Chapter 6
ISABELLA
The classroom is empty now, and the faint hum of the overhead lights is the only sound. I sit at my desk, staring at the notes spread out in front of me, but my mind refuses to focus.
Everything is exactly as it should be. Orderly, calm, in its place. So why do I feel like I’m coming undone?
I cross my arms, pressing my fingertips into the fabric of my blazer.
The pressure grounds me, and my thoughts wander back to Diego Kahale.
His oddly subdued presence today. A continuation of Friday has left me off-kilter.
He came in early, quietly slid into his usual back-row seat, and stayed there.
No disrespectful comments. No flirty interruptions. No playful smirks. Just him, sitting quietly.
Watching me.
The thought prickles at the edges of my mind, sharp and unwelcome. I should be relieved, even grateful, because the class flowed smoothly without his antics. His fan club in the front row barely spared him a glance, their usual giggles and whispers replaced by focused engagement.
It should be a triumph. It should make me feel accomplished and satisfied. Instead, it feels odd. Almost wrong.
Hollow.
I breathe, my eyes drifting to his desk, the only one that didn’t have a pen, notebook, or laptop. Nothing. He just sat there, his dark eyes locked on me as though daring me to acknowledge him beyond the teacher-student dynamic. He knows the material. I’m sure of it.
It’s in how his gaze sharpens when I write equations on the board and his lips quirk faintly when I pose questions he doesn’t bother to answer. Diego is sharper than he lets on. There’s an intelligence behind those dark eyes.
One he thinks he’s hiding. But I see it. He knows the answers. He’s just refusing to participate. It’s maddening.
It’s a battle of wills to see who will break first. It shouldn’t be. I almost regret the change. The quiet indifference is nearly as bad as the loud and outlandish behavior. My gut hardens. My thoughts shift, wondering what he’s thinking and what tactic he’ll deploy next.
I press my fingers to my temples, willing myself to stop. To let it go. This, no, he, isn’t worth my mental real estate. He’s behaving. The class is focused. The day is done. Relax.
Typically, I’m relieved at the end of a long day, especially the first day of the week, but today, it feels too heavy, like something is unresolved.
Maybe it’s because I spent the weekend hoping to see that mystery rider again. After our reckless race through Boston, I’d taken to my bike Saturday and Sunday, retracing the same streets, my eyes scanning for the sleek black helmet and bike that had matched me move for move. But he never showed.
It’s ridiculous. I know that. A childish game of cat and mouse with a stranger that could have gotten me killed.
And yet, I can’t shake the way I felt that night.
The fire in my veins, the raw, untamed energy that coursed through me as I pushed my limits.
It was dangerous, thrilling, addictive. Everything I don’t allow myself to be in my strictly controlled classroom.
Riding is my alter ego, allowing me to play a part I can never be in real life.
An escape.
An outlet.
A side of me that only comes out to play when the streets turn slick and the nights turn dark.
Trying to keep my mind off both men, I do a practice run of the lab I’m teaching on Wednesday.
I usually do these on Tuesdays, but with my restless energy and overactive brain, I need something productive to do.
I stand, grab my notebook and gloves, and start setting up a workstation in the laboratory.
The ringtone from my phone slices through the quiet space, startling me. My father’s name flashes across it. Sliding to answer, I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and lean against the black counter, the edge digging into my hip.
“Papà. I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I was so exhausted, I practically fell into bed.”
Guilt softens my voice as I deliver the small lie. I forgot to call him for our usual Sunday evening discussion, stumbling in too late and frustrated from my long and apparently unnecessary ride, even if the exhaustion part was real.
“Isabella!” His rich, gravelly tone carries a hint of mischief. “I hypothesized that might be the case. I thought I would come and see how my daughter managed her first week at Boston University. Look out your window, cara.”
My brows knit as I step toward the tall windows framing the lab.
Outside, students bustle through the courtyard, their heads bent against the crisp autumn breeze.
And then, among the sea of backpacks and coats, I see him.
His white hair blows in disarray. He’s dressed in his well-loved wool coat, his scarf neatly tied, and a modest overnight bag in hand.
