Chapter 40

Avery’s POV

Dinner had been a siege, draining me body and soul. By the time I stumbled back to the room with Elize and Victoria, my entire being protested the continued existence of gravity.

I managed the formality of brushing my teeth before collapsing onto the bed. The two of them bickered with low ferocity over who had the bigger pillow—a pointless argument—but I did not last long enough to hear the end of their squabble.

The exhaustion was a tangible weight—the lengthy flight, the chaos of arrivals, the constant, quiet battle of glances across the formal dining hall. It drained my energy reserves more than I cared to admit.

Sleep came hard, dragging me into the kind of deep, dreamless slumber that happens when one is spent. When I opened my eyes the next morning, brilliant sunlight spilled through the heavy curtains, golden and bright.

Elize remained wrapped like a human burrito in her blanket, her face buried in the pillow. Victoria sat cross-legged on her own bed, scrolling through campus gossip on her phone.

“Avery,” Victoria announced without glancing up, her voice carrying the day’s agenda, “tour day. Museum. You ready to be educated?”

I groaned, rubbing my face, scrubbing away the lingering exhaustion. “Do I have a choice in this matter?”

“Nope,” she said, unsympathetic.

After a forgettable breakfast and a short, rattling bus ride through the ancient, cobblestoned streets of Florence, we stood in front of the grand museum. It was beautiful—carved stone archways, soaring windows, the kind of place ordinary people dream about visiting, a monument to history and art.

I had been here before. More than once, during my European circuits.

Normally, I would have been bored, strolling through halls I knew too well, reciting facts I memorized as a child. But today was not like the others.

Because she was here. Professor Tiffany Rose.

The name itself, even acknowledged in my own mind, sufficed to quicken my pulse from a sluggish beat to a reckless rhythm. She walked among the cluster of teachers at the front of the group, clipboard in hand, her elegant heels clicking against the marble floors as she began to guide flocks of students through history’s treasures.

And me? I was supposed to be paying attention, supposed to be admiring the ancient artifacts, dutifully snapping photos of weathered statues and magnificent paintings with the camera draped around my neck.

Instead, I found that my camera lens drifted to her. The defined lines of her jaw.

The soft curve of her smile when she corrected a student’s misplaced historical fact. The stunning way the sunlight filtered through the windows and turned her dark hair into a halo of spun gold.

Every click of my camera, aimed at some innocent bust or fresco, felt like an act of betrayal. Though I wanted to capture her, to freeze her entire being in frames I could keep, worship, and study forever, I knew the truth: I could not.

Not without her explicit permission. Tiffany Rose was not the kind of woman you photographed without asking first.

It would be an insult to her control. So, instead, I decided to do the next best, most chaotic thing.

I sneaked away. The main group moved ahead, clustered around a scandalous Renaissance sculpture, and I slipped through a side hallway, my heart thudding an anticipatory rhythm.

My footsteps, usually silent, echoed against the polished stone floors as I found a quiet corner of the museum—a hidden alcove where the sunlight slanted down in a golden beam, and the silence was religious. I leaned back against the wall, pulled out my phone, and typed a quick, cryptic message.

Me: Here. Pinned location. Urgent.

My finger hovered over the ‘Send’ button, debating the reckless audacity. Too risky? Too bold?

But the message was sent, the die cast. Seconds later, the unmistakable sound of her heels clicked.

I did not need to look up. I knew it was her.

She stepped into the quiet corner, her dark brow arched in question, her expression a volatile mixture of curiosity and warning. “Avery,” she said, her voice carrying just enough controlled edge to make my breath hitch. “Why are you here? You should be with your group.”

I straightened, meeting her magnificent eyes, and before the cold dread made me lose my nerve, I stepped forward and tugged her closer by the wrist, pulling her into the sunlight. “Because,” I whispered, my throat tight, “I wanted to ask you for something important.”

Her gaze sharpened, becoming focused and dangerous. “And what precisely would that be, Ms. Carter?”

I lifted the camera slightly, holding it framed between us, a silent proposition. “Can I get a photo with you?”

For a stretched second, there was silence. And then—her lips curved, slow, deliberate, and devastating.

