All Chapters of My professor, my stalker: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

I don't want to leave. The thought settles deep, heavy, undeniable, as I sit there staring at my house like it belongs to someone else. Like it’s just a structure—dark windows, silent walls—waiting for me to step back into something cold and empty. I want to stay here. In this car. He turns off the engine, and the world shifts instantly. The soft hum disappears, replaced by a thick, intimate silence. Darkness folds around us, broken only by the faint red glow of the dashboard stretching across the interior like a quiet pulse. Neither of us moves. He doesn’t tell me to get out. He doesn’t even look at the door. “Did you sleep okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, stripped of its usual edge. “Yeah,” I answer automatically, though my mind is still somewhere else. “Uhm…” The word lingers uselessly in the air. “If there is anything,” he continues gently in the dark, “you can tell me.” Something in the way he says it makes my chest tighten. It’s not authority. Not curiosity. It’

I pour myself a glass of wine and let the deep red swirl against the crystal, watching it catch the warm kitchen light as the food simmers behind me. The house smells rich of food. No tension. No expectations. Just music and heat and the quiet satisfaction of doing something right. Finally. I set out extra glasses on the table, one by one, aligning them without thinking, then drift into the rhythm spilling from the speakers. My hips sway lazily, bare feet sliding across the floor, my body loosening with every beat. It’s rare, this version of me—unguarded, light. Almost careless. My phone buzzes against the counter, sharp and insistent. I barely glance at it at first, reaching for it with distracted fingers, still moving to the music, still half-wrapped in the warmth of the moment. Then I see the sender. My body stills so abruptly it feels unnatural, like something inside me has snapped tight. Mr. Madden. What the fuck? The music fades into nothing. The smell of food, the wine

Sam’s voice cuts through the room, laced with concern that feels just a little too deliberate. “Will the girls be safe? Around so many drunk men?” I almost roll my eyes. I know exactly what he's doing. Mr. Madden looks at him like he also knows exactly what Sam is doing. There’s a beat of silence. Heavy. Measured. “Of course,” Mr. Madden says at last, his tone smooth, controlled. “Everyone falls under my protection.” His eyes flick briefly toward me, then back to Sam. “But the girls will be looked after. No one will touch them.” Something shifts in the air when he says it. It isn’t reassurance—it’s a warning. A quiet, lethal promise wrapped in civility. The kind that doesn’t need to be raised to be heard. My skin prickles. Nick glances over his shoulder at Delilah, quick but not quick enough. I catch the flicker of something unspoken between them—concern, maybe guilt. Delilah’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before she forces herself to relax, her fingers tightening ar

I don't know what to wear. My suitcase sits by the door, packed and ready, like it has more certainty about tonight than I do. Everything I need is inside, neatly folded, practical, safe. The dress doesn’t belong in there. I almost left it behind. I actually stood in front of my closet for far too long, scanning through my own dresses, trying to convince myself that one of them would be enough. Something simple. Something normal. Mine. But nothing felt right. Not after what he said. So I packed it anyway. Apparently, I can’t show up in my basic black dress. I glance down at myself again, frustration bubbling under my skin. What to wear now, though? Leggings and a t-shirt are out of the question—Sam would never let me live that down. Sweatpants are even worse. Jeans on a late-night flight sound like a nightmare. I let out a breath and smooth my hands over the fabric I finally choose: a dress. It’s comfortable, soft enough to sleep in if I want to, and just professional enough to p

He drops the hood of the car with a hard thud, the sound echoing slightly through the parking garage. “Your car is ready,” he says, his tone clipped, efficient. “It was the battery. I’ve connected it to the backup for now, but you really need a new one. This car doesn’t have long left.” Tina barely glances at the engine before walking up to him, entirely unconcerned. “Thank you, lovely.” She pats his chest—once, twice, three times—like she’s rewarding him for good behavior. “I do hope you have what it takes to satisfy the lady. I don’t think this one will settle.” For a second, no one moves. Mr. Madden just… looks at her, like he genuinely cannot process what just came out of her mouth. I stand there, completely frozen, somewhere between shock and disbelief, my brain struggling to keep up with the conversation. “Thank you, Tina,” he says finally, his voice polite but tight, like he’s forcing each word out. “I’ve got it under control.” Under control. Right. I press my lips toget