Chapter 38

Tiffany’s POV

The door clicked shut behind me, the sound final and profound. Silence, my usual companion, greeted me with a heavy, oppressive weight.

My apartment was a study in order: neat, minimalist, every object serving a function. It was the sanctuary where I retreated to process the noise of lectures and the draining demands of the academic world.

But tonight, the silence did not soothe. It magnified the frantic, erratic rhythm of my heart.

I slipped off my heels, setting them side-by-side by the door—a gesture of control in a night of spiraling chaos. My bag dropped onto the console table, and my fingers lingered on the clasp.

A voice remained a live wire in my head, the sound of a promise echoing with reckless certainty: “I’ll wait. However long it takes. For you. Tiffany.”

My name on her lips. Spoken with a tenderness and possession that was unwarranted.

It was a thread pulling at the seams of my tailored life, threatening to unravel it all. I crossed the room, the rug muffling my footsteps, and poured a glass of red wine.

Bold. Decisive. I hoped the tannins and the alcohol would provide the anchor to steady my nerves.

I settled onto the white sofa, staring out at the glittering city lights beyond the window. The skyline looked magnificent, untouchable—a reflection of the emotional distance I maintained in my life.

But my thoughts were tactile, immediate, close. I touched my lips, the sensation of them still betraying me.

My own betrayal lingered there—the kiss I had initiated on the hilltop under the gaze of the stars. What was I thinking?

Professors do not kiss their students. Women like me, women weighed down by responsibility, by the Kingston legacy, by an empire looming over our shadows—we do not allow ourselves such reckless indulgences.

Yet, the memory was a fierce rush. A rattling knock shook me from my internal spiral.

It wasn’t the door; it was a memory knocking inside my chest. The orphanage.

The raw way her eyes had softened when those tiny children swarmed me. The electric chill of the champagne under the expanse of the night sky. The dangerous reverence in her voice as she whispered my name.

I squeezed my eyes shut, sinking back against the cushions, the wine glass held tight. “What have you done?” I muttered to the empty air.

My phone buzzed against the surface of the coffee table. Startled, I reached for it, and the name flashing on the screen solidified the fear creeping through my veins.

Mother.

I exhaled, collecting the fragments of my composure before I answered. “Hello, Mother.”

“Tiffany, darling,” came her warm, lilting voice, a voice that could charm the highest society and cut to the quick. “It’s been too long since you called. How was your birthday?”

My chest tightened, a knot of guilt and anxiety forming there. A pause stretched, thick and dangerous, before I answered, yet vaguely enough. “It was… different, Mother.”

“Different?” she pressed, her tone playful and investigative. “Not one of those lonely professor birthdays, I hope. Did your colleagues manage to tear themselves away from their manuscripts to celebrate you?”

I hesitated, the lie of omission heavy on my tongue. Then I said, softly, truthfully, “Not colleagues, no. But… someone did.”

“Someone?” she asked, her voice sharpening, her maternal curiosity piqued. “Oh, love. You sound strange. Who is this someone?”

The full, shocking truth caught, burning, in my throat. What could I possibly say?

A student, Mother. But not just any student. She’s fire and chaos, she is unexpected laughter and the sharp edge of heartbreak all compressed into one unstoppable force. She terrifies me, and yet she makes me feel alive in the same breath.

Instead, I used the lie I had prepared. “Avery. She’s… one of my teaching assistants. She insisted on a celebration.”

“A student assistant?” Mother’s voice softened, but was tinged with concern now. “Darling, you sound… shaken. Does this girl mean something to you? More than just a student?”

I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, feeling the walls of my control crumble. “She shouldn’t. She absolutely shouldn’t.”

“But she does,” Mother said, her voice dropping, filled with a terrifying, knowing certainty. “I hear it. It’s the same way I once spoke of your father before we were married. The way I hesitated to say his name, like it was too heavy, too precious to touch.”

That analogy pierced me. I swallowed hard, gripping the wine glass. “It’s complicated, Mother. She’s a student. I’m her professor.”

“Life always is,” she replied, unexpected. “But if this girl makes you forget the suffocating weight you carry, even for a fleeting moment, then maybe… don’t run from it. Look at it.”

