The campus was almost empty by 8:15 PM.I stood outside Professor Damien Black’s office door, heart pounding, clutching my essay like it was a shield. At 20 years old, I was supposed to be here for legitimate academic help — my final paper on modern literature was due in three days, and I genuinely needed feedback.But that wasn’t the only reason I was here.Professor Black was 38, tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome in that strict, intellectual way. Dark hair with a hint of silver at the temples, sharp jaw, and piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see right through me. He was known for being brilliant, demanding, and completely off-limits.I knocked softly.“Come in.”I stepped inside. The office was dimly lit, bookshelves lining the walls, a large oak desk in the center. Professor Black sat behind it, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the authoritative professor.“Miss Elara,” he said, voice deep and smooth. “You’re here for feedback on your paper?”“Yes, Pro
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