“That’s a very expensive thing to ask for, sweetheart.”

My chest tightened at the use of the endearment. It rolled off her tongue with such effortless, casual control that it almost knocked the wind out of me, almost made me falter.

But I did not flinch. Instead, I let the Von Carter smirk take over.

“Well, Professor,” I murmured, my voice low and smooth, “I don’t usually deal in anything that’s not expensive.”

Her eyes softened for a fleeting fraction of a second, before she rolled them with a dramatic sigh, conceding the point. “You are impossible, Avery.”

“Only with you,” I corrected.

“Fine,” she relented, a touch of exhaustion in her tone, the professor winning the small battle. “One photo. Just one. And then you return to your group.”

“Deal,” I said, snatching the victory.

I lifted the heavy camera, my hand shaking with adrenaline, and angled the lens toward our faces. But before I could press the shutter, she reached out and grabbed my wrist, halting me mid-movement.

“Not like this, Avery.”

Her voice was firm. Commanding. The kind of tone that froze me in place, rendering me compliant.

She looked around, scanning the quiet hallway for witnesses. Then, her gaze landed on a narrow stone shelf set against the wall, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the window.

She nodded toward it. “There,” she said, her voice dropping. “That’s where it should be taken.”

She took the camera from my hand, walked to the shelf, and placed it there, adjusting the angle with precise care, setting the automatic timer. Then, she turned back to me, her eyes dark and challenging.

“Come here,” she ordered.

My legs moved on their own, carrying me toward her as if they had no separate will. When I stopped directly in front of her, she reached out, her hand grazing my arm before sliding up to rest lightly on my shoulder.

The touch was gentle, grounding, but it sent a cascade of sparks racing down my spine. Then, with a softness that caught me off guard, that stole my breath, she leaned in.

And pressed her lips gently to my forehead. It was not hurried.

It was not a move of pure passion. It was deliberate.

A kiss that spoke volumes without words, one that lingered just long enough to melt every protective wall I had built. A benediction.

The camera clicked from the shelf. The sound was distant, unreal, drowned beneath the frantic pounding of my own heartbeat.

I closed my eyes, breathing her in, memorizing the moment, knowing—knowing—that this forbidden frame was a treasure I would cherish for the rest of my life. When she finally pulled back, her eyes held a rare, astonishing tenderness.

And then, with that sly, familiar smirk returning to her lips, she said, “Room number?”

I froze, blinking in surprise. But instead of answering the direct question, I raised a defiant finger and pressed it against her lips, silencing her.

Her brows arched in surprise at the audacity. “Remember,” I whispered, my voice thick, low, “you challenged me to find out by myself. You love your little games of discovery.”

I smiled, the thrill of this defiance running through me. “And I fundamentally love challenges.”

For a moment, she just looked at me, her eyes unreadable, a turbulent storm of emotions swirling violently behind their dark surface. Then, slowly, that signature, devastating smirk returned, sharper than before.

“Careful, Avery,” she murmured against my fingertip. “Keep pushing, and you might just win this entire game.”

With that final, potent warning, she turned, her heels clicking as she walked back toward the museum group, leaving me standing alone in that golden beam of sunlight, my heart racing, my forehead still burning faintly where her lips had touched. One thing was certain.

This trip… this exhilarating game… this forbidden challenge—it had only just begun.

The streets of Florence breathed with life. Musicians strummed guitars under ancient archways, vendors shouted about fresh gelato, and the cobblestones beneath my shoes felt older than the concept of time itself. The rest of the student group moved in a neat, oblivious line behind the teachers, snapping hurried photos, pointing at historical buildings with wide, tourist eyes.

But my mind was already somewhere else. Every narrow alley, every flower-laden balcony, every passing child tugged my thoughts back to those beloved faces waiting oceans away—Lily with her gap-toothed grin, Fiona’s calm, steady presence, Joe’s quiet, solid guidance, the entire gaggle of children who clung to my sleeves every time I walked through the doors of the orphanage.

Their laughter followed me, a warm, constant echo I could not shake. When my eyes fell on a small, nestled toy shop between a chaotic café and a dusty bookstall, it was not a conscious decision.