I laughed, the sound bitter and raw. “You sound as though you want me to step into professional ruin and chaos.”

“No,” she said, her voice strong, maternal, and demanding. “I want you to step into life, my darling. Your own life. You’ve hidden long enough. Teaching, hiding in your books, keeping to yourself… I know you. And I know loneliness when I hear it in your voice. You built a shield out of that PhD.”

Her words sank deep, hitting a target I guarded. Loneliness.

Yes, it had been my constant, quiet companion for years. But now… she had appeared, a whirlwind with a Von Carter name, and she had cracked that shield open.

“Mother,” I whispered, pleading for guidance. “What if I lose myself in this? What if I lose my control?”

“Then maybe it’s a part of you worth losing,” she murmured, her voice softening. “Think about it, darling. And call me soon. Let me know what you decide.”

The line clicked off, leaving me in the heavy, amplified silence. I set the phone down, staring at it as if it might combust.

My mother’s voice still echoed in the room, mixing and warring with those final words from the hilltop. “You don’t understand what this could cost.”

“I don’t care. If it’s you, I don’t care.”

I pressed the glass of wine to my lips, but the red liquid tasted like nothing. My body hummed with something far stronger—a volatile mix of fear, aching longing, and desire.

And yet, beneath it all, there was a dangerous, exhilarating truth I could no longer deny. She was no longer merely a student in my lecture hall.

She had, in a single day and a single kiss, become the exact, terrifying storm I both dreaded and, devastatingly, craved.

❖ 

The Next Morning.

When I arrived at the university the next day, I expected her to be waiting for me. That was the predictable student—restless, relentless, dramatic, waiting like a coiled spring.

But she wasn’t outside my office door. She wasn’t lurking in the hall.

And somehow, the lack of her presence unsettled me far more than any dramatic ambush could have. It felt strategic.

I carried on with my morning, forcing myself through two lectures, through a departmental meeting, through endless, mind-numbing trivialities. But my mind was a fractured, disorganized mess that kept circling back to the same point.

Where was she? What was she doing?

Finally, during a lull in my office hours, I pulled out my phone. A sharp, distinctive knock sounded at the door.

I looked up, my pulse skipping a beat, an unwanted rush of adrenaline flooding my system. And there she was.

Calm, collected, impeccably dressed, with that mischievous glint in her eyes—as if she knew exactly what I’d been seconds away from doing. “Professor,” she said, her voice a low purr. “May I come in? I have a question about the next lecture.”

I raised a defensive brow. “Since when do you formally ask permission for anything, Ms. Carter?”

She smirked, stepping inside without waiting for my answer, the door clicking shut behind her. “Since I realized you notice everything I do. Even the things I shouldn’t. It was a test, Professor.”

Her words mirrored what I had told her yesterday, an echo of our conversation, and I felt my lips curve upward in spite of myself. She placed a small, simple box on my desk.

It wasn’t wrapped, just plain. “What’s this?” I asked, suspicious, my guard rising.

“A gift, Professor,” she said, her eyes holding mine.

My heart thudded hard against my ribs. I opened the box slowly.

Inside lay a fountain pen—sleek, elegant, crafted from polished steel, and, I saw with a jolt, engraved with my initial: T.

I looked up at her, searching her face, trying to discern the motive. “Why?”

Her smirk softened, dissolving into something else—something raw, honest, and sincere. “Because every time you hold it, maybe you’ll think of me. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll remind you that someone sees you. Not the professor. Not the Kingston name. Just… Tiffany.”

The air between us grew heavy, thick with meaning. My chest tightened, my throat constricted.

I wanted to scold her for the disregard of protocol. I wanted to laugh at her audacity. I wanted to push her away and reinforce the boundaries.

But devastatingly, I also wanted to pull her closer and demand that she repeat my name. Instead, the only word that escaped was the one I often used to define her. “Menace.”

She leaned in, close enough that I felt the warm current of her breath against my cheek, close enough that the scent of her cologne was intoxicating. “Yours, Professor. All yours.”

And just like that, my walls cracked, yielding to the pressure.

The fountain pen still lay where she had left it on my desk, glinting under the lamplight of my study. Its weight felt far heavier than polished steel should ever be.

