Chapter 33

Avery’s POV

The morning air felt heavy. It was not the weight of sleepless nights or looming assignments, but a shadow that followed my steps into the marble halls. 

I slipped into my seat in Ms. Rose’s lecture hall. My fingers drummed a rhythm against the desk, and my eyes wandered to the entrance. 

Students filled the room, their chatter a chaotic chorus of everyday joy. I sat among them, but my mind remained fixed on her.

The door creaked open. The room fell silent as Professor Rose walked in. Her stride was measured and graceful, yet the atmosphere shifted. 

She did not greet us with her usual sarcasm or teasing remark. Instead, she set her books down, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote on the chalkboard: “Economic Geography.”

Her voice filled the room, steady and precise, as she launched into the lecture. Normally, her teaching style carried a spark, as if she pulled us into the heartbeat of the subject. 

Today, that spark was gone. Her words were sharp, but her eyes held a profound shadow. 

For a fleeting second, our eyes met across the hall. There it was—a persistent sadness she failed to hide. I had glimpsed this before, only to brush it away with a professional excuse. 

Back then, I convinced myself that distance was safer. Watching her now, wearing a veil of sorrow, I felt a pang of regret. I had convinced myself that ignoring her would shield us both. It had only intensified the ache.

In that moment, I decided. Enough of the pretense. Enough of the mask of aloofness. If my recklessness cost me my reputation, so be it. I could not sit by and let her sadness go unseen.

The lecture ended. Students shuffled out, chatting about Italy and travel plans. I lingered long enough to avoid suspicion before leaving the room. 

The rest of my classes passed in a blur. My thoughts stayed tethered to her. When the final bell rang, I did not head to my car. I took a detour. 

The café down the street greeted me with the scent of roasted beans. I ordered a chai latte and a slice of rich Black Forest cake. Not for me. For her.

By the time I reached her office, the cup felt warm in my hand. My heart carried a frantic rhythm that betrayed my calm facade. 

I knocked once and turned the handle before she could reply. She stood by the bookshelf, back to the door, fingertips grazing the worn spines as if searching for something elusive. The click of the door caught her attention, and she turned. 

Her eyes narrowed when she saw me seated in the armchair across from her desk.

“You didn’t ask for permission to enter, Avery,” she remarked, her tone edged with amusement that made my chest tighten.

I leaned back, leg crossed, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Von Carters don’t look for permission, Ms. Rose. We take action.”

Her brows arched. “Don’t worry, Professor,” I added, my voice laced with irony. “I thought I would take this opportunity to criticize myself for being the arrogant Von Carter everyone expects me to be.”

Her lips curved into a genuine, soft smile. I reached into my bag and placed the latte and cake on her desk. “I brought you something. I suspect it is your favorite.”

Her eyes flicked to the items and back to my face. “You learned my favorites and now you will not stop.”

“That is impossible to stop now,” I countered. “If a favorite treat can’t make someone happy, nothing can.”

Her reply came quiet and heavy. “Sometimes, Avery, it isn’t the food that makes one happy. Sometimes it is the presence of a favorite person.”

My heart stuttered. I faltered, but recovered, forcing a wide grin. “Of course, Professor. I know I am your favorite student. It is unavoidable.”

Her gaze held mine, steady and meaningful. “Not my favorite student, darling. My favorite person.”

The words landed like a blow and a balm. They stripped away the banter, leaving me bare in a silence I did not know how to fill. 

My throat tightened. She looked at me, tilting her head. “What is going on with you, Avery? You are not behaving like before. That silent, aloof face you wore for ten days is gone.”

I scoffed, needing a grounding response. “Come on, Professor. I’m not boring enough to maintain one mood for too long.”

She laughed, a rare sound that loosened the knot in my chest. “That is true. You are never boring.”

I studied her, then leaned forward, posture serious. “Why were you sad this morning, Professor? Tell me the truth.”

Her eyes widened, revealing surprise. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed,” I said. “I notice everything that matters.”

She hesitated, then let out a weary sigh. “Nothing major, Avery. Just minor family issues weighing on me.”

I let her words settle. “Don’t worry about that, Professor. You won’t have to carry that burden alone anymore.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean? You’re speaking in riddles.”

“Just trust me,” I said, the words carrying the weight of an oath. “I won’t disappoint you. This isn’t a Carter promise of business or political support. This is Avery’s promise to you.”

Her eyes softened. For an eternal moment, the world outside her office ceased to exist. She looked at me until the silence took on a physical meaning. Finally, she whispered, “I always do trust you, darling, much more than you realize.”

That intimate word—darling—slipped past her lips with a warmth that wrapped around my chest, fragile and comforting. 

