Chapter 53

Avery’s POV

The chandeliers of the Von Carter mansion cast a cold light across the ballroom, each crystal drip a mocking tear in the face of my private turmoil. The imported Italian roses smelled exquisite, but their perfume suffocated, mingling with the heavy scent of old money, champagne, and the expensive lies we lived.

Tonight was my birthday, a grotesque exhibition of wealth and power orchestrated by my parents, a night I dreaded—until now. I stood there, the reluctant princess, smiling the polished, empty smile that had become second nature.

I exchanged pleasantries, enduring the ritual of compliments and questions about my future. It was all noise, a glittering, meaningless static that usually swallowed me whole.

But tonight, a new frequency cut through the static, a silent, vital hum: Tiffany Rose Kingston. She was the gravity in my universe tonight, a secret star hidden among the galaxy of socialites.

She was here, a professor among the guests, and the anticipation of her presence had my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate to escape the cage of my composure. Then, she materialized.

The room did not dim, but the focus of my world warped. The crystal light, the golden embroidery, the cacophony of voices—it all retreated, leaving only her.

She moved into the hall in a gown the color of midnight, satin clinging like liquid shadow. Her hair, usually the picture of academic neatness, was free, a dark cascade that kissed her shoulders.

She did not look like a professor; she looked like a celestial event. Divine. The word fell short, but nothing else came close.

I forgot the dean was speaking, forgot how to maintain the graceful shadow I had perfected. Every breath caught in the tightening vise of my chest.

She was breathtaking, intimidating, and unaware of the earthquake she caused simply by standing there. Dean Frischer finally released me, his warm, paternal smile dissolving the last thread of my polite attention.

“Happy birthday, Avery. You’ve grown into quite a remarkable young woman. Your parents must be so proud.”

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate that,” I managed, the words a mechanical reflex. Ms. Collway, sharp and formal, approached next.

“Happy birthday, Ms. Von Carter.”

“Thank you, Ms. Collway,” I replied, my gaze sliding past her, because then the world tilted on its axis, and she stood before me. Tiffany.

She approached with that quiet, devastating grace unique to her. Her smile was professional, restrained, a perfect barrier.

“Happy birthday, Ms. Von Carter. Wishing you all the best for the year ahead.” Her voice, cool and steady, was a dagger to my heart.

Just a professor. Nothing more. It was the boundary we both knew, the line I was desperate to erase.

A reckless fire ignited in my veins. I did not think; I acted.

My hand, holding the glass of wine, tilted. The crimson splash landed, stark against her pale skin and the dark satin of her dress.

Her eyes widened, startled, the composed professor dissolving. “Avery—”

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” I cut in, a practiced tremor in my voice. I leaned in, feigning panic, letting my breath brush her ear. “I wasn’t careful.” The lie tasted like exhilaration.

Ms. Collway’s sharp voice, alarmed, cut through the low murmurs around us. “Oh my God, Tiffany, you need to clean that right away, that’s red wine!”

Perfect.

“Yes, Ms. Collway,” I said, my tone slipping into control, seizing the opportunity with surgical precision. “It’s my fault. Let me take her to the restroom.”

Before Tiffany could offer a refusal—before the barrier could be erected again—another voice intervened. “It’s okay, Avery. I’ll take her.” Emily.

She stepped forward, her smile far too interested. I clenched my jaw, the polite mask of concern hardening into stone.

“Emily,” I said, my tone dropping, becoming too sharp, laced with the authority of the eldest heir. “Didn’t Mom call you earlier? Something about the seating chart for the Governor’s table?”

Emily hesitated, her brow furrowing. She knew the move; she knew the underlying threat in my reference to my mother’s command.

She knew I was lying, but she also knew defying me in public was risking Mother’s wrath. After a pause that stretched thin, she offered a tight smirk.

“Ah. Yes. You’re right, Avery. Mrs. Carter was calling me. I’d better go.”

She retreated, her footsteps echoing a small, defeated rhythm. The immediate relief was intoxicating.

I turned back to Tiffany, who still looked uneasy, wiping at the stain. “It’s my fault,” I said again, gentler, dropping my voice. “Please, let me take care of it. Just for a moment.”

