Chapter 26

Avery’s POV

Days fell into place like beads on a taut thread. Each one seemed similar from a distance, yet carried edges that dug into my resolve.

Classes resumed their predictable rhythm. My TA duties flowed as though nothing tumultuous had transpired, though nothing in my core remained the same.

At home, the crushing expectations of my parents weighed down. I handled them with a forced, mechanical efficiency—slipping back into my role as the immaculate Von Carter heir they demanded.

And then there was the orphanage. Every evening, I made my way there, as though those children held the antidote to the storm raging inside me.

Lily, with her unrestrained laughter that could slice through my darkest moods, clung to me every time I arrived. The other children played around me with a wild, infectious freedom, their giggles carrying a weightlessness I could never achieve.

Fiona discussed groceries and new books for the children, her voice firm, her eyes kind and understanding. Emily at home never let her maternal care falter—her voice was a reminder that I was more than the destructive chaos spinning in my chest.

Then there were Elize and Victoria. Constant shadows on either side of me, their bickering and fussing filled every space I left empty with my silence.

Sometimes their noise irritated my nerves, sometimes it provided a strange comfort. No matter my mood, they stayed loyal.

But beneath this routine, there was her. Professor Rose. I could not bring myself to call her Tiffany. That name—her true, vulnerable name—felt sacred, untouchable, far too intimate to let slip past my tongue.

To her face, I was formal. “Ms. Rose.” “Professor.”

Everything between us had shifted. Where there had been playful banter and electric exchanges, now there was a tense, professional silence.

Words were exchanged only about the work. No wandering off-topic, no shared smiles, no spark of connection. I made sure of that.

For ten days, I held myself in check, terrified of saying something reckless, terrified of revealing how she lived inside my every thought. She allowed it.

She never questioned my cold professionalism. She never pushed back against my silence. Until one unexpected day.

I was in her office, papers sprawling across the desk as I arranged notes for a seminar she’d assigned. My pen tapped a rhythmic beat against the file, my attention divided between the work and her overwhelming presence.

She sat behind her desk, posture perfect, her reading glasses catching the late afternoon light. Her voice broke the silence.

“You know,” she began, casual, though I caught the internal flicker in her tone, “there was once a person who always managed to find a new, novel way to trouble me. Or… perhaps I should say, make their way to me, uninvited.”

My pen froze. The silence was deafening.

“They were—annoying, but undeniably sweet. Dramatic, but profoundly kind. Mad, chaotic, but genius. Reckless, but oddly careful in ways that mattered.”

She exhaled, her gaze fixed on me. “And then one day, they just went silent. All of a sudden, the constant noise stopped.”

My throat tightened. Every phrase—she was talking about me. She did not have to use my name. I knew it in my core.

I swallowed, masking the storm, and hummed a response, as though her story was a trivial anecdote. “Uh huh. Maybe they just got bored of you, Professor,” I forced a tight smirk, though I knew it did not reach my eyes. “So, they decided not to bother to entertain you further with their chaos.”

Her lips curled into something half-amused and sharp. “Oh, baby,” she drawled with a sarcastic lilt that was intoxicating, “you have no idea who you’re calling boring, Avery.”

I blinked, caught off guard by her tone. The way she said the word baby—teasing, yet lingering—made my chest tighten.

“If I want to,” she continued, leaning forward, her eyes glinting with unsettling confidence, “I can change someone’s entire world, Avery. You know that to be true, don’t you?”

I let out a short breath, my smirk faltering into something softer, something dangerously more real. “Yes, Professor. I know that about you.”

For a charged moment, a profound silence stretched between us. I heard the ticking of the clock, the rustle of papers beneath my trembling hands, the distant hum of the world outside the door.

Against my better judgment, I added, my voice a raw whisper, “Or maybe there’s another, more desperate reason, Professor. Maybe… that person simply became more careful about their actions. So that you aren’t harmed by their recklessness.”