The latte sat untouched, the steam curling upward. Neither of us made a move to reach for it. Something irreversible had shifted. Something I no longer wanted to dismiss.

❖ 

The mansion settled into stillness that evening. Emily had prepared dinner, but even her presence could not settle the tempest inside me. 

Not after the exchange in Ms. Rose’s office. Her words echoed in my mind: “Favorite person.” And my reply: “This is Avery’s promise to you.”

I excused myself early, carrying the weight of the day to my study. The Kingston file lay on the desk, its facts staring back at me. Numbers, policies, names—things that should have been clear-cut. But behind them was a web that threatened everything I knew about her.

My phone vibrated. Reynolds. I answered. “What do you have, Reynolds?”

“Plenty, Avery,” he said, his voice brisk. “But this intelligence might hit you harder than usual.”

I frowned. “Spare me the dramatics. Talk.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “The full name of your Ms. Rose is—”

“She is not mine,” I interrupted, sharper than intended.

“Alright,” he continued, tone softening. “Her full name is Tiffany Rose Kingston. She is the daughter of Thomas Kingston, the CEO.”

The phone slipped from my grasp. I froze, blood pounding in my ears. “What did you say?”

“Tiffany Rose Kingston,” Reynolds said grimly. “She is Thomas Kingston’s daughter. She holds a ten percent share in his assets, but she is not involved in the business. She keeps herself apart. But blood ties do not disappear, Avery. That is a vulnerability.”

I stood, pacing the room. Images of Ms. Rose flickered in my mind—her sad eyes, her laughter, her whisper. Kingston. Of all the families in the city.

“It gets messier,” Reynolds continued. “Robin is circling her. There is a strong possibility he wants to marry her. Whether his motive is personal or strategic, I don’t know. But he ties himself to the Kingston Group through her. It gives him leverage, legitimacy, and unchecked power.”

I felt the ground slip. The thought of her standing beside Robin, bound by duty, was unbearable.

“Mail me every detail,” I ordered.

“Compiling the report,” Reynolds said. “You’ll have it within the hour.”

“And Reynolds?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t sound like your father,” he said. “You care about her. That makes you far more dangerous.”

The call ended. I stood alone in the study. Ms. Rose. Tiffany Rose Kingston. Daughter of Thomas Kingston. A name tied to everything my father raised me to dismantle. But she was not her father. She was the woman who had laughed when I scoffed at being boring. She trusted me. That trust weighed heavier on my soul than any corporate responsibility.

I sank into my chair. I was not investigating her to expose her. I was doing this to shield her from the darkness circling her life. I pulled the laptop forward. The subject line read: “Kingston File – Extended.”

Profile: Tiffany Rose Kingston. Age: 35. Born August 1, 1990.

I read the facts plainly. But then, my eyes widened. My heart stuttered.

August 1.

The day after tomorrow. Her birthday.

I stared at the numbers. She did not feel thirty-five. She carried a vitality untouched by corporate rot.

“Impossible,” I whispered.

The thought struck me: she would likely spend her birthday alone. I was drowning in paperwork while the woman who looked at me with trust would be another year older, further away.

I redirected my attention to the report. The next section chilled me: Robin’s activities. Marriage alliance. Probability: high. Target: Tiffany Rose Kingston.

Anger flared inside me. Robin. I gripped the desk. Marriage alliance. I refused to picture it, but my mind betrayed me, conjuring images of her vibrant spirit crushed.

My phone buzzed again. Reynolds.

“I went through every page,” I said.

“And your assessment?”

“She has two brothers who run everything. She lives with her mother, away from the city. She has nothing to do with their empire.”

“She is clean,” Reynolds agreed. “But Robin is trying to marry her.”

“If there is a possibility he can make that happen,” I said, my voice cold, “I will eliminate it. I promise.”

“You sound like your father,” Reynolds said.

“I am not him,” I snapped. “This isn’t business strategy. This is about Tiffany.”

“Your father taught you how to strike,” Reynolds noted. “But this emotional commitment is different. You are protecting her. That makes you dangerous.”

I sighed. “I will not allow Robin to claim her.”

“Then don’t just fight in the shadows, Avery,” Reynolds said. “Be there for her in the light. Especially now.”

The call ended. I stared at the phone. Be there in the light. The birthday loomed. It was not about grand gestures. It was about presence. About showing her, she was not alone.

I pulled the laptop closer. Every possibility of Robin succeeding would be cut off. Quietly. Efficiently. Irreversibly. 

Tiffany Rose Kingston was not a file of data anymore. She was the axis my world tilted on. And I was not going to lose her.