She seemed caught between duty and necessity, but Ms. Collway’s hurried wave of dismissal sealed her fate. “Go, Tiffany. Don’t let it set. Avery will handle it, she’s the host.”

It was done. I led her away, down the corridor that felt miles long, past the silent, judging faces in the gilded oil paintings.

Every step was a drumbeat, my heart pounding with the stolen opportunity. This was not about wine; it was about time—a few breaths of privacy in this exposed empire.

We reached a side restroom, its marble counters gleaming, empty and silent. The instant I closed the door, the muffled hum of the party dissolved.

We were encased in a vacuum, two entities cut off from the masquerade outside. She turned to me, her composure breaking.

Her eyes held a mixture of accusation and curiosity. “Avery… what are you doing? That was deliberate.”

I reached for a thick napkin, my fingers brushing hers, ignoring the wine for the spark of skin contact. “Cleaning up my mess,” I countered, forcing calm into my voice, though my senses roared. “What else?”

The soft, golden light of the restroom wrapped around us, amplifying the silence. Her perfume, a light jasmine, mingled with my racing heat.

The silk of her gown swayed as she leaned against the marble. I met her gaze, dropping the towel.

I did not need it. I only needed her.

“So…” she began, her voice dropping to a velvet purr, her lips curving into that sly, knowing smile that left me flustered and captivated.

She tilted her head, challenging me. “You planned the accident to get me alone. This was your plan, wasn’t it?”

The words made my stomach clench. The professor was gone; the woman who looked at me with dangerous warmth had taken her place.

I took a deliberate step closer, my heels whispering against the floor. The distance between us evaporated.

“If I say yes,” I murmured, my voice husky and charged with all the longing I carried, “then what would you do?”

Her breath caught, a tiny, ragged sound that echoed in the silence. She did not step back.

Instead, she leaned in just enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “Then…” she whispered back, her voice a confession against the marble counter, “then I suppose… I won’t mind.”

That tiny admission, that break in her formidable restraint, sent a tidal wave of heat through me. I felt wanted—not as the Von Carter heiress, but as Avery, the girl who adored her.

I smiled, a genuine, raw smile that rarely saw the light of day. My voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur.

“I want to feel your birthday wish in between my bones, Tiffany.” A sudden, sharp look of amusement and panicked restraint crossed her face.

Her hand shot to my chest, a gentle, correcting push that made me stumble half a step back. “Not at all, Avery,” she scolded, though the smile threatened to crack her professional veneer. “You are reckless, and you will ruin my makeup, and we don’t have enough time. Right?”

She lingered on the last word, a challenge and a question. The intimacy of my name—Avery—rolling off her tongue like something forbidden and soft, made my pulse race.

I bit down on my lip, trying to hold her gaze, fighting the urge to close the distance she had just created. “Then at least,” I pleaded, my voice cracking with the intensity of the moment, “please, wish me happy birthday properly, so that I’m satisfied.”

She let out a small, dramatic gasp, her eyes widening in mock scandal, before narrowing playfully. “Www-” she dragged the sound out, a low tease, “-that sounded not holy, Ms. Von Carter.”

I burst out laughing, a sound that felt loud and joyful in the quiet space. She was impossible, and I was in love.

Before I could speak, she slipped forward, closing the distance herself. Her arms wrapped around me, a sudden, warm, intoxicating contact.

My face pressed into the scented crook of her neck; the silk of her gown felt soft against my skin. I felt the steady thud of her heart, now quickened, against mine.

“Happy birthday, Avery,” she whispered against my ear, her voice full of a sincerity that stripped away the fire, leaving only aching tenderness. “Not only that—I wish you success, joy, and every happiness this world has to offer. I want you to shine, to conquer, to become everything you dream of.”

The warmth of her breath, the sincerity of her words—it was the first honest birthday wish I had received. Then, with an excruciating slowness, she tilted her head and pressed her lips to my forehead.

The warmth lingered, a deep, seeping comfort. And then, she moved the fraction of an inch that changed everything: the lightest, most delicate peck against my lips.

A ghost of a kiss, fleeting, yet it set every nerve on fire. Her eyes, when she pulled back, were soft, filled with a vulnerability I had never seen her display.