My initials shimmered under the light, mocking me with their air of permanence. “You shouldn’t have,” I said, my voice steady, but softer than I had intended.

She leaned back in the chair across from me, her legs crossed with the arrogant ease of someone who believed rules were only for the dull. That infuriating smirk played on her lips. “Oh, but I did, Professor. And don’t bother to lie. You adore it.”

I narrowed my eyes in a futile attempt at intimidation. “Confidence is a dangerous, often misleading trait, Ms. Carter.”

“Confidence,” she corrected with a challenging tilt of her head, “is my most effective charm.”

A laugh escaped past my guard before I could capture it. I covered the transgression with a sip of water, but the grin widened, the victory secured.

She leaned forward, her forearms resting on her knees, her gaze sharp, direct, and unrelenting. “Speaking of charm… you owe me something in return for this handsome, personalized gift.”

My brows lifted in a silent challenge. “Do I?”

“Yes.” She tapped her chin, then snapped her fingers as if recalling something vital. “Ah, yes. Your number. Your private number.”

I blinked at her, caught between disbelief and a rising amusement. “Excuse me? My what?”

“You heard me, Professor.” She straightened, chin high, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Your actual, private number. Not the university office line that gets filtered through four indifferent assistants and one overwhelmed secretary. I want the real one. The one that buzzes at midnight. The one that you keep by your bedside table.”

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair, folding my arms. “You are outrageous.”

“Thank you.” She winked, unaffected.

“That was not intended as a compliment.”

“It sounded like one to my ears.”

Her dramatics were a calculated strategy, I knew. The way she shifted in her chair, tapping her fingers against the armrest like a drummer playing her own rhythm.

She was enjoying this far too much. “You can’t be serious about this,” I said, the formality of my tone a last-ditch effort at a boundary.

“Oh, but I’m always serious when it comes to you, and you know it.” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you really want me to spend my evenings sending desperate, pleading little emails to your academic inbox? Waiting for the delayed mercy of a professor’s reply? My poor, fragile heart can’t take such professional cruelty.”

I bit down on a treacherous smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

Her hand flew to her chest in mock, over-the-top agony. “Ridiculous? Me? Oh, professor, that wounds me. Right here.”

She pointed to her heart, her expression exaggerated, though her eyes never left mine, focused on the final objective. I rolled my eyes, though warmth betrayed me under my composed exterior. “You are relentless.”

“And you,” she countered, taking control of the narrative, “are avoiding the inevitable.”

“I am protecting the integrity of my position,” I corrected, my tone sharper than I intended, trying to inject the last vestige of professionalism.

The smirk softened into something gentler, her theatrics dissolving for a moment. “From what? From me?”

The question lingered in the air of my office, sharp, honest, and devastating. My lips parted, but no logical answer came out.

I looked away, focusing instead on the fountain pen resting in its case. She let the silence stretch, forcing me to confront the honesty.

Then—because she never allowed silence to win a battle—she clapped her hands together once. “Fine. If you won’t give it to me willingly, then I will have to earn it.”

I arched a brow, intrigued despite myself. “Earn it? How?”

“Exactly.” She leaned back, her triumphant smirk returning. “By sheer persistence, irresistible charm, and perhaps a necessary touch of blackmail.”

That startling honesty finally drew a genuine, surprised laugh out of me. “Blackmail? Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Her eyes sparked with intelligent glee. “I could, for instance, inform the entire faculty council about how their most respected, intimidating professor has a scandalous taste for red velvet cake at midnight. Imagine the headlines: Professor Rose and the Secret Bakery Affair.”

I pressed my lips together hard, suppressing another laugh, refusing to yield the battle. “That’s hardly scandalous, darling.”

“Fine, then. How about this?” She lowered her voice, her gaze piercing, landing a direct strike. “I could whisper to the entire student body that the ever-intimidating Professor Rose isn’t made of impenetrable steel at all. That she laughs easily. That she smiles. That she… lets a certain student call her Tiffany.”

My heart thudded, a spike of adrenaline. Too close. Too real.

I straightened in my chair, feigning composure. “You wouldn’t dare risk your own academic career, dear.”

