Chapter Fourteen
WHEN THE LECTURE ENDED, the room erupted in the type of chatter that always followed admiration. Students crowded toward the front, questions and flattery tangled in their voices. I stayed where I was, watching as he gathered his papers without once peeking my way.
It stung more than I wanted to admit.
By the time I finally stood, the food had gone lukewarm in my hands. I made my way through the echoing hallways until I found his office—his name neatly engraved on the small brass plate by the door: Dr. Khalifa Nasser.
The lock clicked open easily.
What kind of professor doesn’t lock his office?
I stepped inside, the door closing behind me.
It smelled faintly like cedar and old books—warm, masculine, familiar.
I set the lunch on his desk and turned to leave before he came back, before I did something foolish like try to explain myself, when I noticed the small wastebasket tucked near the bookshelf that was overflowing with chocolate wrappers.
I blinked, almost laughing. Khalifa Nasser, scholar of history, collector of cufflinks and moral restraint, had the audacity to judge my sweet tooth when the man himself apparently had a sugar problem.
“Guilty pleasure,” I murmured under my breath. There was a strange tenderness in discovering this hidden softness of his, this tiny rebellion against his own discipline. It felt like finding a secret—one he hadn’t meant to share, but had left behind anyway, a confession wrapped in foil.
I turned back toward his desk, the smile fading when I saw something else. A picture frame, angled in front of his chair.
One of our wedding photos.
I hadn’t seen them since the day they were taken.
The whole thing had been too stiff, too formal—two strangers pressed into vows, pretending at permanence, trying to look like a love story that made sense.
I’d avoided even glancing at the album when the photographer mailed it to me, but now, looking closer, I froze.
I was glaring at the camera, my jaw set in defiance, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.
But he...he wasn’t looking at the camera.
He was looking at me, candidly, timidly.
His expression wasn’t blank or unreadable the way I’d always told myself it was.
It was something else entirely—something caught between amusement and wonder, like he was trying to understand me and had momentarily forgotten to hide it.
The room seemed to lean in like it was conspiring to dump all the feelings I’d been dodging straight onto me.
I set the frame down, my fingers trembling slightly, and let my gaze drift around the space. His walls were lined with framed degrees, awards, and certificates, each one a reminder of how balanced and tranquil his life had been before I stumbled into it like a misstep.
My eyes caught on the bookshelf, rows and rows of texts, neat and colorless, the spines worn but dignified. I traced the titles absently until one stopped me cold.
Continuity and Change: State Formation and Social Development in Canadian History
His name was printed clean and proud beneath the title.
A book. His book.
I pulled it out, stroking the embossed letters. How had I not known he’d been published? How had he never mentioned it?
“What are you doing in my office?”
I turned quickly, guilt flashing across my face before I could smooth it away. “Your door was unlocked,” I said, my voice trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to nervous. “You probably shouldn’t do that. Although I’m not sure many robbers specialize in history professors.”
He crossed the room in long, crisp strides. Without another word, he plucked the book from my hands and slid it back onto the shelf. “It’s professor now?” he asked dryly.
I hesitated, watching the muscle in his jaw tighten. “You know I was only joking, right? When I mocked your career, I didn’t actually mean it. A PhD is just as successful as an MD.”
He moved behind his desk. “I know it is, Lillian. I don’t need you to tell me that. I also don’t care how you feel about my career.”
I nodded. “You’re mad. That’s understandable.”
He didn’t respond, just started straightening the papers on his desk, the rustle of them louder than it should’ve been.
“I’m really sorry,” I tried again. “About last night. My mom—she just gets under my skin, and I lashed out at you. I’m sorry, seriously. I’m not that dramatic.”
He looked up at that, one brow raised.
“Okay,” I backtracked. “I am dramatic. Sometimes. But I’m sorry. Can we just...” My voice dropped, unsure, “go back to how things were?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but his eyes caught on the takeout sitting on the corner of his desk. “Did you bring this?”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting my weight. “Apology lunch. Food usually fixes everything, in my opinion.”
