretend this never happened, or do we acknowledge that somewhere in our compatibility profiles, we apparently have... overlapping interests?"

He set down his glass with deliberate precision, a gesture I'd watched him make countless times during lectures. But here, in the shifting purple light of the Obsidian Suite, it felt different. Intimate.

"The algorithm considers factors beyond what we might consciously acknowledge," he said carefully, his professor voice warring with something rougher underneath. "Subconscious preferences. Micro-expressions during personality assessments."

"Right. Very clinical." I tucked a strand of red hair behind my ear, hyper aware of how the motion made my statement necklace catch the light. "Except we're sitting in a room with mood lighting and a chaise lounge that probably cost more than my semester's tuition."

His laugh was low, unexpected. "You always cut straight through pretence."

"Is that what I do?" I leaned forward slightly, emboldened by the champagne and the way his eyes darkened. "In class, you make it sound like I'm all surface. Too eager, too impulsive."

"Never surface." His voice dropped. "Dangerously perceptive, perhaps. Willing to voice observations others wouldn't dare."

The suite's walls shifted to deep emerald, casting his features in mysterious shadows. I could smell his cologne now—something sophisticated and understated that made me want to move closer.

"Like observing that Professor Liam Jeffries joined an exclusive society for adventurous encounters?"

His jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought I'd pushed too far. But then his lips curved into something that wasn't quite his classroom smile—darker, more honest.

"Like observing that Lucy Andrews did the same," he said quietly. "Despite being brilliant enough to revolutionize digital marketing strategies, she still craves something she can't optimize or analyze."

The words hit deeper than they should have. I set my champagne down with trembling fingers, the crystal singing against the obsidian table. "You don't know what I crave."

"Don't I?" He shifted closer. "Every presentation you give, every campaign proposal—there's always this moment where you pause, like you're holding something back. Something the algorithms and focus groups can't quantify."

The suite's temperature seemed to rise, or maybe it was just the heat crawling up my neck. "Maybe I'm just trying not to interrupt you for once."

"No." His voice was rough now, professorial tone completely abandoned. "You interrupt when you're excited about ideas. You go quiet when you want something you think you shouldn't."

My pulse hammered against my throat. The emerald walls pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat, and I could hear the distant sounds of the city below through the smart-glass windows. But all I could focus on was the way he was looking at me—not like his overconfident student, but like a woman whose secrets he wanted to unravel.

"And what do you think I want, Professor?" The title came out breathier than I intended.

He leaned forward, close enough that I could see the fine lines around his eyes, the silver threading through his dark hair. "Something that scares you as much as it excites you."

The air between us crackled with electricity. I should stand up, make some joke about statistical improbabilities, and suggest we pretend this never happened. Instead, I found myself whispering, "The algorithm got it right, didn't it?"

His hand moved to the sofa between us, fingers almost touching mine. "Terrifyingly so."