57. DECEPTION
ariella
Alistair sounded exactly like himself—measured, composed, irritatingly formal.
Nothing about the conversation hinted at another locked office, another impossible proposition, or another attempt to drag me into whatever hidden world seemed to exist just beneath the surface of Oxford. Or whatever happened last night.
Unfortunately, Adrian doesn’t share my interpretation.
He’s hellbent on not letting me leave at all. At this rate, convincing him seems like another pain in the ass.
“I am going to university,” I remind him for what has to be the fourth time. “Not disappearing off the face of the earth.”
His expression remains unchanged.
“You received a call from a man who got you killed.”
“He also happens to supervise my research.”
“He also happens to be the reason you’re getting into so much trouble, Ariella.”
I sigh dramatically. “Alistair specifically mentioned he found material related to our previous work. I’m only going early for that, nothing else.”
“That is exactly what bothers me.”
I tilt my head. “The research?”
“The timing.”
I stare at him blankly.
He continues, “You return to England even when I asked you not to, then you get arrested, and within practically no time at all, he contacts you asking for a private meeting.”
“It’s not private. It’s at the faculty office.”
His gaze hardens. “Ari.”
I fold my arms. “What exactly do you expect to do? Accompany me to every lecture? Sit outside every classroom? Follow me through campus for the rest of the semester?”
“If necessary,” he sighs. “Your dad was supposed to assign you some guards. Where are they?”
“Paid them off.”
“Ariella, you—” he exhales aloud. “I’m fucking gonna kill Asher.”
“Why are you here, Adrian?”
“Business issue.”
“I remember Asher saying this same thing. But why are you here?”
“Same thing.”
“Is it something related to Alistair?”
“Maybe… maybe not.”
I huff again. He won’t give me a straight answer. The human Adrian from last night is gone. And I don’t know when I’ll be getting a glimpse of him again.
“I’m going nowhere except my university,” I tell him more gently. “Just a little earlier than usual. You can stay here, deal with whatever business issue you two came here for, whatever it is you people do all day, and pick me up after classes end. Okay?”
His silence stretches for a few moments. I know that look.
His overthinking brain has already wandered into places mine refuses to visit.
Coincidences become patterns to him. Patterns become threats. The problem is that Adrian rarely overthinks without a reason.
Eventually, he exhales through his nose. “You keep your phone on.”
I blink. “That’s your condition?”
“You answer every call.”
“You’re aware I’m attending university and not enlisting in the military?”
“You. Answer. Every. Call,” he repeats, focusing on each word separately.
I throw my hands into the air. “Fine. Happy now?”
“I’m dropping you at the university,” he’s already moving towards the door.
There’s a strange level of hesitation in his expression.
It lasts only a second before disappearing behind the same controlled composure he always wears.
I mistake it for overprotectiveness.
After everything that happened with Alistair, perhaps he simply does not trust my judgment anymore. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure I trust it either.
“Stop worrying,” I tell him with a small smile and reach for my bag. “I’ll be back before you know it,” and follow after him.
I spend most of the journey looking out of the window.
Adrian keeps his attention on the road.
I catch him glancing at me once or twice, though whether he’s checking that I’m still there or making sure I’m not planning another spectacular escape attempt, I can’t tell.
When the university finally comes into view, he pulls over near the engineering faculty.
I reach for the door handle.
“Ariella.”
I look back.
“You keep your phone on,” he reminds me.
A smile threatens to appear. “You really are serious about this.”
“I am.”
“And if I miss one call because I’m actually studying?”
The frown deepens on his glabella.
“Stop worrying,” I shake my head, open the door, and step out onto the pavement. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
His expression does not change.
For some reason, the lack of any verbal response leaves a strange feeling in my chest.
“Okay, so uhh… see you soon?”
He only nods in response.
The entire campus is quieter than usual as I make my way towards the empty elevator and press for the faculty members’ floor.
Most students have not arrived yet, leaving the engineering building suspended in that odd space between emptiness and routine.
The faculty offices are deserted as well—most of the rooms are still darkened.
I move through the corridor and stop at the room I’m supposed to be in—Professor A. Hertley, Senior Lecturer in EEE.