He studied the bag, then looked back at me, suspicion flickering just beneath the surface. “How did you know this is my favorite restaurant?”
I shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “I noticed the box a few times in the trash. I just guessed the order.”
He lifted the bag, peering inside, and then, for the first time that day, his mouth softened. “You guessed correctly.”
Relief bloomed in my chest.
He looked at me again, his expression calmer now. “It’s fine, Lillian. I’ll see you at home.”
I nodded and turned to go, but something stopped me. I glanced back at the shelf, the book, his name glinting faintly in the light. “That’s amazing, by the way,” I said. “That you’re published. I’d love to read it...if you don’t mind, of course.”
He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the book from the shelf and held it out. I took it, careful not to brush his fingers when I did.
“Thank you,” I murmured, starting toward the door. But when I opened it, the hallway was filled with students, most of them girls, loitering outside like they hadn’t just spent two hours pretending to care about world wars and decolonization.
I slammed it closed, exhaling roughly.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Your herd of fangirls is blocking my way, Professor.”
That made him smirk. “I can’t help it if I make history interesting.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, shut up.”
He leaned back in his chair, amusement flickering across his face, and for the first time since last night, things didn’t feel quite so heavy.
There was a knock on the door. I yanked it open again, shoulders squared. One of the girls stood there with a clipboard clutched to her chest.
“Can I help you?” I asked impatiently.
She peered past me. “You only get ten minutes for office hours. Time’s up.”
“Thank you for mistaking me for a fresh-faced undergrad, but absolutely no thank you for assuming I’d willingly enroll in a history class, let alone drag myself to office hours.”
Her brows pinched together. “So you’re not a student at this university?”
“No,” I snapped. “I’m a hot gynecologist. Any more questions?”
Behind me, Khalifa made a choking sound that might’ve been a laugh if he hadn’t tried so hard to swallow it.
The girl’s gaze slid to him, suspicious now. “Dr. Nassir,” she said carefully, “do you want me to call campus security?”
“Excuse me?” I stepped closer, chin angled, giving the prissy little pipsqueak a proper, scathing once-over. “Racist much? I will literally—”
“Lillian,” Khalifa cut in calmly.
I clenched my jaw, shot her one last glare, and forced a tight smile. “Fine.” I spun on my heel, shoving past the crowd of youthfully clueless girls and into the hallway.
“Lilly?”
My name landed with a jolt. I turned, startled.
Malik.
He looked exactly the same. Confident in that lazy, self-assured way, as if the world had been built to orbit him. His arm rested casually against the wall, wedding band glinting under the fluorescent lights.
“What are you doing here?”
He smiled, teeth perfectly white, perfectly slappable. “I could ask you the same thing.”
I adjusted the strap of my bag. “I was just dropping off lunch for Khalifa.”
His brow arched. “‘Khalifa?’” He repeated, mocking the way my tongue had melted around the syllables without meaning to. “I don’t remember you ever bringing me lunch during school.”
My eyes narrowed. “Yeah, actually, I did. Multiple times. And you still managed to lead me on and use me like a jackass.”
“I didn’t use you. We didn’t even do anything.”
“Yeah, because I didn’t want to. You still let me think you wanted to marry me.
You made me question myself—my morals, my beliefs—while you had no intention of ever meeting my parents.
Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me?
” My throat burned, but I kept going. “Of course you don’t.
You only ever talked about yourself.” I scoffed. “I feel sorry for your wife.”
I started to move past him, but he shifted in my way, still wearing that careless smirk I used to think was charming.
“Don’t feel sorry for her. It’s true—I never felt anything for you.
The only good thing about you was your study notes.
” He tilted his head, considering whether I was even worth the rest of the breath he was about to waste.
Then he sighed, almost bored. “It’s your own fault, you know,” he went on.
“Believing for even a second that I was actually going to show up and meet your parents. That I’d ask for your hand in marriage as if you don’t know how you are. ”
My chest tightened, but he didn’t stop.