She leaned forward, her smirk devilish and unafraid. “Try me, professor.”

For a charged moment, we simply stared at each other, the air taut like a pulled bowstring. Then I sighed, an admission of defeat, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You won’t ever give this up, will you?”

“Not in this lifetime. Not now.”

I considered her—this whirlwind of chaos and charm sitting brazenly across from me. She was dangerous. She was relentless.

She was everything my curated life had taught me to fear and avoid. And yet, somehow, my fingers reached for the notepad on my desk.

Slowly. Deliberately. I wrote down the digits with precise strokes, each number feeling like an unspoken surrender.

When I slid the piece of paper across the mahogany surface of the desk, those eyes widened with triumphant, pure delight. “You’re actually giving it to me?” she asked, her voice hushed, disbelieving.

“Don’t make me regret this decision,” I warned, my voice firm.

She snatched the paper, holding it like a stolen relic. “Oh. You wound me to the core. As if I’d ever give you a reason to regret our connection.”

I arched a skeptical brow. “You’ve given me plenty of reasons already.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, but this time her triumphant grin softened into something tender, something heartbreakingly sincere. “Then let me spend the rest of this lifetime balancing those scales.”

I shook my head, exhaling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” she countered, tucking the paper safely into her jacket pocket, “are mine now. At least, in my phone contacts.”

“Don’t twist this small concession into something it’s not,” I said sharply, though my voice betrayed a tremor.

“Too late,” she replied with a wide grin, pulling out her own phone. “Smile, Professor. You’ve just made my entire year.”

And then, with unnecessary, theatrical flourish, she typed in the digits. My personal phone buzzed on the desk a second later, a notification flashing:

“Now you can’t ignore me, Professor. I have the ultimate weapon.”

I looked at the bold, ridiculous message, then directly at her. My lips twitched despite my efforts.

She leaned back, satisfied, her eyes gleaming with victory. “See? Was that so difficult?”

“Yes,” I said, flatly.

But even as I said it, I knew the deepest truth. It hadn’t been hard. It had been, in every sense of the word, inevitable.

Because she always knew how to undo me.

The pen lay where I had left it on my desk, glinting in the lamplight of my study. But my eyes were fixed not on the pen, nor the critical papers spread across the surface.

No, they were locked on the small, traitorous device lying beside them—my phone. It had been buzzing. Repeatedly. Insistently.

The clock on the wall read 12:07 a.m. I closed my eyes and exhaled, willing the persistent vibration to stop.

It did not. When I gave in and reached for it, the contact name nearly dragged a laugh out of me, though I bit it back.

Dramatic Student Extraordinaire. She had saved herself in my phone when she had borrowed it earlier to “test if the number actually works.”

Typical. The call rang out once. Twice. By the third, I had managed to convince myself not to answer.

I am her professor. This is a professional and ethical line I should not cross.

By the fourth, my resolve cracked. I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear. “Avery.”

Her voice, bright, clear, and awake, rushed through the line. “You actually picked up! I won the bet!”

I closed my eyes tightly at the sound of that breathless victory. I had warned her, hadn’t I? That permission was a dangerous weapon.

Yet hearing it on her lips, spoken with intimacy, made something deep inside me unravel. “It’s past midnight,” I said, keeping my tone even, attempting to sound bored. “Normal, well-adjusted people sleep at this hour.”

“Normal people,” she said, “are universally boring. And you, are not boring. And neither, clearly, am I.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, leaning back in my chair. “Do you have any remote idea how inappropriate this late-night call is?”

“Yes,” she said, without a fraction of a second’s hesitation.

I blinked into the darkness of my study. “And yet you’re still calling me?”

“Exactly, Tiffany.” Her confidence was maddening, her simple logic unassailable.

The silence stretched as I tried to summon the energy to deliver a comprehensive, academic lecture on boundaries. But the words simply would not come.

Instead, I asked, the question softer than intended, almost a plea, “Why are you calling?”

For a moment, all her usual dramatics faded. Her voice dipped, becoming warm, sincere, and close. “Because I wanted to hear your voice. Simple as that. I wanted to know you were awake and thinking.”