“Apart from these… wishes,” she said, her tone shifting into a velvety, secret promise, “you’ll get the rest late at night. And you know where to come.”

I swallowed hard, nodding, unable to form words. That was all the confirmation I needed.

That was the real gift. She composed herself, turning to the sink to run the water.

The sound brought us crashing back to reality. She looked at me in the mirror, her reflection smiling.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice soft but firm, a return to the necessary caution. “Before someone comes looking for the birthday girl.”

I stood there a moment longer, memorizing her—this unguarded, yielding, playful woman. Together, we stepped back into the golden-lit lie of the ballroom, carrying a secret that was more precious than all the Von Carter jewels combined.

The hum of the party filtered back in, loud and immediate, the chandeliers casting their dazzling, demanding light. But the world had shifted.

The air felt heavier, sweeter, charged with a current no one else could perceive. Tiffany walked beside me, her composure impeccable, but her hand brushed against mine—an impossible, heart-tumbling connection.

We paused in a quiet alcove, a transitional space before rejoining the throng. Her eyes searched mine, softer now, vulnerable.

She wet her lips, hesitating. “Avery… are you going to introduce me to your parents?” The question was a fragile ornament, ready to shatter.

But there was no hesitation left in me. “Without any confusion, my tesoro,” I said, the Italian endearment spilling out, feeling right. “I’ll tell them.”

Her lips parted, breath catching. She shook her head, the cautious professor flickering back.

“But Avery… I don’t think it’s a good time. Not at your own party.”

I stepped closer, refusing to let the moment be stolen by prudence. “No,” I said, every word laced with the iron conviction of my family, now bent to my will. “It’s the perfect one. You tell me if you’re ready, Tiffany. That’s all I need to know.”

Her eyes softened, the struggle between duty and desire visible in their depths. She exhaled, surrendering to trust.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But… don’t make it public now. Not yet. Just… introduce me formally. As your professor.”

I nodded, with understanding. “I won’t. It’ll be just between us until you’re ready.”

Silence cocooned us again. I leaned in, closing the distance, resting my forehead against hers.

Her skin was warm, her breath mingling with mine. I kissed her forehead, sealing the vow.

Then, unable to stop myself, I let my mouth slide, capturing hers in a kiss that was tender yet fueled by the fierce, protective fire I now felt for her. She did not pull away.

Her hands rose to my arms, anchoring herself to me, a silent admission that she needed this as much as I did. In that secret alcove, surrounded by the echoes of wealth and expectation, two souls pledged themselves to each other.

We separated just as the trumpets sounded, a flourish that drowned out the music. My mother’s voice, amplified and piercing, cut through the applause.

She stood by the birthday cake, beside my father, radiating control. “And now, my dear friends,” Mother’s voice rang out, “I have a wonderful announcement that will secure the future of the Von Carter legacy!”

A nervous energy coursed through the room. I felt Tiffany tense beside me, her hand gripping my arm.

My mother’s smile was dazzling, ruthless. “Tonight, as our Avery turns twenty-five, we are thrilled to announce her formal engagement! Avery will be marrying Auston Blake—the union of two great houses, securing the future of both the Von Carter and Blake financial empires!”

The roar of applause and gasps was deafening. It hit me like a physical blow.

Auston Blake. The arrangement had been spoken of, whispered about, but always as a distant, abstract event—never like this.

Never public. Never immediate.

My chest seized. The blood drained from my face, then roared back, burning.

My vision tunneled. She lied.

My own mother planned this and waited for this moment to spring the trap. I saw Tiffany’s face contort—a flash of shock, then immediate, protective concern.

Her eyes locked onto mine, a silent plea for composure, for escape. But composure was the last thing on my mind.

Fury, cold and blinding, eclipsed everything. I was not a puppet.

I was not a transaction. And I would not be sold to secure a financial empire.

I stepped forward, pulling my arm free from Tiffany’s grip, needing to separate myself from her for her protection, needing to stand alone and face the tyrant. The crowd parted as I walked, every eye on me.

The trumpets faded into an agonizing silence. My voice, usually controlled, trembled with raw, suppressed fury, but it was loud enough to carry through the massive hall.

“No, Mom,” I articulated, each word a shard of glass. “This is not going to happen.”

