Chapter 5 #3
“Use your discretion,” I said. My voice came out entirely different than I intended—husky, low, and thick with a subtext neither of us was allowed to voice.
Without waiting for her to reply, without giving her another second to dismantle my defences, I turned on my heel and strode down the hallway. The decisive clack of my heels echoed off the stone walls, a sharp, rhythmic shield against the terrifying realisation that I was already entirely undone.
The heavy oak door of my office clicked shut, cutting off the rhythmic echoing of my heels and instantly plunging the room into a sterile, familiar silence.
I dropped my briefcase onto the desk and sank into my leather chair.
The immaculate composure I had maintained down the corridor shattered the moment I was alone.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the glass surface, and began aggressively massaging my temples, where a sharp, tension-driven ache was beginning to bloom.
“Get a grip,” I muttered aloud, the sound of my own voice crisp but hollow in the quiet room. “Just get a grip.”
I stared blankly at the neat stacks of marking, forcing myself to voice the cold, analytical reality of the situation.
“You are just old, lonely, and entirely too intrigued by a young woman who happens to remind you of your younger self. All sarcasm, wit, and defensive bravado.” I closed my eyes, exhaling a ragged breath. “But she is clearly clever. And she works hard. Get a grip.”
I sighed, sitting back, and pulled my phone from my pocket. The screen lit up with a single notification.
Richard: Hey CC, can you give me a call?
I stared at the text for three seconds. I didn't reply.
Instead, I swiped left and deleted the message with a quiet, bitter scoff.
I knew exactly how that conversation would play out.
Richard wouldn't be calling to ask how I was, or what was going on in my life.
It would be exactly like every other interaction with my family.
He would want money, or he would want connections, or he would want some sort of leverage I could provide that they apparently couldn't find for themselves.
I went to lock the screen, but before my thumb could hit the button, the phone began to vibrate in my palm. The display changed.
Clive.
I answered immediately, my voice instantly shifting back into its authoritative, business-minded register. “Any news?”
Clive didn't waste time with pleasantries.
As the logistics manager for my construction projects, he knew exactly how I liked to operate.
While the university paid me a handsome salary, it was the property investments and the consulting firm that ensured my particular level of comfort—and Clive was my absolute right hand when it came to keeping that machine running smoothly.
“We’ve got the clearance on the Shalesmoor site,” Clive’s gruff voice came through the line. “But the steel suppliers are pushing back on the delivery timeline for the third phase. They’re claiming logistics delays at the port.”
I narrowed my eyes, the academic completely vanishing as the businesswoman took over.
“Tell them if the materials aren’t on-site by Thursday morning, I’m invoking the penalty clause in section four of the contract.
We factored market volatility into the agreement, Clive.
They don’t get to re-negotiate the timeline because they failed to secure their supply chain. ”
“I thought you’d say that,” Clive replied, a faint note of amusement in his tone. “I’ll put the screws to them. On the residential side, the tenant in number twelve Heeley Street is breaking the lease early. Moving back south.”
My thumb twitched against the desk. Heeley Street. The exact corner I had dropped Alex off at on Wednesday night.
“Ensure the inventory is checked thoroughly,” I said, keeping my voice entirely flat, entirely unbothered. “Get it listed immediately. Raise the rent by five percent to align with the current market valuation for the quarter. I want a new contract signed by the end of the month.”
“Understood. I'll have the paperwork drawn up. Speak soon, Dr. Carter.”
“Goodbye, Clive.”
The line went dead. I huffed, tossing the phone onto the desk, and pulled my laptop toward me. I flipped the lid open with a sharp, decisive movement, the bright glow of the screen illuminating the quiet office.
Work. It was always the best antidote. It was best to simply throw myself into the data, the logistics, and the upcoming lectures.
Alex was a student. She was exactly like any other first-year undergraduate in the department, and she would be treated as such.
To view her as anything else—to let my mind wander into the dangerous, latent chemistry that had just vibrated between us—was unacceptable.
Frankly, it was predatory of me to be thinking any different.
I was her lecturer; she was my student. That was the boundary. It had to be.
I pulled up the spreadsheet for the mid-term metrics, forced my jaw to unlock, and began to type.