บททั้งหมดของ The Professor's Bargain : บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

CLAIRE ANDERSON The airport departure gate smells like stale coffee and nervous sweat, and I've been holding Greg's hands for the last ten minutes, gripping his fingers like they're the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright and too harsh, and I can feel him pulling away from me one careful inch at a time. This isn't how goodbye was supposed to happen. This isn't how any of it was supposed to happen."Claire, we need to talk." Greg's voice is flat, rehearsed, like he's practiced this speech a hundred times. His hazel eyes avoid mine, darting toward the security checkpoint. "I've been thinking about this for weeks, and I've come to a decision."My stomach drops. "What decision?" My voice sounds thin and reedy, like it belongs to someone else entirely. "You're coming back, right? We talked about this. I said I'd wait for you. I don't care how long it takes."He finally looks at me, but there's nothing warm in his gaze anymore. It'

CLAIRE ANDERSON The cab smells like stale air freshener and the faint trace of someone else's perfume. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow. The whiskey is still warm in my veins, making everything feel soft around the edges, like the world is wrapped in cotton. I don't know where we're going. I don't know his name. I don't know anything except that his shoulder is warm against my cheek and his hand is still wrapped loosely around mine, and for the first time since Greg walked away, I don't feel like I'm drowning. The driver glances at us in the rearview mirror, his eyes flickering with something that might be judgment, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except the strange, fragile peace of not being alone.He sits beside me, his long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped back seat, and I can feel the tension radiating off him even through the haze of whiskey that's settled over both of us. I raise my head to see face, his jaw is tight, his grey eyes fixed on t

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 jus

CLAIRE ANDERSON The coffee cup sits on my desk like a silent accusation, the paper surface still bearing the faint stain of this morning's disaster. I haven't touched it since I retrieved it from Xavier's office, and I don't plan to. Every time I look at it, I see his grey eyes, cold and unreadable, watching me like I'm nothing. I've shoved it to the corner of my desk, hidden behind my laptop, but I can still feel its presence, a constant reminder of everything I'm trying to forget.The campus cafeteria is buzzing with the usual lunchtime chaos—students laughing, trays clattering, the distant hum of conversation that fills every corner of the building. I sit alone at a table near the window, picking at a sandwich I have no appetite for. My phone is face-down on the table, and I'm trying not to look at it. I'm trying not to think about the text from Xavier—"You can pick it up from my office tomorrow." I haven't replied. I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to throw the coffee cu

CLAIRE ANDERSON The hospital room smells like antiseptic and fear, a combination that's become nauseatingly familiar over the past four days. I sit beside my grandmother's bed, watching her chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, and I feel like I'm drowning in slow motion. The machines beep and hum around us, their rhythmic sounds the only thing that reminds me she's still alive, still fighting, still here. Emily's face is pale against the white pillow, her grey hair loose and wild, her weathered hands limp at her sides. She looks so small, so fragile, and I hate myself for not being able to protect her.The medical bills are stacked on the bedside table like a growing monument to my failure. I've been taking extra shifts at the convenience store, working double shifts until my feet ache and my vision blurs, but every dollar I earn seems to vanish before it even reaches my account. The insurance company called yesterday—the fire was arson, but without evidence, they won't pay