CAUGHT
ariella
My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, adrenaline leaving a metallic taste at the back of my throat that I can’t seem to swallow down.
Idiot. I’m an absolute idiot.
I was supposed to be focused on Alistair Hertley.
And I was.
Every bit of my attention had been fixed on him, narrowed down to a single point with almost surgical precision, until my phone started vibrating against my pocket every few seconds. At first, I ignored it. Then it kept going. Again. And again. And again.
I checked it for one second.
Only to discover that Brent was apparently having a crisis because I hadn’t replied to him in the last half hour.
Honestly, the boy could be such a child.
Just because I danced with him at the stupid party doesn’t mean I’m already planning our wedding.
Remind me that the next time Brent decides to annoy me about getting into a relationship with him, I should block him on every social media account I own and pretend he never existed.
The moment I sent him Guys My Age and restricted his account, I slipped out from behind the cover I had been using and continued with my perfectly reasonable, completely normal, definitely not concerning afternoon.
Apparently, the universe enjoys irony. Now I’m paying the price.
I got caught. Properly caught this time.
Not that this is my first offence.
The previous times I’d managed to pull my hood over my head, mutter a half-convincing apology, and disappear in the opposite direction before anyone could ask too many questions.
Today, I ran.
In hindsight, sprinting away from university security may not have been my brightest tactical decision.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t pass through the loads of students who were there between me and the only exit. My shoulder dropped, and I surrendered.
The first time I got almost got was by a porter because I chose the wrong entrance.
The second time was because I spent too long pretending to read a noticeboard while waiting for Alistair to leave a lecture hall.
And the third time for underestimating how quickly campus security remembers unfamiliar faces.
Each mistake taught me something.
I changed my clothes.
I changed my routes.
I learned which paths are busiest and which buildings are empty first.
Who knew my luck would run out so soon?
So here I am.
Standing in the middle of Oxford with my pulse still trying to claw its way out of my chest, my lungs burning from the chase, and two members of campus security staring at me with the weary expressions of men who are deeply offended by the fact that they had to exercise.
The older one folds his arms across his chest while the younger one watches me as though he’s trying to decide whether I’m dangerous or just exceptionally stupid.
Personally, I think the answer is obvious. I’m exceptionally stupid.
Danger requires competence.
Right now, I’ve been caught stalking a professor I haven’t even spoken to because a boy I don’t even like couldn’t take a hint.
If that’s not rock bottom, I don’t know what is.
The first time I saw him in person, I was too far away to distinguish the shape of his cufflinks.
The second time, I noticed the way students unconsciously moved aside for him.
The third time, I almost followed him across the quad before common sense dragged me back.
I never got to speak to him.
I never got close enough.
I told myself that I’m waiting for the right opportunity, even though I memorized Alistair Hertley’s timetable without ever admitting to myself that I’ve done exactly that.
The older guard clears his throat.
“Miss, would you care to explain why you’ve been running from campus security?”
“I panicked.”
“And your first instinct was to flee.”
“I’ve seen enough crime documentaries to know talking rarely helps.”
The younger guard snorts. The older one doesn’t.
“You aren’t a university student,” he observes.
“No.”
“You don’t work here.”
“No.”
“Then why are you here, miss?”
I should lie.
Future me would appreciate a lie.
Present me, unfortunately, has never functioned particularly well under pressure.
“Alistair.”
The younger guard blinks.
“Alistair?”
“Professor Hertley.”
The older guard exchanges a look with his colleague.
“And why are you looking for Professor Hertley?”
My brain produces approximately twelve terrible answers.
Because I admire his work.
Because I accidentally watched one lecture and ruined my own life by being addicted to him.
“I wanted to talk to him.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Has he invited you here?”
“No.”
“Does he know you?”
“No.”
The younger guard rubs a hand down his face.
“So, let me understand this correctly. You’ve entered private university grounds several times, you’ve been avoiding staff members, you ran when we approached you, and the professor you’re trying to find has absolutely no idea who you are.”
When he says it out loud, it sounds significantly worse.
“Yes.”
The one-word answer is the best.