It was raw instinct. I walked over to the tour coordinator, Mr. Hayes, lowering my voice to a murmur. “Sir, I… need to take care of something important and personal. Just for a little while. I promise, I’ll catch up with the group.”

The man tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smirk that implied far too much. “Personal, huh, Ms. Carter?”

I folded my arms, arching a single brow the way only a Von Carter could pull off when demanding compliance. “Important personal, Mr. Hayes.”

He chuckled, seeing the futility of the fight, and waved me off. “Go. You’ve earned that tiny bit of freedom, I suppose. Besides, I doubt I could stop you if I tried, Avery.”

I grinned, relief washing over me. “Thank you, sir.”

The tiny bell above the shop door jingled as I slipped inside. The air was thick with the scent of wood polish and sweet sugar, and the shelves were packed with small treasures—plush toys, hand-painted wooden puzzles, delicate dolls, even racks of illustrated Italian storybooks.

But it was the back corner that drew my attention. A sophisticated laser projector sat behind a glass display case, the kind of device that could transform a blank, boring room into something magical—a vibrant galaxy of stars, the mysterious depths of the ocean, a shifting sky.

I pictured Lily’s sharp gasp of delight, the way the rest of the kids would pile onto the floor, wide-eyed, pointing at every shimmering light as if I had personally handed them the entire universe to explore. “Perfect,” I whispered, and asked the shopkeeper to wrap the expensive projector.

My gaze caught on other items too—a delicate, strong silver chain for Fiona, understated yet solid, like her spirit. A sturdy, elegant watch for Joe, who never complained about the time he dedicated to the children, though he gave it all away selflessly.

And toys, so many more toys, my arms filling with paper bags that tugged at my shoulders. That was when I heard it.

A voice that slid through the shop air like velvet dragged over steel. “Well, well… someone is playing hooky and is out shopping.”

My breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly, knowing with a sinking certainty who it was.

Tiffany. She leaned against the wooden doorframe, her arms crossed, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Her lips quirked in that maddening, familiar half-smile that was always both a taunt and a test. I swallowed hard, clutching the heavy bags to my chest. “I’m not shopping for myself, Professor.”

Her brow lifted, sharp and knowing. “No? For whom, then? Your vast collection of rare books?”

I exhaled, my voice softening without my permission, a betrayal I could not stop. “No. For the children, Tiffany. For the orphanage.”

Her smirk faltered, replaced by something warmer, something tender, something that twisted in my chest. She stepped forward, her gaze flicking to the large projector box. “So Lily finally gets her galaxy of stars, hmm?”

My eyes widened in shock. “You—how do you know that?”

“Of course I know,” she said, her voice low, steady, carrying a weight that silenced my frantic questions. “Avery, do you think I wouldn’t notice? The specific way your eyes change the instant you speak of them, the secret, beautiful smile you try to hide when their names slip from your lips…”

Her words left me feeling bare, exposed to the core. I dropped my gaze, staring at the floor, trying to find steadying air. “They… they mean everything to me, Tiffany.”

“I know,” she confirmed.

She was closer now, so close her elegant perfume—soft jasmine and something darker, grounding—curled around me. “I saw it in the way you brought me there that night. The specific, intimate way you introduced me to them, as if you were handing me your fragile, beautiful heart.”

My throat tightened, a painful lump forming. I forced a sarcastic defense. “So, you’re… impressed by the volume of my generosity, huh?”

Her laugh was soft, bitter with self-awareness. “Impressed? Don’t be ridiculous, Avery. That wasn’t mere impressiveness. I’m…”

She shook her head, searching for the precise word. “I’m terrified, perhaps. Because I know exactly what it means that you let me into that guarded world. And terrified because I realized I care enough that I know I can’t simply walk away from it now.”

Her stark admission hit me harder than any physical force. For once, Tiffany Rose—the untouchable professor—looked vulnerable.

I forced a careless grin to cover the storm of emotion raging inside me. “Well then,” I said, lifting one of the shopping bags, “I guess I’ll just keep shopping and keep the terrifying challenge going. After all, Avery Von Carter doesn’t back off from terrifying things.”