That’s when it happened. Her eyes—those unreadable eyes—flickered. For a single heartbeat, something immense broke through the shield she wore.

Something raw, vulnerable, questioning the truth in my claim. The air between us tightened, becoming thick and volatile.

My chest rose and fell too quickly, my pen trembling in my fingers. She did not speak.

She held my gaze for an eternity, as though searching for a hidden truth, as though weighing the cost of my words. I forced myself to break the moment, leaning back, pretending to refocus on the papers.

But the silence that followed wasn’t the same as the ten days before. It wasn’t professionally cold. It was intensely alive.

Heavy with unspoken truths hanging between us. It scared me. If she caught a glimpse of the storm I carried inside, there would be no going back to the safety of Professor and student again.

The rest of the day passed in a disoriented blur, but that moment lingered, sharp and persistent. Every glance, every pause in her voice, every shift in her posture felt weighted.

She hadn’t explicitly called me out, hadn’t teased me further. But the flicker in her eyes refused to leave my memory.

That night, Emily noticed I was distracted. She asked if something was wrong, but I brushed her off with a vague lie.

Elize and Victoria tried their prying when I didn’t join their banter during dinner, but I waved them away too. The unsettling truth was—what had happened in that office was more dangerous than any volatile confrontation.

It was intimacy. The silent kind that sneaks up on you. The terrifying kind that paralyzes you because you realize how much power the other person possesses over your self.

With Ms. Rose—Professor Rose—it was already too much for my control. The following days blurred back into routine.

But the silence between us wasn’t the same. Every time she looked at me, I remembered her words: “I can change someone’s entire world, you know.”

The truth? She already had.

Peace. That’s what the orphanage had become for me.

After leaving her office, I didn’t go home. My chest felt tight, my thoughts spiraled around the flicker in Ms. Rose’s eyes, and I knew I couldn’t bear to sit in my mansion with Emily hovering, Elize and Victoria pestering me, and the cold silence clawing at my sanity.

I drove to the orphanage. The atmosphere changed.

The smell of lentils wafted from Fiona’s kitchen, laughter echoed from the courtyard, and Lily came running, her arms open as if I had been gone for years.

“Avery!” she cried out, wrapping herself around my legs.

I let out a chuckle, kneeling to her level and ruffling her hair. “Missed me already, Lily? I was here last week.”

She pouted, her brows furrowing. “You’re supposed to come every single day, Avery. Otherwise, I cry big crocodile tears.”

Her dramatics made me smile. “Oh? Then I guess I’ll have to stay here forever to prevent that tragedy.”

The other kids gathered, tugging at my sleeves, chattering, their voices a joyful riot. They dragged me to the courtyard, demanded I play tag, then begged me to join their football game.

For those precious hours, I forgot about my heavy chest, forgot about the storm spinning in me. For those hours, I was theirs, running barefoot, laughing more freely than I had in weeks.

Later, Fiona pressed a plate of food into my hands. “You need to eat this, Avery. I noticed you skipping meals when you’re brooding.”

I sighed but obeyed, sitting on the mat as the kids piled around me, stealing bites from my plate as if it were a feast. Utter exhaustion caught me off guard.

Somewhere between their chatter and Lily’s tug at my sleeve, I fell asleep right there—sprawled out on one of the worn mattresses. Their warmth, their complete chaos—it was enough to knock me out.

When I woke the next morning, panic hit me like a brick. Sunlight streamed in. The orphanage was alive, Fiona scolding a group of kids, laughter echoing from the corridors.

I shot upright, heart pounding. “What time is it?” I croaked, searching for my phone.

“Eight-thirty!” Lily sang out, giggling at my wild hair.

My blood ran cold. “Eight-thirty?!”

College. Class. Ms. Rose.

“Oh, for the love of—” I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my wrinkled blazer from the corner.

I hadn’t made it home. I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes—wrinkled trousers, a half-buttoned shirt, a disaster of hair that screamed recklessness.

