All Chapters of The Professor's Bargain : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

CLAIRE ANDERSON I'm halfway across the lawn, my steps carrying me toward Xavier's rigid silhouette, when I feel it. A gaze, sharp and focused, pressing against my skin like a physical weight. I pause, my hand still raised to catch Xavier's attention, and I turn slowly, scanning the clusters of guests scattered across the manicured grass.She's standing near the edge of the terrace, a glass of champagne balanced between her fingers, her posture impeccable. Her platinum hair is swept back from her face in a sleek, elegant twist, and her pale blue dress drapes across her frame like it was made for her. Her eyes meet mine, cool and assessing, and for a moment, neither of us moves. I don't know who she is, but I know she's someone important—someone who belongs here in a way I never will. The way she holds herself, the way the other guests seem to drift around her like she's the center of their orbit, tells me she's been a fixture in this world for a long time. She's not just a guest. She'

CLAIRE ANDERSON   The campus quad is bathed in the pale, watery sunlight of early autumn, and I'm still carrying the weight of the estate in my bones. The weekend feels like a fever dream—Rosie's warmth, Vivian's coldness, Barbara's assessing gaze, and Sterling's too-specific words about my parents. Xavier's question in the car, the way I shut down, the silence that followed us all the way home. I've been walking through my classes in a daze, the words of my professors washing over me without meaning.  I'm halfway to the library when I hear footsteps behind me, quick and purposeful. I turn, and Martha is there, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her green eyes bright with barely contained excitement. She looks like she's been waiting for this moment all day.  "Claire!" She grabs my arm, pulling me off the main path toward a quiet bench near the ol

CLAIRE ANDERSON   The morning light filters through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, casting long rectangles of warmth across the marble counter. I'm standing at the island with a mug of coffee cradled in my hands, watching Edgar polish the same silver spoon for the third time. There's something hypnotic about his quiet efficiency, the way he moves through the penthouse like a well-rehearsed dance, never wasting a motion, never seeming to rush. I take a sip of my coffee, letting the warmth settle in my chest, and I feel almost normal for the first time in days.  "Edgar, if you polish that spoon any more, it's going to disappear," I say, a smile tugging at my lips.  He glances up, his expression carefully neutral, but I catch the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. "I find it meditative, Miss Claire. Some people count sheep. I polish silver."  

CLAIRE ANDERSON   The privacy glass turns the city outside into a watercolor smear of gold and red, the lights bleeding into each other as the car glides through the late-night streets. I press my forehead against the cool window, watching the reflections slide past, and I feel the weight of the evening pressing down on my chest like a physical thing. Barbara's voice loops through my mind, relentless and sharp: "You have to know what to look for." I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't know if I'll recognize it when I see it.  I steal glances at Xavier's profile, the muscle ticking in his jaw, his hands loosely fisted on his knees instead of resting flat. He's been like this since we left the function—closed off, unreachable, the careful mask he wears when he's trying to hide something. I've learned to read the signs over the past weeks, the small tells that betray his control. His jaw tightens when h

CLAIRE ANDERSON The morning light filters through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, the same light that's greeted me every day since I moved into this penthouse. But nothing feels the same today. I sit at the breakfast table, my coffee cup warm between my palms, and I watch Xavier over the rim like he's a witness I'm trying to read. He's the same as he always is—focused on his phone, his coffee black and untouched, the newspaper folded beside his plate. He seems, infuriatingly, completely normal.I watch him scroll through whatever message is demanding his attention, his thumb moving with practiced efficiency, his expression betraying nothing. He could be reading about a corporate merger or a grocery list for all the emotion he shows. Last night, I heard him threaten to bury a man. I heard the venom in his voice, the cold precision of his words. This morning, he's the same man I've been living with for weeks—quiet, controlled, unreachable. The disconnect is dizzying, and I feel t