Her smirk returned, though softer, more affectionate. “You are truly incorrigible, Avery.”

“And you like it,” I shot back, using the new, private word.

She tilted her head, pretending to ignore that undeniable truth. Her eyes flicked toward the shopkeeper, confirming their seclusion. “You know that absolutely nobody can see us together like this.”

I nodded, the playfulness fading from my voice, replaced by serious caution. “Of course I know. I’m not an idiot.”

For a moment, silence stretched between us, charged but laced with a new, quiet understanding. Then she sighed, stepping back, rebuilding her professional walls with precision. “Finish your shopping, Avery. I’ll see you later this evening.”

“Later,” I repeated, the word a desperate plea, though my heart was already sprinting ahead, desperate for the clock to move faster. She turned and walked away, her heels striking the cobblestones like sharp, decisive punctuation marks in a complex sentence only I was allowed to read.

I stood there, surrounded by beautiful toys and trinkets, my chest aching with a mix of longing and gratitude. She knew.

She had known about my life, my secrets, all along. And still, she stayed.

That, I realized with a beautiful clarity, was worth far more than all the ancient treasures in the museum or all the expensive trinkets in the shop. The day had been long, almost endless.

Between the detailed historical tours, the relentless chatter of students, and my own secret shopping spree, I was drained by the time I returned to the hotel room. As soon as I stepped inside, Elize and Victoria collapsed onto their respective beds.

Elize flopped onto hers like a cat starved of sleep. I did not waste a second either.

I let myself sink into the mattress, closing my eyes for a second that stretched into minutes. But my mind, wired with adrenaline, refused to rest.

Those boxes filled with toys, carefully wrapped, with the projector, the delicate chain for Fiona, the sturdy watch for Joe… all of it was sent off with a man I knew was no mere “courier.” He was one of my father’s silent, omnipresent shadows, always lurking just far enough away to give me the illusion of privacy but close enough to remind me of his dark, possessive version of care.

It was not love, not in the way I craved, but it was his way of keeping me tethered. At least the children would get their gifts soon.

That thought provided a small measure of peace. Dinner came and went in a blur of clinking silverware and forced conversation.

The dining hall buzzed with laughter, and teachers offered weary reminders about tomorrow’s schedule. Tiffany—Ms. Rose to the entire world—sat poised and unreadable at the far end, though her eyes flicked toward me once.

Just once. Long enough to make my chest ache with a sudden, sharp pain.

By the time we returned to the room, it was midnight. Victoria was half-asleep, muttering incoherently about tomorrow’s boring museum visit.

Elize was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, her suspicious, narrow eyes catching mine every now and then. I waited until the room lights dimmed, until Victoria’s steady, soft breathing signaled deep sleep.

Then I cleared my throat, keeping the sound low. “Elize,” I said, attempting to sound casual.

She turned slightly, her brow arched in inquiry. “Yes, Avery?”

I slipped quickly into my coat, tucking my phone securely into the pocket. “I need to step out for a little while.”

Her eyes narrowed, the suspicion intensifying. “Where are you going? It’s almost one in the morning.”

I plastered on my best businesslike smile—the kind I knew worked on manipulative board members twice my age. “You know we have Von Carter branches here, Elize. Offices, networks, the legal framework. I just thought… since I’m in Italy, I should check in. Make sure things are running well.”

For a moment, the suspicion lingered in her eyes. Then she sighed, muttering, “Of course. Von Carters never sleep, do they?”

I chuckled, playing the role. “Something like that, Elize.”

The second her attention shifted, I slipped out the door. The hotel corridor was silent.

I tiptoed past the teachers’ rooms, ducking my head as if the walls had eyes that might rat me out. My heart pounded—not out of fear of getting caught, but out of anticipation.

I already knew where I was going. Her.

Always her. At last, I reached the correct door.

My hand hovered, hesitating for a second, then I raised my knuckles and gave a knock. A tense pause.

Then the sound of footsteps on the carpet. The door cracked open—and there she was.

Tiffany. Her hair loose, falling around her shoulders like a dark silken frame.