The raw, unadorned honesty in her tone sent a shiver through me. I pressed my lips together, fighting the warmth creeping up my neck. “You’re reckless,” I murmured, a faint accusation.

“And you’re still on the phone with me,” she shot back, confident.

I opened my mouth, closed it again. She was devastatingly right.

“You should hang up immediately,” I told her, my voice attempting to sound firm.

“Should I?” she countered, challenging me.

“Yes, you absolutely should.”

“But do you want me to?”

The question lodged itself directly in my chest. I leaned my head against the back of my chair, staring blindly at the ceiling. My pulse hammered a frantic, undeniable answer.

“You’re impossible,” I whispered, the impossibility of the situation finally overwhelming me.

On the other end, she laughed—a low, victorious, but somehow affectionate sound. “And yet, you’re still talking to me. Admit it. You would miss me if I stopped calling unexpectedly.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snapped, though my voice tragically lacked its usual sharp, professional edge.

There was a final, pregnant pause. Then, with all the signature dramatic flair only she could conjure, she let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Oh my God.”

“What now?”

“I just realized it. I’m the very first student ever to have your private number, aren’t I? No—don’t answer that, I already know. I can hear the confession in your silence, Professor.”

I closed my eyes, resigning myself to my defeat. “You are truly insufferable.”

“And you like me anyway.”

The breathtaking audacity of this girl was unparalleled. I knew I should have ended the call with professional finality.

I should have reminded her sharply of boundaries, of rules, of the massive professional chasm that lay between professor and student. But instead, I found myself whispering, a soft command, “Go to bed.”

Her reply came with a warm, satisfied grin I could hear clearly through the phone line. “Goodnight, professor.”

The call ended, and I slowly lowered the phone, staring at the darkened screen, my own exhausted reflection staring back at me. I knew, deep down, I should have deleted her number.

Instead, I set the phone down gently, my chest unsteady, and whispered into the cold silence of my study: “Goodnight.”

By the time the sun began to peek over the city skyline, my phone was flooded. Not with desperate, embarrassing missed calls, thankfully, but with a stream of text messages that defied belief.

6:12 a.m. – Did you dream of me, Professor? Be honest.

6:15 a.m. – I dreamt of you. You were scolding me in a tropical forest. Don’t ask why. I think it means something profound.

6:17 a.m. – Also, what do you eat for breakfast, Tiffany? I need to know this vital, life-altering information.

6:20 a.m. – If you dare to ignore me, I’ll show up at your office with a metric ton of helium-filled balloons. And you know, deep down, that I will absolutely do it.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. The audacity. The sheer, magnificent audacity of her.

Yet even as I read through her chaotic, unhinged nonsense, I found myself smiling—a small, private, unforgivable smile. When she finally strolled into my office during office hours, smug, unrepentant, and looking criminally charming, I was ready.

“You’ve flooded my phone, Ms. Carter,” I said, holding it up like evidence of a crime.

She placed a hand on her heart, her eyes twinkling. “Flooded? No, Professor. I merely sprinkled your morning with unexpected, essential joy.”

“Avery.” My tone was sharp, a final warning, though my lips betrayed me and twitched.

She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “You read every single one of them, didn’t you?”

My silence was a resounding, pathetic answer. Her grin widened, victorious. “I knew it. I always know.”

I set the phone down with precision. “You are not, under any circumstances, to abuse the privilege of having my private number.”

“Privilege, huh?” she echoed, savoring the word like fine wine. “So, you admit that sharing it with me is something special.”

“I admit nothing of the sort,” I retorted, attempting to look disinterested.

She tilted her head, the smirk tugging at her lips. “You admit everything. You just manage to do it without ever opening your mouth.”

For a charged moment, we simply looked at each other, the air thick with unspoken agreements. And then, with an exasperated sigh that was half surrender, I said, “You’re absolutely going to be the professional death of me.”

The smirk softened into something dangerously tender, something heartbreakingly sincere. “Or, Tiffany,” she whispered, her voice low and intimate, “the reason you finally start living.”

Her words landed like a physical strike to my chest, stealing my breath. I froze, unable to look away from her captivating gaze.

She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly where my deepest fear and my strongest longing resided.

And worst of all… so did I.