The gasps were louder this time, horrified, delicious. My mother’s ruthless smile faltered, her face freezing in a mask of shock and annoyance.

My father, standing next to her, looked like he might have a stroke. The room erupted into an immediate, polite chaos.

People started congratulating my mother, pretending not to hear me, desperate to smooth over the social catastrophe. But I ignored them all.

My eyes met my mother’s, a challenge, a declaration of war. I did not wait for her to retaliate.

I turned, scanning the room for Tiffany, who was already retreating, melting into the crowd near a pillar, her face pale but her eyes steady on mine. She gave me the slightest, nearly imperceptible shake of her head—don’t drag me into this publicly.

I knew what I had to do. I could not confront my mother here without damaging Tiffany’s career, making her the scapegoat for my rebellion.

I moved through the crowd, accepting forced congratulations, my teeth gritted, my gaze fixed on the doors leading to the western garden. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Avery, darling, congratulations! Auston is a divine catch, you know. Such a handsome man.” It was Clara Dubois, dripping diamonds and malice.

“Thank you, Clara. If you’ll excuse me, I need a moment of air. The shock, you see,” I said, a brittle, strained laugh escaping my lips.

I pushed past her, not waiting for a reply. I reached the large French doors and slipped out into the solitude of the garden.

The cool night air hit my face, a balm to the burning tension inside. I walked past manicured hedges and fountains, heading toward the small, secluded stone summerhouse at the far end of the property.

It was the one place on the estate where I knew I would be alone, a place I had retreated to since childhood. I reached the small, ivy-covered structure, my heart still racing.

I sank onto a stone bench, pulling my silk shawl tighter, trying to quiet the roar in my head. Auston Blake.

He was an acquaintance, a business partner, a means to an end for my parents. Cold, arrogant, and devoid of anything I cared about.

The thought of him touching me, of living a life bound by his name, made me feel ill. A moment later, the door to the summerhouse opened.

I did not need to turn. The air shifted, becoming sweeter, electric.

“Tiffany,” I whispered, my voice thick with relief and despair. She closed the door, plunging the small room into deeper shadow, and walked toward me.

Her face, in the faint moonlight filtering through the windows, was etched with concern. She wore no mask now; she was all raw, unguarded emotion.

She sat next to me, not touching me, but her presence was a palpable heat. “Avery,” she said, her voice low and tight. “You shouldn’t have done that. Not in public.”

“You heard her,” I managed, the control I had maintained cracking. “She announced my life, Tiffany. My entire future. She sold me to a man I despise to merge balance sheets. Did you expect me to smile and thank her?”

“No,” she admitted, her hands clasping in her lap. “But you know the cost of defying your mother on that stage. She’ll retaliate. And she will be looking for a reason. For someone to blame.”

I turned to her, desperate. “I don’t care about the cost, not if it means giving up everything—giving up you.”

She reached out, her cool hand gripping my jaw, forcing me to look at her. “Don’t say that. You don’t know what you’re asking. Avery, I’m your professor. I’m ten years older than you. I have a career, a reputation. Your family is powerful enough to ruin me, professionally and personally, if they suspect anything.”

“I know,” I said, leaning into her touch, my voice a thread. “I know, and I hate it. I hate that this house, this name, this fortune, is a prison that could destroy you just for looking at me.”

Tears stung my eyes. “But I don’t want Auston Blake. I want the rest of the wish. I want you, late at night. I want a future where I choose my life.”

She looked at me for an agonizing moment, the moonlight catching the moisture in her eyes. The conflict in her was clear: the professional duty, the fear of ruin, battling against the desire, the forbidden love.

Finally, she let out a shaky breath. “Oh, Avery,” she whispered, the sound a mixture of longing and defeat.

She dropped her hand from my face and stood up, walking to the edge of the summerhouse. “This is why I tried to keep my distance.”

“And failed,” I said, standing and moving toward her. “We both did. You love me. You told me to come to you.”

“I know!” she snapped, turning back, her voice low but laced with sudden, intense frustration. “And that was stupid and selfish and reckless! We had a few stolen moments, a forbidden fantasy, and I let it become real because I am desperately attracted to your confidence, your fire, your disregard for these suffocating rules!”