Fiona appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, her lips twitching between amusement and disapproval. “Running late, are we, Avery?”

I shoved my hands through my hair, muttering, “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“You could have done me the courtesy of telling me you’d be staying the night,” she observed.

“Didn’t plan it,” I said, throwing on my blazer and making a dash for the door. “Tell the kids I’ll be back later to make up for it!”

My car screeched out of the gate, spitting gravel. My reflection in the rear-view mirror made me groan. Shirt wrinkled. Collar askew. Circles under my eyes.

I could not step into my class like this. Halfway down the road, I spotted a convenience store.

I slammed on the brakes, grabbed the first pair of cheap jeans and a black t-shirt. The cashier gave me a curious look as I threw money at him and sprinted out.

“Sometimes,” I muttered to myself as I peeled tags off the clothes with my teeth, “there are no limitations to my own stupidity.”

The hallways were buzzing. I checked my phone—five minutes until class started. A wave of relief washed over me.

I wasn’t late. Yet.

But I couldn’t walk into a lecture hall, let alone Ms. Rose’s class, dressed like a crumpled mess. I sprinted down the corridor, dodging junior students.

My destination? The nearest restroom. “Please be empty,” I whispered as I shoved the door open.

It wasn’t empty. A girl from my class stood at the sink, correcting a strand of hair. She froze when she saw me storm in, clutching a bag of clothes.

I glared at her. “Out. Now.”

Her mouth opened to protest, but I took a step closer. “Now. I said now.”

She scrambled out, muttering about Von Carter arrogance. I didn’t care.

Within seconds, I was peeling off my old clothes, slipping into the new t-shirt and jeans. My movements were frantic, almost comical. At one point, the t-shirt got stuck over my head, and I cursed.

Finally, I shoved my old clothes into my backpack, washed my face, and stared at my reflection. Not perfect. My hair was unruly, my eyes tired, but I looked less disastrous.

“Oh god,” I muttered, pressing my palms against the counter. “That was so embarrassing.”

I stepped out, trying to appear composed, but adrenaline buzzed through me. My sneakers squeaked against the floor as I made my way to the lecture hall.

When I entered, a wave of relief washed over me. Ms. Rose wasn’t there.

The class buzzed with chatter. Students sat in clusters, scrolling through their phones. A few glanced at me, whispers following my presence.

I ignored them, sliding into my seat. I exhaled, tapping my fingers against the desk to steady myself.

It was unusual for her to be late. Ms. Rose was never late for class. That fact made my stomach twist with unease.

Victoria, seated ahead, turned back to glance at me. She raised her brows, reading the energy radiating off me. I sent her a look that said, Don’t ask.

Seconds dragged into minutes. Students murmured louder, exchanging glances. Tension built in the room.

I rested my chin on my hand, eyes fixed on the door. My mind replayed yesterday’s conversation—her challenging words, her gaze, the weight between us.

Now, with her absence stretching longer, unease clawed at my insides.

“Where is she, seriously?” a student whispered behind me. “Maybe she got held up.”

“Ms. Rose is never this late,” someone else muttered.

Their voices fed the tension. My leg bounced, my fingers drummed faster.

Then—the door opened. Silence fell.

Her heels clicked as she entered, her presence commanding the room. But something about her felt different. Her expression was composed, but her gaze swept the class in a way that felt sharper than usual.

And when her eyes landed on me—for a flicker—they lingered.

My throat went dry. I straightened in my seat, forcing my face into neutrality, the Von Carter mask.

But inside, I was reeling. Did she notice the exhaustion? The damp hair? The new, ill-fitting clothes? The way I avoided her gaze?

She placed her papers on the desk, adjusted her glasses, and spoke. Her voice was steady, yet there was an edge that only I seemed to catch.

“Good morning, class. I apologize for the delay.”

No explanation. Just that sentence. The murmurs died.

She began her lecture, her words smooth as ever. But my focus wavered. I couldn’t shake the feeling that her eyes flickered to me and stayed longer than necessary.