Her eyes widened, first with shock, then with something sharper. Before I could offer a greeting, she grabbed my wrist and yanked me inside, slamming the door shut with a thud.

“Avery,” she hissed, her voice low with fear, “are you serious about this? What in God’s name if someone saw you entering my room?”

I leaned against the wall, the smirk tugging at my lips, refusing to apologize. “Don’t worry, Tesoro.”

Her brows shot up, a spark of danger flickering in her eyes. “Italian, huh?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest, the professional wall rebuilt.

I shrugged, feigning innocence. “Actually… someone called me that word today. I googled it. It means treasure. So here you are, my forbidden Tesoro.”

Her eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, I wondered if I had pushed her too far. The way she looked at me—like she wanted to devour me and yet hated herself for wanting to—set an all-consuming fire through my veins.

Then, without warning or further word, she shoved me backward. I stumbled onto the bed, landing with a protesting thud.

Before I could recover, she was on me, her weight pinning me down, her hands braced against the mattress on either side of my shoulders. “Do you even know,” she murmured, her voice dangerous and intoxicating, “what kind of professional and personal ruin you’re playing with?”

My breath hitched, trapped in my throat, but I refused to break eye contact. “Yes,” I whispered, my lips curling into a triumphant grin. “With fire. And I’ve never been afraid of fire.”

Her lips twitched—the hint of a conceding smile—as if she could not decide whether to strangle me or kiss me. “Tesoro,” she repeated, tasting the dangerous word. “You dare me.”

“Always,” I shot back, the word a promise.

The air between us crackled, alive with everything unsaid, everything held back. Her eyes lingered on mine, then flicked to my lips.

But it was enough. My pulse roared in my ears.

I lifted a trembling hand, brushing a stray strand of dark hair from her face. “You like the daring, Professor,” I murmured.

She caught my wrist midair, her grip firm, arresting my movement. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” I teased, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you pulled me in. You didn’t push me away.”

For a long moment, silence pressed in. Her gaze locked with mine, unwavering.

Then, she exhaled, her breath warm against my cheek. “You’re going to ruin me, Avery.”

I smiled, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might shatter. “Or save you, Tiffany. It depends on how you choose to see the chaos.”

She stared at me, long enough that I felt the weight of her silence. Then, she leaned down.

Not a kiss. But her lips brushed the shell of my ear, her whisper burning itself into my skin.

“Dangerous girl.”

Then she pulled back, her eyes gleaming with mischief and restraint. I groaned, a sound of frustration and awe of her self-control. “You drive me insane.”

Her name slipped out like a secret, an admission of faith, and for a second, her professional expression faltered. Her control cracked, enough for me to glimpse the vulnerable woman beneath the professor’s armor.

Then she straightened, pushing herself off me with calm and grace. “Go to sleep, Avery,” she said, her voice cool, firm, and detached, though her eyes betrayed the lie.

I sat up, grinning despite the loss of control. “One day soon, Tesoro,” I promised, the vow absolute, “you won’t be able to walk away so easily.”

Her smirk returned, sharp as ever, a final challenge. “We’ll see about that, Avery Von Carter.”

Sleep was supposed to have claimed me hours ago. After the exhausting day of travel, after the mundane laughter with Elize and Victoria, after sneaking into Tiffany’s room—sleep should have consumed me.

But how could it? Tiffany Rose—my professor, my untouchable, my forbidden temptation—was lying right beside me.

Her breaths were even, but not the rhythm of lost sleep. She was awake. And worse, she was watching me.

I had turned my back to her, thinking the distance might give me the illusion of safety or control. But my heart betrayed me with every frantic beat, echoing like a war drum against my ribs.

How am I supposed to sleep with her this close? The air in the bed was thick, electric with anticipation.

I could feel her presence even without looking—the way her body shifted, the brush of the fabric of her sleepwear, the scent of her perfume clinging to her skin. It was driving me insane.

I gave up the pretense and turned. Slowly. Carefully.

As if the world might shatter if I moved too fast. And then—my breath left me.

