Page 85 of Damsel in Disguise

He clears his throat and moves past the podium, starting today’s lecture. The moment breaks, just like that.

My posture eases. I force myself back into the role I’m supposed to play now. His student.

Still, I can feel the shift in the room.

A few heads turn. A few eyes linger a second too long between us, trying to make sense of something they can’t quite name—trying to grasp the invisible tension between us.

I watch him align his iPad on the podium, and his fingers are tapping rapidly. He’s typing something.

Before I can think about who he might be texting, my phone vibrates against the desk, startling me mid-thought.

Instincts tell it’s him. That knowledge alone is enough for my heart to skip a beat.

I don’t reach for it immediately and force patience into my bones as if I’m not already anticipating whatever he wants.

The class settles quickly, attention shifting back to equations and notes and the safe predictability of academia.

Voices fade. Eyes drop to screens or notepads. Whatever curiosity sparked earlier dissolves into routine.

Once I’m sure no one is paying me any attention—when the room has fully slipped into its own rhythm—I slide my phone into my lap and unlock it.

One new email. From him, just as I assumed.

This will be the last time I’ll ask you to meet me after class.

Such a bossy asshole. My lips press together.

I lock my phone and set it aside, dragging my attention back to the lecture, pretending I haven’t been summoned by the devil in disguise.

On the surface, he’s explaining a new equation, his voice steady and controlled while he writes it across the screen. But I feel it before I see it—the weight of his gaze never leaves me alone.

Every time I look up, I find him watching me.

It’s not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but it’s there. Focused. Intentional. Possessive.

The intensity of it hits me low and sudden, sending my body squirming in my own skin.

My breath tightens in my chest. I need to get some fresh air. Meaning: I need to get away from his proximity for some time.

“Excuse me,” my ruined voice draws his attention as I push off my seat, “I’ll be right back,” and push off my seat, already making my way out.

I don’t wait for his permission or give him the chance to stop me. Eyes follow, but I just walk out of the class before he can utter a word that would definitely pin me in place.

The moment I step into the hallway, the air feels less suffocating. But it doesn’t calm me.

My feet make their way to the toilet on autopilot and slip into the restroom without a real reason. I just lock myself inside a stall only to sit on the closed lid, phone already in hand.

My thumb keeps flicking upward, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, each reel bleeding into the next.

With that, I lose track of time.

Suits and glasses. Same controlled, arrogant composure. Every single one of these thirst traps drags my mind straight back to him.

To Alistair Hertley.

I throw my head back and let out an annoyed groan.

Why the hell is my feed suddenly obsessed with men who look like they could ruin me academically and personally, both in the same breath?