Because admitting I have a ridiculous, all-consuming crush on a man whose papers I annotate for fun somehow feels more humiliating than trespassing.
The older one sighs, the sound heavy with the exhaustion of a man who has spent his entire day dealing with students like me.
“Miss, I need you to understand how this looks.”
Trust me. Nobody understands how catastrophically this looks more than I do.
“I do.”
“Do you?” The older guard studies me for a long moment. “You’ve been entering private university grounds without authorization.”
“Technically, I’ve been walking through them.”
“You appeared near the engineering faculty. And then you tried to run from security.”
“I was appreciating the architecture, and then I panicked.”
The younger guard tilts his head. “Do your parents know where you are?”
I almost laugh. Of all the questions he could have asked, that one is probably the funniest.
“My father owns companies that negotiate with governments,” I say evenly. “He’s not particularly interested in whether I spend my afternoon admiring old buildings.”
The older guard catches it immediately. “I’m sorry?”
I hesitate for half a heartbeat. Then arrogance steps in where common sense should have been.
“My name’s Ariella Keinston.”
The younger guard glances at his colleague. The older one looks at me more carefully this time.
I don’t need to elaborate.
Dad spent years teaching me that some surnames open doors before mouths ever have to.
I hate relying on it even though that’s exactly what I’m doing now.
The older guard’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly. “Alright, I’ll be very clear, Miss Keinston. If you have official business with the university, there are proper channels.”
“I understand.”
“If you wish to meet a member of faculty, appointments exist for a reason.”
“I understand.”
“And if we see you running from security again—”
“I won’t,” a very optimistic lie.
The younger guard gestures toward the gates. “Since we’re finished, I’m going to politely ask you to leave.”
My shoulders loosen for the first time since they stopped me.
No reports. No police. No humiliating phone call to Dad asking him to retrieve his mentally questionable daughter from Oxford.
I incline my head with what I hope resembles dignity. “Thank you.”
The guards nod.
I turn without another word, but I don’t hurry.
My pulse is still trying to escape through my throat. But I force myself to walk at a measured pace across the courtyard, through the crowds, past the ancient stone buildings that somehow managed to witness my humiliation and remain completely indifferent to it.
Only when the university gates disappear behind me do I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
That could have gone far worse.
It also could’ve gone significantly better.
I wasn’t arrested.
I wasn’t escorted into a police station.
I wasn’t permanently banned from Oxford.
On the other hand, I had just used my family name to escape the consequences of stalking a professor who didn’t even know I existed.
Dad would call it influence.
I prefer to call it inherited shamelessness.
Either way, I should probably feel guilty.
Instead, my mind drifts straight back to the engineering building.
To the empty courtyard.
To the glimpse of a dark coat disappearing into a sea of strangers.
People would call it a crush. It started as one, harmless. Temporary.
Like a song you’ll eventually stop listening to.
Infatuation was reading one paper because Dad mentioned his name over dinner.
Curiosity was watching one lecture because I wanted to know whether the insufferably brilliant professor sounded as arrogant as his work suggested.
Obsession was spending three nights trying to prove his theory wrong before arriving at the deeply offensive conclusion that he had, in fact, been right all along.
Everything after that happened so gradually that I never noticed where admiration ended and poor decision-making began.
Which would be grossly unfair because I never actually intended to become a stalker.
Even so, if anyone ever bothered to document my crimes, the official report would probably read something along the lines of:
Female. Twenty. Highly concerning. Incapable of minding her own business.
The first day I came to Oxford, I still tried to convince myself I was only there because the architecture was beautiful.
The second day, I admit that I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the engineering department.
The third day… Well, on the third day, I knew exactly which building housed his office.
I almost got caught that afternoon because, apparently, hiding behind a marble pillar while pretending to study a campus map looks suspicious when the map is upside down.
A porter asked whether I needed help.
I lied.
He looked unconvinced.
I escaped with what little dignity I had left.
The next week, I came back carrying borrowed books.
People assume that a girl carrying enough paper to collapse a bookshelf had somewhere important to be.
And they’re right. I do have somewhere important to be.
Unfortunately, that somewhere is always wherever Alistair Hertley goes.