She was fully facing me, her eyes locked on mine, steady, unreadable, and focused. For one suspended, infinite moment, we simply stared at each other in the dim light.

The silence was deafening, louder than any spoken confession. I felt it—that invisible charge that surged between us.

Like a wire strung tight, sparking with every stolen glance, every unsaid word, every forbidden brush of skin. I wanted to whisper something reckless, something dramatic—the kind of thing Avery Von Carter was famous for saying.

But doubt tangled my tongue. What if she thinks I’m too desperate?

What if she laughs at my vulnerability? What if she pulls away?

So I smiled, trying to mask the hurricane raging inside me, closed my eyes as if sleep had claimed me, and prayed my thundering heart would not give me away. But Tiffany was never one to let me hide.

In a swift movement, she pulled me toward her. My body collided with hers, and before I could manage a gasp, she was above me, her dark hair falling like a silken curtain around my face, her eyes burning with raw emotion.

“Avery…” she breathed, the sound low, dangerous, and intoxicating. And then her lips crashed into mine.

The kiss was not tentative or exploratory. It was fire.

Urgent. Desperate. As if she had been holding herself back for far too long and had decided to let go.

I was lost in the heat. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, as though we could erase the boundaries of our reality with force.

My fingers dug into her waist, clinging to her like a necessary anchor in a storm. Her lips moved against mine with a hunger that left me trembling, every nerve alive, every coherent thought obliterated.

And then she abandoned my lips, trailing a line of fire down the curve of my neck. My breath hitched, a guttural sound escaping me.

A moan. She stilled.

Savoring the sound. Then I felt her smile, slow and devastating, against my skin.

“Now this…” she whispered, her voice husky, teasing, “…this is my favorite sound, Avery.”

Her words sent shivers racing down my spine. I wanted more—needed more.

But before I could beg, before I could surrender to her control, something deep inside me snapped back into defiance. I was Avery Von Carter.

I was not going to let her take all the control, no matter how much I adored the way she did it. With a burst of defiant strength, I flipped her.

One second she was dominant, the next she was beneath me, her eyes wide with surprise and something much darker, something delighted. I pinned her wrists against the sheets, leaning close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Do you give me permission for access to this forbidden territory…?” I whispered, my voice low, daring, trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration. Her eyes fluttered closed, a sign of her submission, and when she opened them, I saw it—vulnerability, longing, surrender.

“You remember the rule…” she breathed, her voice cracking, emotionally raw.

“Of course,” I murmured, my voice heavy with meaning. “How could I forget?”

And then—the moment that shattered me, remade me, and left me undone, happened. She whispered, so soft, so desperate I almost thought I imagined it, “Make me yours, Von Carter.”

The world stopped spinning. My soul felt like it left my body.

My breath caught as if the air had turned too heavy to inhale. I had imagined many things, but never this—never Tiffany Rose, the untouchable, the ever-in-control, whispering those words of surrender to me.

I looked down at her, my heart aching with sudden tenderness, my hands trembling. She, who had always been the consuming storm, was now offering me her calm.

She, who had always commanded and led, was asking me to guide. “Tiffany…” My voice cracked, raw with emotion.

“Do you even know the dangerous weight of what you’re asking me?” Her eyes softened, and she reached up, her fingers brushing my cheek with fragile tenderness.

“I know exactly what I’m asking,” she said. “I’m asking you, Avery Von Carter—reckless, dramatic, impossible Avery—to make me forget everything else. Just for tonight. Just us. Here.”

In that shattering moment, I swore to myself that I would. I bent, claiming her lips again, slower and deeper, pouring into the kiss every ounce of feeling I had tried to hide.

Love. Desire. Fear.

Hope. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, as if she never wanted to let go.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was no Italy, no university rules, no lines between professors and students.

There was only Tiffany and me, two colliding souls tangled in the dark, daring fate to tear us apart. Every movement, every sigh, every whispered word etched itself into me like fire on skin.

And when we stilled, breathless, exhausted, and tangled together beneath the weight of everything unspoken, I realized something terrifying and wonderful— She was not just Ms. Rose anymore.

She was not just Tiffany. She was, fundamentally and finally, mine.