Page 74 of Damsel in Disguise

Finally, my break is over.

Today, I stepped back into my university life after over a month away—weeks spent healing from the bike accident that split my term clean in half and forced me to restart—a reset I never asked for, yet one I’ve no choice but to endure.

And, almost cruelly, my first class happens to be with Professor Hertley.

It feels like stepping into a loop where the universe has dragged me back to the exact beginning. Only this time, I’m not the same girl who first walked into Oxford University.

Too much has happened in the space between then and now. Too much has changed in the meantime.

A quiet unease settles low in my chest when I take my seat.

Am I still his student assistant?

The thought strikes sharper than I expect. A flicker of something ugly about being replaced presses against my ribs at the possibility.

Someone more qualified. More capable. Someone who could do the job without hiding behind technicalities. Someone… official.

My fingers curl slightly against the desk, grounding myself before the feeling can dig too deep.

Just like my first day, Alistair Hertley walks in right on time, carrying nothing but his iPad. With that, the hollow ache dissolves the moment I see him.

Everything else fades away, leaving only last night flooding back into my mind. Not just last night—every night of the past few days.

All the memories linger in the way my pulse stutters, in the way my body feels too aware of itself beneath my clothes.

He, however, is entirely unaffected, as if everything he experienced was nothing more than a hyperactive imagination.

This time, he doesn’t ask for names. No slow assessment of the room, no careful cataloguing of identities. Just a brief introduction of himself, followed by a concise overview of the course.

Meanwhile, I keep drifting.

My attention fractures every few minutes, pulled away from the board and dragged back to him. Every glance in his direction triggers the same memory, one that’s impossible to ignore.

Just when I thought I could get used to his place—comfortable enough to sneak something from his refrigerator—he catches me red-handed.

“Eager to be caught, little kitty?”

The raspiness of his sleepy voice echoes through my body, finally resolving into my throbbing core, which is again begging for his attention.

I flinch, not just at the sound of his voice, but at the way he gave me a pet name. It feels so intimately possessive in a dangerous kind of way.

Little kitty.

“I’d rather suggest you focus this time so you don’t need to repeat this course, Miss Keinston.”

The shift hits instantly. From little kitty to Miss Keinston.

The contrast is jarring enough to leave me momentarily disoriented.

Around me, I can feel the weight of eyes turning—curious, judgmental, invasive. They look at me like I’m something rare yet misplaced.

They don’t know the story behind the name.

To them, Keinston isn’t just a surname but a brand. And now, apparently, I’m the failed version of it.

The irony almost makes me laugh.

But I don’t drop the bowl of chocolate-mint ice cream.