THE STRANGER WHO BECAME MY PROFESSOR

CLAIRE ANDERSON 

Three days have passed since I ran from that penthouse, and I've spent every moment trying to forget. I've scrubbed my skin raw, washed my dress twice, and shoved the silver cufflink to the bottom of my jewelry box. But the memory clings to me—the weight of his arm across my waist, the scar on his chest, the way he stopped when I gasped. I've told myself it meant nothing, that we were just two drunk strangers filling a void. But the ache between my thighs is fading, and somehow that makes it worse, because now all I have left is the shame.

The university campus hums with students shuffling between classes, their conversations a blur of orientation memories and new semester anxieties. I clutch my coffee cup like a lifeline as I make my way to my first Introduction to Legal Studies seminar. My head is pounding from another sleepless night, and I've been running on nothing but caffeine. Emily called yesterday, her voice tight with worry, and I lied and told her I was just stressed about starting college. I'm supposed to be excited. This is the first step toward my dream of becoming a prosecutor. But right now, I can barely remember why any of it matters.

The lecture hall is old and imposing, with vaulted ceilings and the faint smell of aging paper. I slip into a seat in the back row, where I can observe without being observed. The room fills with other first-year students, their faces a mix of nervous anticipation and careful indifference. I don't know any of them well enough to call friends.

That's why I'm relieved when Martha slides into the seat beside me. She's a whirlwind of energy, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. "Claire! I found you!" she says, her voice a little too loud. "I was so worried I'd end up sitting next to someone boring."

I force a smile. "I'm glad you're here."

Martha is the closest thing I have to a friend on this campus. We met during orientation week, when she dropped her registration forms and I helped her pick them up. She talks too much and laughs too loudly, but she's kind, and she doesn't ask too many questions.

Martha leans in, her green eyes bright. "So I heard the professor for this seminar is some kind of legal genius. Guest lecturer. Super intense, but also…" She lowers her voice dramatically. "...incredibly hot. Like, illegally hot. I overheard some upperclassmen talking about him. They said he's a billionaire."

I laugh, a hollow sound. "That's not why I'm here."

"No, you're here to be the next great prosecutor," Martha says, bumping my shoulder. "I just thought a little eye candy might improve your mood."

The professor hasn't arrived yet, and the room fills with the low murmur of students settling into their seats. I take a sip of my coffee, trying to focus, but all I can think about is the stranger with the grey eyes. He wasn't cruel. He wasn't careless. He was just a broken man looking for someone to hold onto in the dark.

The door at the front swings open, and I look up.

My coffee cup slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor.

It's him.

He's standing at the front of the room, tall and devastating in a perfectly tailored suit, his grey eyes scanning the rows of students with that same unreadable expression from the elevator. His jaw is sharp, his hair immaculate, and there's not a trace of the whiskey-softened vulnerability I glimpsed three nights ago. This man is cold. Controlled. Untouchable.

Martha gasps beside me, but I can't hear her. The blood is roaring in my ears, drowning out everything except the realization that the stranger I gave my virginity to is standing at the front of my seminar. He's the guest lecturer. The legal genius everyone's been whispering about. Our eyes lock for one long, unreadable moment. Something flickers in his gaze—recognition, certainly, but also something guarded. Something careful.

Then he turns away.

He walks to the board and writes his name in crisp letters: "Professor Xavier Carrington." The room goes quiet, but I can't move. I can't breathe. Xavier Carrington. That's his name. The stranger who knows what I look like underneath my clothes. The stranger who has a scar on his chest he wouldn't explain. And now he's my professor. I have to see him every two days and pretend I don't know what his hands feel like on my skin.

He begins the lecture like nothing happened. His voice is low and measured, effortlessly commanding the room's attention. He doesn't look at me again. He doesn't acknowledge me at all. He just teaches, like I'm a ghost, like the night we shared was nothing more than a fleeting mistake he's already erased.

Martha leans over, her voice barely audible. "Claire, are you okay? You've gone completely white."

I shake my head. The coffee stain is spreading across the tile, dark and ugly, and I can't stop staring at it. It's like my shame, pooling at my feet for everyone to see.

The lecture drags on for what feels like hours. I stare at my notebook without seeing it, my pen frozen in my hand. I catch snippets of what he's saying—"justice" and "due process" and "the foundations of our legal system"—but they all blur into meaningless noise. All I can do is replay that night, searching for some sign that the man in front of me is the same one who carried me to his bedroom and asked if I was okay. But I don't find it. This man is ice.

The lecture ends. I'm about to bolt for the door when his voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

"Ms. Anderson. A word after class."

My heart stops. I never told him my name. He was just a stranger. But somehow, he knows who I am.

Martha turns to me, her green eyes wide. "Wait, he knows your name? How?"

"I don't know," I lie.

Students file out. Martha squeezes my arm. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No. I'll be fine."

The door swings shut, and suddenly it's just me and him. I walk toward his desk on legs that feel like they might give out. My hands are shaking. He's packing his briefcase, unhurried and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world to make me squirm.

I stop in front of his desk, and he finally looks up. His grey eyes are flat and unreadable, the same cold gaze from the elevator. "Professor," I manage. I never even knew his name until this morning.

He studies me for a long moment. Then he says, "Your coffee. Clean it up."

I blink. "What?"

"Your coffee." His voice is cold. "It's still on the floor."

I stare at him, waiting for him to acknowledge what happened between us. But he doesn't. He just watches me with those flat, unreadable eyes, and I realize he has no intention of acknowledging me. Not now. Not ever.

I stumble toward the supply closet and grab paper towels. I kneel on the cold tile floor and scrub at the dark stain, my hands shaking so violently I can barely grip the towels. The coffee has already started to set, and no matter how hard I scrub, I can't get it all out. It's like my shame, permanent and stubborn.

He watches me from his desk. I can feel his gaze burning into my back, and I hate him for pretending that night didn't happen.

When I'm done, I walk back to his desk. "I'm sorry about the mess," I say, my voice hollow. "I'll go now."

"Ms. Anderson." His voice stops me at the door. "I trust you'll bring a better attitude to the next seminar."

I don't turn around. If I do, I'll cry, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction. "Yes, Professor," I say, and walk out as fast as my trembling legs will carry me.

The hallway is empty. I press my back against the cold wall, trying to catch my breath. My hands are shaking, my heart is pounding. He knows what we did. He knows I gave him my virginity. And he's going to pretend it never happened.

I press my hand to my mouth and try not to cry, but I fail.