She gestured back toward the mansion. “Then be reckless with me,” I pleaded, closing the space between us. “Don’t abandon me to Auston Blake. What do I do, Tiffany? How do I stop this? My life is a done deal, announced to the world.”

She looked into my eyes, and the professional caution dissolved. All that was left was the woman who desired me, the woman who was terrified for both of us.

“You can’t stop it tonight,” she said, her voice a fierce whisper. “The engagement is public. You cannot walk away from the Von Carter table tonight without a plan. You must go back inside. You must accept the congratulations. You must smile and say that the shock of the announcement overwhelmed you, that your protest was a foolish, impulsive moment.”

My stomach turned. “You want me to lie? To agree to marry him?”

“For now, yes,” she insisted, gripping my shoulders, her fingers pressing into my skin. “You play their game for two weeks. You pretend to prepare. You buy us time. Time to plan an exit. Time to gather resources. Time for you to officially turn twenty-one and secure whatever trust funds or legal control you gain from that. And time for me to make arrangements.”

She was right. Defiance now would only lead to my being locked away and escorted to the altar with a bodyguard.

I needed strategy, not passion.

❖

Tiffany’s POV

The Von Carter mansion was a spectacle—a fortress of wealth and cold, dazzling power. As a professor, I had attended enough elite academic events to recognize the performance, but tonight, the opulence suffocated.

Every Italian rose, every crystal from the chandeliers, every flash of silverware reminded me of the chasm between my world and Avery Von Carter’s. I was here as faculty, attending the annual showcase disguised as a birthday party.

Inside, I was here for her. The thought was reckless, professional suicide, and yet, the anticipation of seeing her was a tight, painful knot in my chest.

I spotted her. Even from a distance, Avery cut through the chaos. She stood poised, beautiful, a magnet for the golden light, offering a practiced, distant smile to her guests.

My stomach fluttered with a mixture of pride and protectiveness. She was a quiet storm amidst her parents’ glittering static.

I watched her navigate the room, enduring the praise and the pleasantries. I waited, forcing myself to speak with the dean and Ms. Collway, adopting my most impeccable professional mask.

My pulse, however, had found Avery’s rhythm—fast, insistent, and inappropriate. Then, the moment arrived.

I approached her, adopting the cool, restrained demeanor required of me. “Happy birthday, Ms. Von Carter. Wishing you all the best for the year ahead.” The words were polite, professional, and dishonest.

I wanted to take her hand, to tell her to ditch this spectacle, to confess that she was all I thought about. Then, the glass tilted.

The red wine splashed my hand and the dark satin of my gown. My first reaction was startled surprise: “Avery—”

She cut me off, her voice urgent, laced with panic. “I’m so, so sorry, Professor. I wasn’t careful.”

But the moment her eyes met mine, the panic in her voice was belied by a spark—a dangerous, thrilling defiance. I realized: this was no accident.

Ms. Collway’s shrill voice sliced through the air: “Oh my God, Tiffany, you need to clean that right away, that’s red wine!”

Avery seized the chance with speed. “It’s my fault. Let me take her to the restroom.”

My own instinct was to refuse, to maintain distance, but the necessity of cleaning the stain and the audacity of Avery’s plan rooted me to the spot. Then Emily appeared.

My heart sank. This is going to backfire.

But Avery handled it with the cold, effortless authority of a CEO. The way she dismissed Emily with a word about her mother’s seating chart was unnerving and exhilarating.

She was a Von Carter—but she was using that power for us. When Emily retreated, I let Avery guide me away.

I played the part of the flustered professor, but inside, I was racing. She was walking me into a trap of her own making—a precious, forbidden moment of privacy.

The heavy door of the side restroom closed, and the muffled silence was electric. I turned to her, my composure dissolving into a tight mix of concern and fascination. “Avery… what are you doing? That was deliberate.”

She was calm, reaching for a towel with a feigned innocence that was devastating. “Cleaning up my mess. What else?”

The soft, golden lighting framed her. I leaned against the marble counter, feeling the heavy silk of my gown.

I knew I could not hold the line anymore. “So…” I began, letting my voice drop to a velvet purr, a dare I regretted but could not retract.

I tilted my head. “You planned the accident to get me alone. This was your plan, wasn’t it?”

