My professor, my stalker のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

The man on my doorstep bows so deeply that for a second I just stare at him, convinced I must still be half trapped in the anxiety haze of the day. He bends all the way to his waist, one hand pressed neatly over his chest, the picture of old-fashioned formality. That's a first. When he straightens, his face is composed, almost expressionless, the kind of neutral professionalism that somehow makes him more unsettling. “Ms. Marlow,” he says smoothly, “I’m here to pick you up.” I frown at him, still gripping the edge of the door. Pick me up? My mind scrambles through every possibility, every forgotten plan, every text I might have missed, but nothing makes sense. He seems to read the confusion on my face. “Mr. Madden sent me.” Aha. “I’m not going,” I say flatly, already beginning to shut the door. He expects my reaction. His polished shoe slides forward, wedging itself firmly between the door and the frame before it can close. I stare at it. Then at him. His expression doesn’t

Liam shrugs, like the question means nothing. Like the weight of it—the consequence of it—doesn’t exist. He doesn’t answer. “Make sure it’s dealt with, son,” Charles says, his voice carrying easily across the table, heavy with expectation. “There will be no bastards born in this family.” The word lands wrong. Ugly. Final. My stomach twists. “She’s already five months preg—” “Make sure it’s dealt with, son,” Charles repeats, sharper now, each word bitten off between clenched teeth. “Or do I have to ask Tristan to take care of it?” Everybody looks at Tristan. A cold ripple runs down my spine, goosebumps rising along my skin. Something shifts in the air. My pulse stutters. What does that mean? What will Tristan take care of? And why Tristan? Across the table, Liam studies his brother, something unreadable flickering in his expression. There’s tension there. Frustration. Maybe even jealousy. Charles suddenly stands. The movement snaps the moment in half. Molly rises with him, he

He suddenly pulls back. Before I can even process it, he sits up, his movements sharp, decisive. The sound of his zipper cuts through the haze I’m drowning in. I blink up at him, dazed, breath uneven. “What are you doing?” My voice barely sounds like mine. My body is still trembling, still aching, still caught in the aftermath of everything he just dragged out of me. My hair is tangled around my face, sticking to my skin. My chest rises and falls too fast. Maybe it's a good thing I'm not wearing make-up. “I want you to say yes, little bird.” His shirt is gone in one fluid motion, discarded somewhere behind him. My gaze drags over him before I can stop it—inked skin, sharp lines, muscle and control and power in every inch of him. It hits me all over again. He’s overwhelming. He's a fucking god. “I want you to sing,” he adds, his voice lower now, rougher, as he finishes stripping away his pants. His hard dick comes into view. My breath stutters. I shouldn’t be looking. I ca

Tristan tosses the towels onto a lounger with careless precision. His hand finds the small of my back without hesitation, firm and guiding as he steers me toward the far end of the pool where the steps disappear beneath the water. I feel it. The eyes. Of everybody. They're all shocked that Tristan has a girl here, it seems. It prickles along my skin, made worse by the thin strips of fabric barely covering me. The bikini suddenly feels less like a choice and more like exposure. Still, I keep my chin up. If they’re going to stare, I’ll give them something to look at. The music hums through the space, low and rhythmic, vibrating faintly through the tiled floor and into my bones. Warm air clings to my skin, heavy with chlorine and something sweeter—perfume, maybe. Or expensive liquor. Tristan steps into the water first, barely reacting to the heat as it curls around his legs. He turns immediately, offering me his hand like it’s instinct, like it’s something ingrained too deeply to que

“You did what?” my father asks, each word forced out between his teeth like he’s biting down on something that might snap. “It was the best solution,” Harrison replies lightly. He swirls the scotch in his glass, watching it catch the light. “Breaking someone's kneecaps and leaving them inside their own house—alive—is never a good solution,” my father snaps. I stand by the window, hands in my pockets, gaze fixed on the green stretch of land beyond the glass. The estate sleeps like nothing ever happens here. Like men don’t scream behind closed doors. Like no blood has ever soaked the floorboards in the night. Like we’re normal. Like normal ever existed here. I don’t understand the anger of my father. Not really. It’s inefficient. Loud. It solves nothing. How can you get so angry over something so trivial? Why? “He won’t be alive for long,” Tom cuts in, voice easy, amused. “He’ll bleed out. And if he doesn’t, he got the message.” “You took a risk,” my father says. “The Maddens tak