The phone nearly slips from my grasp.
“Papà!” My voice comes out in a rush of disbelief and delight. “You’re here? How? How did you know my building?”
He waves, his face splitting into a broad grin.
“Yes. I took the train. I asked the nice children here, and they pointed out the science building.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I hang up, shove my phone in my blazer, and sprint through the building. Within minutes, I’m throwing my arms around him. His familiar scent. Coffee, aftershave, and the faintest trace of a tobacco pipe wrap around me like a cocoon.
“You took the train all the way from Princeton?” I pull back, shaking my head in disbelief. “That’s six hours!”
“It is. Very smooth trip. I ate, napped, and read. And now I’m here.” He adjusts his scarf, the wool snagging slightly on his weathered fingers. “A father must check on his brilliant daughter. Now, show me your new domain.”
I laugh, looping my arm in his as we head back into the building, this time taking the elevator. The chill from outside lingers with us until we stop in the doorway of my new classroom.
As we step inside, his eyes sweep the lab, setting his bag on a stool and running a hand along the cool surface of a table’s countertop.
“Ah, this brings back memories. It’s a beautiful lab, Isabella. Functional, efficient. Almost like the ones at Princeton.”
That’s not true.
My university is not on the same level as his alma mater. They have a much larger budget than BU, which is evident in their latest technology and the gadgets standard at each workstation.
“But without you,” I say instead of all my comparative thoughts.
I affectionately nudge him with my elbow. He smiles, running a hand through his hair to tame it and then removing his coat and scarf.
“Nonsense. You are here now. That is enough.”
“Would you like to help me with something I’m working on?”
He gives me a sharp nod, his gaze glued to my experiment as he moves toward it. We settle at one of the lab benches, and I set up a simple crystallization reaction for him.
The glassware gleams under the overhead lights, the solution swirling in a mesmerizing dance as I tilt the flask. He leans closer, his eyes narrowing with the focus of a man who has spent his entire life immersed in this world.
“So,” he says after a while, his fingers tapping a soft rhythm on the counter. “How is it going? Are your students as eager as you were?”
I sigh, setting the flask on the stir plate and adjusting the temperature.
“Most of them, yes. There was one. A problem student who didn’t respect me or the class. I kicked him out.”
His brow lifts in curiosity.
“Already? Tell me what happened.”
“He’s arrogant.”
I cross my arms as I lean back against the counter.
“And disruptive. He came in late on the first day, made a scene, and then was surprised when I advised him to leave.” I shake my head.
The memory still frustrates me. “Would he have done the same to a male professor? Or you? I don’t think so.
Part of me suspects he has a problem with women.
As if I haven’t dealt with that nonsense my whole career. ”
“He sounds like a character.” He rubs his chin, his lips twitching with amusement. “And how do you feel about him?”
“How do I feel about him?” The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Does he challenge you?”
He picks up a glass rod and examines it with the same care he once reserved for his lab samples.
“Yes! That’s the problem. He doesn’t respect authority. It seems as though this was all a big joke to him. He needs discipline, boundaries, and respect. What? What’s that look for?”
Papà sets the rod down and meets my gaze, his eyes soft but penetrating.
“Sometimes, the ones who challenge us the most are the ones with the most potential. Have you considered why he behaves this way?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe he’s used to getting away with it.”
As I return to the reaction, my lips press into a thin line, watching the crystals slowly form.
“You know how entitled kids are these days, Papà.”
“Cara, they have been and always will be entitled. It’s the world they come from.
When you’re born into great wealth, you have endless resources.
Their view of the world differs from those of us who have had to work to get where we are.
Teaching at the best schools in the nation instills in students the notion that they deserve to be catered to, a notion that has been reinforced throughout their lives.
They know nothing else in many respects. ”
“I’m not catering to anyone. Science is objective. It doesn’t care if you’re wealthy or not. Every student is equal in this classroom.”
The thought of giving preference treatment based on who they are or where they come from is repugnant. My nose wrinkles in disgust.
“Good.”
He reaches across the table to pat my arm with a thoughtful look.