Chapter 31 Final Notation
FINAL NOTATION
LILA
It’s been three months.
Three months since I left the Mayfair estate with my suitcase full of wrinkled clothes, a twisted wad of red string in my coat pocket, and my heart… not broken, exactly. But changed.
Theo and I are still teaching. Still arguing over case studies and crime documentaries and who gets the good coffee mug.
We haven’t felt the need to say forever, because we’ve said tonight, and stay, and I’ll make dinner if you grade the rest. And more and more each day, it feels a whole lot like forever to me.
We moved in together halfway through the second week back. It wasn’t a dramatic decision. We just kept ending up in the same kitchen every evening, the same bed, the same routine. So one night, he packed a bag, and in small increments, it turned into everything he owned.
We listen to Baryn’s podcast together on Saturdays now. He’s pivoted to cold cases in obscure cities, and we’ve somehow ended up on friendly enough terms to text him our theories in between episodes.
It helped, I think, when he finally admitted to Theo that he never had a thing for me. He just enjoys pissing people off for sport, and Theo was an easy, entertaining target.
Victoria’s death was ruled an accident.
Cause of death: asphyxiation. Contributing factor: autoerotic misadventure.
Giles said it best: a fittingly humiliating end.
It took some pulling strings and a far-from-legal-rewriting of reports, but Baryn is well versed in that kind of thing, and money talks.
There’s no more open investigation. No manhunt. No trial.
Just a quiet consensus that the whole thing was tragic and strange and deeply embarrassing for everyone involved.
I haven’t been back to the manor, but Emily texts me near constantly. Usually pictures of the horses. Once, a jar of herb-infused honey. I still haven’t decided if that one was a threat or a joke.
Everything with the Mayfair family feels like unfamiliar territory on the other side of all this. I take it day by day, grateful for how easy it’s been, considering how unexpected—and how new—it is to navigate fragile relationships in the aftermath of something so completely chaotic.
But this—
This is familiar.
Theo’s office is tucked into the far corner of campus. I’ll find him sitting behind the same spotless desk, shelves lined in neat, meticulous rows. Zero personality, no warmth. Nothing like the man who works here.
I knock once and don’t wait for a response before I open the door.
He’s at his desk, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed.
He doesn’t look up.
“You’re late,” he clicks his pen and smacks it down onto his desk.
I close the door behind me. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“You’re in love with me.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, warmth spreading across his features. “Obviously.”
I cross the room in three steps, slide into his lap.
There’s something so easy in the way I fit against him now—like muscle memory. All those weeks of navigating grief and fallout and whatever this thing between us is—was—has become—have worn down every last excuse I had not to let it in.
He pulls my face to his, and then I say it, right there, in the breath between kisses. “I love you.”
His fingers flex once at my waist. His mouth stills against mine for a half-second, and then he pulls back just enough to look at me.
“I love you, too.”
It doesn’t feel rushed. It doesn’t feel overdue.
It feels inevitable.
He lifts me onto the desk, scattering papers.
Professionalism? Never heard of her.
My fingers are already under his shirt.
His mouth is at my neck.
There’s laughter, and breathless swearing, and at one point, a stapler and a cup of paperclips fall to the floor and scatter across the room.
He tugs me closer, and I hook my ankles behind him, the desk creaking under my weight.
It’s messy.
It’s perfect.
His hands slide up my thighs, nudging my skirt higher as he kisses me again.
I break away only long enough to whisper, “Close the blinds.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches up, loosens his tie with one hand, and pulls it free in one smooth motion. He lifts it between us, an unspoken question in his eyes.
I nod.
He wraps it around my wrists gently, but the way his fingers tighten the knot leaves no doubt about how ungentle he intends to be next. He pulls my arms behind my back, binds them snug. I feel my chest rise with each breath, the pressure perfect, his control over me absolute.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters. “Tied up and already squirming.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. My throat’s too tight and my skin’s too hot and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
“I’m not going easy on you today,” he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
He nudges my knees apart with his thigh, pulling me closer to the edge of the desk.
His fingers dip beneath my waistband.
“You’re soaked.” His tone is nothing short of reverent.
I nod again, breath catching when he circles his thumb over my clit.
Our sex life has never been sweet. It’s intense. Raw. Moments that replay on a constant loop in my head when I’m supposed to be grading exams or working on lesson plans.
“How many times are you going to come for me today?” he whispers against my ear.
“Theo—” It’s barely a sound.
He sinks two fingers inside me and I nearly fall apart. The angle. The fullness. The way his other hand stays firmly wrapped around the tie, reminding me I’m held exactly where he wants me.
“You’re going to come just like this,” he says. “On my fingers. On my desk. With your wrists tied and your thighs shaking and my name in your mouth.”
And I do. Fast. Hard. Shuddering so violently my legs slip from the edge and he catches me, holds me steady.
But he doesn’t stop.
He unzips, frees himself, and lines up in one practiced move.
It forces the air from my lungs.
“Think about how many times you’ve wanted me to fuck you right here,” he growls. “Think about all the times you walked in wearing this tight little skirt, pretending you weren’t begging for this.”
Every thrust is a claim. Every moan a confession.
I’m half-crying by the time I come again. He unties me only after I ask, and even as he reaches around me to do so, he presses a kiss to each side of my neck in the process, delaying my release.
He cleans us both up and kisses me one last time before he fixes my clothes and straightens his shirt.
“Back to work?” I ask breathlessly.
He smirks. “Eventually.”
I rest my head against his chest, my body melting into him, warm and sated.
His hands are clasped at my lower back, and mine finally roam free, smoothing over the back of his neck, the line of his jaw, the place between his shoulder blades where I know he holds all his tension.
I kiss him once more. Softer. Slower. Just to say thank you.
And then I lean forward again, forehead pressed to his collarbone, and let myself rest. Let myself be held.
This is what everything led to.
The peace in the aftermath. The knowing. The ease.
His fingers trace idle lines up my spine.
“So,” I murmur, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Think we’ll get fired for that?”
He hums. “I’m tenured. You’re brilliant. We’re fine.”
“Besides,” I add, “we’ve solved some murders together. That has to count for something.”
He turns his head, rests it against mine, and says into my hair, “yeah. Something.”
Lila: Theo just suggested a date night where we each research a historical murder and then present our findings over wine. Is this foreplay now?
Calla: 100% yes. Peak forensic kink.
Serena: Please tell me you’re calling it Dead Sexy: A Presentation Series.
Lila: Oh my god. I am now.
Calla: You better send screenshots. I want fonts. I want citations. I want blood spatter analysis.
Serena: If you don’t end it with “and that’s why I’d get away with it,” what are we even doing here?
Lila: He said he’s genuinely concerned I could get away with murdering him, and that you’d help me cover it up, and then immediately launched into a five-minute lecture about chain of custody violations. Romance is alive and well.
Calla: Tell him to relax. None of us have been arrested… yet.
Serena: Speak for yourself. I got detained in an airport once because I forgot I had bone fragments in my carry-on.
Lila: Completely on brand.
Calla: This friendship is held together entirely by morbid curiosity.
Serena: And memes. Don’t forget the memes.
Lila: And questionable coping mechanisms.
Calla: We’re like a support group, but hotter.
Serena: And with better case notes.
Lila: I love you two.
Calla: Aw, feelings. We love you too.
Serena: Disgusting. Never do that again.
Lila: Noted. Anyway, I’m off to make Theo stop calling our three month anniversary “the date of occurrence.”
Calla: Good luck. Tell him we said hi.
Serena: Night, nerds. Don’t do crimes.
Lila: No promises.