The look in her eyes—hungry, bold, confident—sent a shudder through me. She stepped closer, invading the precious space I maintained between us.

“If I say yes,” she murmured, her voice a low, charged vibration, “then what would you do?”

My breath caught. I met her dare with my own, leaning in. “Then… I won’t mind,” I whispered.

The confession tasted like forbidden sugar, terrifying in its sweetness. She smiled, a husky, wicked tilt of her lips. “I want to feel your birthday wish in between my bones, Tiffany.”

Oh, this girl. I had to stop her.

I placed my hand against her chest, feeling the frantic drumming of her heart. “Not at all, Avery,” I managed, fighting my own pulse. “You are reckless, and you will ruin my makeup. And we don’t have enough time. Right?”

The question was a plea for sanity. “Then at least,” she pressed, her intensity relentless, “please, wish me happy birthday properly, so that I’m satisfied.”

I gave a mock gasp, trying to delay the inevitable with a bit of theatre, but I could not resist her. I moved forward, wrapping my arms around her.

The contact was a dizzying rush—her warmth, her scent, the tangible electricity of her body against mine. “Happy birthday, Avery,” I whispered against her ear, the words sincere, felt. “I wish you success, joy, and every happiness this world has to offer. I want you to shine, to conquer, to become everything you dream of.”

I pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. Then, I tested the fire: a ghost of a touch, my lips brushing hers.

It was fleeting, a promise hidden in plain sight. “Apart from these… wishes,” I murmured, my voice dropping, low and secret, “you’ll get the rest late at night. And you know where to come.”

Her silent, frantic nod was all the answer I needed. I pulled back, running my hands over my gown, forcing my racing heart into the steady cadence of Professor Kingston.

I turned on the water, the sound a necessary anchor. “Let’s go,” I said, meeting her eyes in the mirror, mixing warmth and professional caution. “Before someone comes looking for the birthday girl.”

We re-emerged into the grand hall, the golden light and the noise of the party assaulting us. I was composed, but the air around me felt thick with secrets.

Avery paused in a quiet alcove, her vulnerability raw. “Avery… are you going to introduce me to your parents?” The question was unavoidable, and it terrified me.

The difference between a private indiscretion and a public challenge was the difference between my career and ruin. “Without any confusion, my tesoro,” she declared, the Italian word, the depth of her commitment, stealing my breath. “I’ll tell them.”

“But Avery… I don’t think it’s a good time,” I whispered, the cautious professor rising up, panicked.

“No,” she insisted, her voice firm, resolute. “It’s the perfect one. You tell me if you’re ready, Tiffany. That’s all I need to know.”

The choice was agonizing: protect myself, or trust her fierce conviction. I exhaled, surrendering.

“Okay. But… don’t make it public now. Not yet. Just formally.”

“I won’t. It’ll be just between us until you’re ready.” She leaned in, and I let her rest her forehead against mine.

I was burning, but I was rooted to her. She sealed her vow with a kiss to my forehead, then—recklessly, beautifully—captured my mouth.

I did not pull back. I anchored myself to her, my hands gripping her arms.

It was a promise, fierce and undeniable. Then the trumpets sounded.

A chilling, sudden fanfare. Avery’s mother’s voice, amplified and sharp, cut through the applause. “Tonight, as our Avery turns twenty-five, we are thrilled to announce her formal engagement! Avery will be marrying Auston Blake—the union of two great houses…”

The air left my lungs in a whoosh. My blood ran cold.

Engagement. I gripped Avery’s arm, my protective instincts overriding everything else.

This was not a business arrangement; this was a cage. I watched her face crumble, the shock giving way to white-hot fury.

She ripped her arm from my grasp and stepped out, the heir asserting her power. “No, Mom. This is not going to happen.”

The ensuing chaos was a predictable nightmare of gasps and strained applause. I melted back, my breath held tight.

I had to protect myself. I had to protect her by being invisible.

Our eyes locked across the room. Her look was a desperate plea for direction.

Help me. 

I gave her the slightest, urgent shake of my head.

No. 

Don’t fight her here.

Defiance now would cost her everything. She needed a strategy, not a public meltdown.

She finally understood, accepting the silent instruction with a flicker of steel in her eyes.