Alistair always arrived early, but not this early. At least, not that I ever noticed ever since I started watching him.
His office door is already left ajar.
I pause for a moment before knocking.
“Come in,” the voice carries the same calm precision it always has.
When I step inside, I find him sitting on his armchair with several folders already arranged in perfect order.
A laptop is open. Old journals are stacked neatly beside it. Sheets of handwritten notes are spread across the table.
Everything is exactly where it should be. Everything except him.
What is it? I can’t explain it.
He looks the same with his glasses and an immaculate suit. His posture is straight, and his expression is as unreadable as ever. Yet something feels subtly out of place.
“Professor,” I choose the formal way to address him and close the door behind me. “I was beginning to think you secretly lived here.”
“I’ve been accused of worse things,” he tries to keep his tone light as usual, but the ever-friendly smile is nowhere in sight.
Which makes the joke sound oddly serious.
“That’s not a denial.”
“I’m well aware,” he admits without ever looking at me.
Even so, the office feels familiar. This room has witnessed endless debates, impossible assignments, and more arguments than I care to count.
It’s where our entire academic relationship was built.
Perhaps that’s why the uneasiness fades almost as quickly as it appeared.
He motions toward the chair across from him. “Sit, Miss Keinston.”
I do.
“The records I mentioned…” he then spreads several research files before me, along with engineering reports and handwritten observations.
I lean over the desk and pick up one of the documents.
My brows lift almost immediately. “These are the original laboratory records.”
Alistair only hums in response.
I turn another page.
The familiar recursive model stares back at me, except this version carries years of handwritten corrections in the margins.
Different ink. Different dates. Entire calculations crossed out and rebuilt from the beginning.
“You actually found them.”
“I told you I would.”
A strange smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “For someone who enjoys acting mysterious, you could’ve simply admitted you hid the entire archive from your students.”
“It was merely waiting for someone to ask the correct question.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something a villain would say,” I try to joke, glancing up.
Normally, there would be that faint, almost imperceptible smile that followed my remarks. Today, there’s only the statement itself.
The next half an hour passes so naturally that I almost forget everything that happened between us.
The world shrinks into equations, old research, and the same recursive structure that started this entire academic disaster between us. The one he intentionally broke during my first lecture, and I was arrogant enough to challenge.
His notes are infuriating.
Half the calculations jump three steps ahead as though everyone else in the world should naturally keep up with the inside of his mind.
“This assumption is wrong,” I say, drawing a line through one section. “The entire assumption depends on a variable that was never properly measured.”
“It survived peer review.”
“Then the reviewers were wrong too.”
“They are internationally respected engineers.”
“Well, with all due respect, I’m willing to offend them.”
A quiet sound escapes him. Not quite a laugh. Just close enough that I catch myself looking at him.
His attention is already back on the documents. Silence settles between us.
He’s watching me, not the equations.
“You disagree?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
He lowers his eyes to the papers again. “No reason.”
I shake my head and reach for another file.
Gradually, I find myself explaining alternatives, sketching calculations in the margins, and arguing over possibilities that may never even be tested.
Alistair argues back.
He challenges my reasoning.
He dismantles my assumptions.
He forces me to defend every conclusion.
The conversation becomes familiar. Somewhere along the way, I forget that I’m supposed to be careful around him.
So I try to observe him. And each time I do, a strange feeling settles over me.
I study him while pretending to read.
His suit is immaculate.
His glasses sit perfectly where they always do.
His posture has not changed once.
Yet something about him refuses to settle into place.
He isn’t distracted. He isn’t careless. However, once every few minutes, I notice him glance at his wristwatch—the one he always seems to wear ever since I first saw him on the internet.
I continue talking. Not long after, he does it again.
“…which means the structural failure would’ve occurred years earlier,” I finish.
He doesn’t answer immediately. I find his eyes are fixed somewhere beyond the office wall.
“Professor?”
His attention returns at once. “My apologies. Continue.”
I frown but resume explaining.
A little later, he asks me to repeat a conclusion I know he heard the first time.
Another time, I look up to find him watching me instead of the pages spread across the desk.
The longer we work, the more obvious it becomes.
His mind keeps wandering somewhere I cannot follow.
Eventually, I put my pen down. “You’re acting strange.”