As if she could see through the impulsivity, through the chaos, through the silent storm I carried from the orphanage.

For the rest of the lecture, no matter how I tried to focus, I couldn’t escape the truth. Ms. Rose was late. And when she walked in, the world inside me shifted again.

The TA session in her office was scheduled to be routine. But as soon as I stepped inside, the moment thickened with electric tension.

She was sitting behind her desk, glasses perched on her nose, the late afternoon sunlight highlighting the lines of her face. Her gaze found me.

“Ah… Avery,” she said, leaning back, an eyebrow raised. “Sit down, please.”

I obeyed, trying to act natural, though my heart hammered.

“I have to ask you,” she began, her tone deceptive, “about this morning’s entrance.”

Her gaze sharpened, cutting through my composure. “Rushing through the corridor… the wardrobe change… care to explain the chaotic scenario?”

I blinked, scrambling for a plausible excuse. “Ah… um… just… morning chaos, Professor. Nothing important.”

She tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Chaotic, huh?” Her eyes glimmered with amusement and something sharper, judging my actions. “You expect me to believe you came from home looking like that?”

I tried to dismiss the issue, forcing a smirk. “Professor, you’re… caring far too much again. You’re not supposed to do that, remember?”

Her smirk deepened, slow and mesmerizing. She stood up, approaching me. Each step made my heart rate spike.

The air shrunk around us. “You’re mean, Avery,” she said softly, dangerously low, her voice an intoxicating drawl. “And you think that sarcasm lets you roar your orders around me. Do you understand that mistake?”

I opened my mouth to speak, words caught between panic and protest, but she wasn’t done.

Her hand reached up, grazing my neck—not harming me, but enough to make my breath hitch. Her eyes locked onto mine, focused.

She leaned closer, her lips brushing near my ear. “And nobody, Avery,” she whispered, “not even you… can stop me from caring about your well-being.”

My knees buckled. My pen fell from my nerveless hands onto the carpet, clattering as if protesting my lack of control. My throat went dry.

“I… Professor… I can’t—”

Her eyes softened—tiny, fleeting—but the possessive certainty never wavered. “You can continue being your reckless self, Avery. You can sprint through corridors, change clothes, vanish into chaos. But I will find you. I will notice your every move. And I will care. No matter what wall you put up.”

I swallowed hard, words refusing to form. My pride, my arrogance, my control—everything I clung to—crumbled under her attention.

“You… you can’t just claim my emotions—” I tried again, stammering, the protest hollow.

Her lips curved into that signature, unreadable smile. “I can. And I do.”

The small room seemed to vibrate with the tension. I looked away, trying to collect my composure, but her presence lingered, beating in my pulse, consuming every thought.

I bent down, retrieving my pen, gathering a semblance of normalcy. “Yes, Professor,” I said, my voice hesitant. “Understood.”

She straightened up, posture untouchable. But the flicker—the softness in her dark eyes—remained, like a spark threatening to ignite a blaze inside me.

The rest of the session passed in a haze. I organized notes, typed emails, made lists, but my mind was on her—the dangerous way she cared, the reckless way she claimed control even when I tried to be untouchable.

Every time our hands brushed, every time our eyes met, the air thickened. There was nothing professional about it.

Every glance was a reminder that I was no longer the master of my universe.

By the time the session ended, my heart was still hammering. She stood, collected her notes, fixed her glasses, but the spark in her eyes never left me.

“You’re… reckless, Avery,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Then, as if deciding to break her thought, she offered a smirk. “And I like it. Just a little bit.”

I gulped, trying not to reveal the storm inside. I packed my things, avoided her gaze, and tried to act as though the world hadn’t tilted on its axis.

But the moment—the weight of her hand, the claim in her voice, her ownership over my feelings—lingered in every fiber of my being.

Even as I stumbled out, I knew one thing: Tiffany Rose had broken through all my defenses. And selfishly, against my judgment, I didn’t want her to stop.