28. CONFRONTATION
ariella
Professor Hertley pauses the moment his eyes land on me—right where I always sit. The hesitation is brief, almost imperceptible, but I catch it.
I doubt he expected me to show up today. Not after the way he pushed me last time, cornered me in front of an entire room full of students.
I meet his gaze without flinching, ignoring the memory lodged beneath my skin of him taking total control of my body just last night—of the way he handled me, used me, reduced me to nothing but his pet.
The thought lingers heavily in my mind, blurring the edges of the present. I can’t decide what I should feel—threatened, flattered, or maybe both?
Part of me wanted him to know it was me. Wanted him to rip that mask off and see me for exactly who I am. His student, Ariella Keinston.
My cheeks warm at the thought, heat creeping up my neck despite the sober exterior. If he found out… what would he do?
Would he destroy me?
Or pull me closer, tighten that invisible leash, and make me exactly as he already treats me in the dark—his good little kitty?
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?
A sharp knock rattles the stall.
“Girl, you alright?” a concerned voice calls from the outside.
Right. I’ve been in here for too long.
I exhale slowly, forcing my expression back into normal, and I unlock the stall, pulling the door open.
“Thanks,” I clear my throat, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness, “I’m fine.”
I brush past her before she can look too closely and realize I’m not, and make my way to the basin. Grabbing a napkin, I place it neatly on the dry edge of the counter and set my phone on top of it.
Then I turn on the tap and start to splash cold water against my skin. I lean forward, letting it run over my face, trying to ground myself in something real, something present.
I open my eyes and splash water harder, trying to rinse the echo of him out of my head.
I don’t bother drying my face properly when I leave and step back into the corridor. Droplets slide down my skin, cooling too quickly against the air.
When I return to class, there are only thirty minutes left.
The door creaks softly as I push it open and walk inside.
For a split second, I catch him—lips parting, about to say something. But he clamps them in the last moment.
Whatever thought crossed his mind is swallowed just as quickly. He turns back to the board, continuing the lecture.
A strange mix of disappointment and relief settles in my chest.
Part of me wanted him to ask. To notice. To acknowledge me in a way that went beyond equations and structured authority.
The other part is grateful he didn’t. What would I even say?
The last thing I need is to invite questions, or let people build narratives around us—some cheap, surface-level assumption about a teacher-student kink.
If only it were that simple.
I sink back into my seat, my gaze drifts between the board and him, my thoughts unfocused, my attention slipping away.
The lecture continues, but I barely register it.
At least he doesn’t call on me like last class, nor does he ask me academic questions like he used to.
For once, I don’t crave the spotlight like I used to before the staged accident. Now, attention makes me feel like the prey instead of the predator.
The moment the class ends, the room erupts into movement—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, people already talking about things I couldn’t care less about.
Maybe I should stop. Stop going to him every night. Stop feeding whatever this obsession is about. Let him feel my absence.
Now that he knows I exist, would he come looking for me?
Would he lose the control he has over himself to chase me?
Would he haunt me down in the dark and fuck me in the wild like his dirty little secret?
Just as I sling my bag over my shoulder, ready to leave and call it a day, he speaks to me.
“Miss Keinston?”
My heart jolts immediately.
I turn. “Yes?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Just a small tilt of his head—a silent command to follow.
I obey. I hate that I do.
We keep a measured distance as I walk behind him, the rhythm of our steps echoing faintly through the corridor.
My mind keeps circling back to that one question—why me? Did Alistair know it was me from the start?
I swallow a lump, my hands tighten around the straps of my bag. If yes then… What now?
He doesn’t speak the entire way to his faculty room.
Professor Hertley opens the door and steps aside, holding it for me. The gesture is simple and polite as usual.
It sends an unexpected warmth through me, although I know exactly what he’s capable of behind closed doors. Not when my body still remembers the way he handled me—unyielding, merciless, consuming.
A man who can strip me down to nothing in the dark and still hold a door open like a gentleman in the light. The contradiction makes my heart flutter a little too hard and butterflies flapping their wings in my stomach.
I give a small nod and step inside. He follows, the door clicks shut with such softness that makes me flinch.
It’s absurd. I’ve had him inside my mouth for days, learned the weight and taste of him in ways no one else has, and yet standing here, fully clothed, under fluorescent lighting, I feel nervous.
Get it together, Ari. He doesn’t know.
What is he does?
“Have a seat, Miss Keinston,” he says, already turning toward the coffee brewer, his tone calm and professional.
Strange. I think his wife mentioned he doesn’t like coffee.
I nod, though the motion feels delayed, and move to sit across from his desk. My fingers loosen slightly around the strap, letting the bag slide off my shoulder onto my lap.
“Want some coffee?”
The question catches me off guard.
I glance over my shoulder at him, momentarily stunned by the casualness—as if we’re just professor and student, nothing tangled, nothing hidden beneath the surface.
I shake my head. “Thanks, but no.”
“You sure?” he asks, already reaching for another mug. “I think it might help with your sore throat.”
My breath stutters, catching halfway up my chest.
“H-how did you—” the question falters before it can fully form.
“Observation,” he replies easily. “You’ve been unusually quiet today.”
He walks over and sets the mug in front of me nevertheless, and takes his seat with his fill in hand—completely unbothered by the way my pulse has started to misbehave again.
I mouth a quiet thank you and wrap my fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into my skin before I take a careful sip.
Too hot. I pull back slightly, not willing to add a burnt tongue in the list.
He watches me patiently, waiting for me to adjust at my own pace.
When I try again, slower this time, the flavor settles over my tongue, rich and smooth with a subtle bitterness softened by something almost velvety.
A soft hum escapes me. It’s really good.
“Good?” he asks, finally lifting his own mug.
“You should’ve been a barista,” I rasp, wincing inwardly at how hoarse my voice sounds.