I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again. He sat down with an economy of movement that spoke of someone completely comfortable in his own body. No fidgeting, no unnecessary adjustments. Just settled, present, watching me with those dark eyes that made me want to both look away and never stop looking.
“I’m glad you agreed to meet,” he said. “I was impressed by your profile.”
The praise brought a confusing warmth to my chest. My face went hot, too, and I had to look down at my latte again. “Thank you,” I managed.
“The honesty especially,” he continued, and I could hear sympathy in his voice. “A lot of girls try to present themselves as perfect. You didn’t do that.”
I bit my lower lip, a nervous habit I’d never been able to break. The fact that he’d noticed my honesty—that he valued it—sent a hard-to-untangle mixture of pride and shame through me. I’d been honest because I was too tired to lie anymore, too defeated to pretend I had my life together. And now he was praising me for it.
“I just…” I started, then had to clear my throat. “I figured there wasn’t much point in lying. You’d find out eventually anyway.”
“That’s very mature of you.” He paused, and I felt his gaze on me even though I was still staring at my coffee. “We don’t have to talk about the mistakes you made. Not yet, anyway.”
Yet.
The word hung in the air between us, and I felt myself start to tremble. Not yet meant eventually. It meant that if I accepted his sponsorship—if I let him pay for me, own me—I would have to tell him everything. About the cheating. About why I’d done it. About the whole pathetic spiral that had led me to the dean’s office.
And worse—so much worse—I suddenly found myself wondering if he would punish me for it. If he would decide that what I’d done warranted the same kind of humiliating, horrible treatment I’d received yesterday at Selecta. My bottom clenched at the thought, the welts from the caning still tender enough to make themselves known. Would Mike bend me over his knee? Would he use that cane on me, or something else?
To my absolute horror, the thought made the aching need between my legs intensify. The seal pressed against my outer lips felt impossibly tight, and I had to shift in my seat to try to ease the sensation.
“Are you alright?” Mike asked, and there was something in his tone—a knowing quality—that made me realize he’d noticed my discomfort.
“I’m fine,” I lied, my face blazing hotter. “Just… It’s been a weird couple of days.”
“I can imagine.”
He could imagine. The words were simple, but the way he said them—like he really did understand, like he’d seen my photos and my video and somehow knew exactly what state I was in—made my breath catch.
A barista called out an order, breaking the moment. Mike glanced toward the counter, then back at me. “Let me get a coffee. I’ll be right back.”
I watched him walk to the counter, my hands still wrapped around my latte for something to hold onto. The way he moved was mesmerizing—purposeful but unhurried, like someone who never felt the need to rush. The barista smiled at him with the professional-but-flirty smile service workers always seemed to give attractive customers, and he returned it with easy charm.
He came back with an Americano, black, and settled into his chair again. “So,” he said, “tell me about yourself. Beyond what was in your profile.”
The question was so normal, so date-like, that it threw me. “Um. What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.” He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup. “What were you studying before… everything happened? Your profile said Computer Science?”
“Yeah, CS,” I confirmed, grateful for a safe topic. “I was a freshman. Well, I guess I was a freshman. I don’t know what I am now.”
“What drew you to CS?”
I shrugged, then forced myself to actually answer instead of deflecting. He’d praised my honesty, after all. “I liked that there were right answers. In coding, either something works or it doesn’t. There’s no ambiguity, no interpretation. Just… logic.”
“And yet you ended up in a situation where logic failed you.”
The observation was gentle but pointed, and it hit me right in the chest. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
He didn’t push, just waited, giving me space to continue if I wanted to. I found myself talking despite my intention to stay quiet.
“I had this first-year seminar,” I said, my fingers fidgeting with my coffee cup. “With this professor who did work on philanthropy apps. Software designed to optimize charitable giving, match donors with causes, track impact. I didn’t really understand most of it—I was barely getting through intro courses—but the idea fascinated me. Using code to actually help people, not just to make money or build games or whatever.”
Mike’s expression shifted, something lighting up in his eyes. “Philanthropy software. That’s interesting.”
“I don’t know much about it,” I admitted quickly. “I just… it stuck with me, you know? The idea that technology could do more than just make rich people richer.”
“I’ve gotten where I am through more profitable things,” Mike said, a wry smile playing at his lips. “But I’ve been thinking lately about ways to give back. My companies have done well. Very well. And at a certain point, accumulating more money… well, it doesn’t stop being fun, but it stops being as… fulfilling.”
