All Chapters of Bend me over, Professor : Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

POV Alexander Sleep is officially dead to me.Three days since I fired Anaise, and my brain has decided that rest is for people who don’t systematically destroy the lives of women they’re secretly obsessed with. Every time I close my eyes, there she is—standing in my office looking like I’d just told her Santa wasn’t real, except instead of childhood innocence, I’d murdered five years of professional dedication with a single “you’re fired.”The evidence sits on my desk like a fucking accusation. Photos of her with Blackstone. IT reports showing her login credentials accessing classified files. Timestamps that align perfectly with our security breaches.It should be open and shut. Case closed. Justice served.So why does my chest feel like someone’s using it for demolition practice?“You look like shit,” Sarah says, breezing into my office with coffee and that concerned expression she’s been wearing since the whole mess started.

POV Anaise Standing in front of Manhattan’s corporate elite feels like performing surgery while they all place bets on whether I’ll fuck it up.The boardroom at the Meridian Tower is pure intimidation porn—floor-to-ceiling windows, a table that could double as a small aircraft carrier, and enough testosterone to power a small city. Fifty of the most ruthless business minds in New York, all waiting to see if the former Coleman Industries finance director can actually pull a company back from the dead.No pressure.I’m wearing steel-gray Armani—borrowed from Mom’s closet because my severance package didn’t exactly cover designer power suits—and I feel like I’m wearing armor. Which is good, because I’m about to go to war.“Velmira Tech’s turnaround strategy centers on three core principles,” I begin, my voice steady despite the fact that my heart is trying to escape through my throat. “Market repositioning, operational e

POV Alexander The car ride with Sarah is quiet. Too fucking quiet.She’s sitting there like some kind of corporate mannequin, hands folded in her lap with that perfect assistant posture she’s mastered over three years of professional manipulation. Staring out the window at Manhattan’s neon blur, probably calculating her next strategic move while I sit here having what might be the most uncomfortable realization of my entire adult life.The silence feels heavy, loaded with whatever psychological warfare just went down back at the Meridian Tower. The air between us is thick enough to perform surgery with, and I can feel tension radiating off her in waves that have nothing to do with quarterly projections or investor concerns.I should be thinking about the investor dinner we’re heading to. Should be mentally rehearsing my pitch about market expansion and competitive advantages, or calculating quarterly projections that’ll make board members cream t

POV Alexander Harold’s words have been bouncing around my skull like a fucking pinball machine all night: *No wife, no legacy.*The phrase keeps ricocheting through my consciousness with the persistence of a bad jingle or the kind of corporate slogan that gets hammered into your brain during hostile takeover negotiations. I’ve tried everything to shut it up. Scotch—the expensive kind that’s supposed to make existential crises more palatable. A cold shower that felt more like self-inflicted hypothermia. Staring at financial reports until my eyes bled and the numbers started looking like abstract art painted by someone having a nervous breakdown.Nothing works. Nothing shuts up that relentless voice in my head reminding me that I’m apparently one arranged marriage away from losing everything I’ve built with my own blood, sweat, and complete emotional sacrifice.Or everything I thought I’d built.Turns out I’ve just been the latest CEO in H

POV Anaise Maya’s holding up a tabloid like it’s evidence in a murder trial, waving it around the food court like she’s conducting an orchestra of gossip.“Have you seen this Martinez girl?” she says, loud enough that the teenagers at the next table stop scrolling TikTok to eavesdrop. “There’s no photo of her, but apparently she faked her whole life. Now she’s getting married like a goddamn duchess.”I’m standing here with my Orange Julius, watching my best friend dissect my secret identity for public consumption, and honestly? This feels about right for how my life’s been going lately.The food court at Roosevelt Field is peak suburban chaos—screaming kids, overpriced Chinese food, the eternal smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels that makes you question your life choices. Maya picked this place for our “emergency friend meeting,” probably because she thought neutral territory would keep me from having a complete breakdown.Joke’s on her. I’m