Chapter 29 Deirdre
Deirdre
“There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.” Edgar Allan Poe
By the time the gala week arrives, the rhythm of classes has settled into something deceptively normal.
Claire and I are drowning in dissecting all of Tipton’s assignments, while I also struggle with balancing being Kieran’s TA, forbidden girlfriend, and managing a few shifts at Salvation every weekend.
Scholar’s Auditorium still hums with the same scratch of busy pens against paper, and the rhythmic sounds of tapping on laptop keys, but I feel the shift in the air every time I walk in.
Since Eli’s little stunt, whispers trail me like smoke.
Students glance at me sideways, darting from me to Kieran and back again when he lectures or when we interact, as though they’re waiting to catch us slipping.
A few of the students avoid me altogether, but there’s a handful that trust me enough to help them with their studies.
I hear the rumors in fragments: ‘She was his favorite last semester’, ‘that’s why he’s so hard on the rest of us’, ‘she probably sucked her way to an A’. All of them spoken just loud enough for me to notice.
I don’t rise to it. I bury myself in work instead—tutoring students that want me to help them refine their Poe analyses during office hours, sorting through essays with my red pen in hand, and applying “Professor Drill Sergeant’s”, as the new wave of freshmen have donned him, comments in decipherable handwriting for the students that actually care.
Meanwhile, Kieran and I sneak our stolen moments tucked between our obligations.
His hand brushing mine when no one’s looking, the graze of his shoulder when he leans close to review a passage, his voice dropping low enough to curl heat in my stomach when he corrects me in class.
Dangerous, deliberate touches that mean nothing to anyone else—but to me, they’re everything.
And of course, the mornings before class, when it is just me and him in his office.
And yet, Sheridan’s shadow lingers. Every time I catch Kieran watching the door before he lets himself soften toward me, I’m reminded we’re under scrutiny.
Sheridan’s words from that phone call—his smug tone, his warnings—have kept us a little more wary, more cautious.
Kieran keeps his mask perfectly in place during lectures, but I see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way he works harder than ever to make sure no one has ammunition to use against us.
We’re balancing on a knife’s edge, pretending at normalcy while every stolen glance, every hidden touch threatens to tip us into the very scandal Sheridan is waiting to exploit.
And now, with the gala looming, the tightrope feels thinner than ever.
Kieran: Remind me again why I don’t have you bent over a desk?
Deirdre: Claire and I are shopping for Thursday. Need to blow your mind that night. ;)
Kieran: I will need to keep my comments to myself after that.
Deirdre: Behave, Professor.
Kieran: You make this increasingly difficult, Miss Ravencroft.
Tuesday afternoon, the crisp March air bites my cheeks as Claire and I duck into a boutique off Chapel Street.
Tipton’s lecture had dragged on, filled with monotonous Cantos of the Divine Comedy and heavy sighs amongst the students, but the second we stepped out of class, Claire insisted the only cure for academic boredom was retail therapy—specifically, dress shopping.
The boutique is strung with fairy lights and smells faintly of vanilla and citrus.
Racks of gowns in deep jewel tones sweep across the floor, each one more dramatic than the last. A whole table gleams with masks: delicate lace, glittering feathers, gilded Venetian styles that look too decadent to actually wear.
Giddiness swirls inside me at the thought of having a night with Kieran, but this time I can be his secret in plain sight.
Claire wastes no time.
“Okay.” She claps her hands, eyes beaming like the jewels on the dresses. “We have, like, three days before the gala. We need dresses that say, I am an intellectual goddess, but also, if you cross me, I will ruin your life.”
She lifts a crimson satin gown and holds it against herself in the mirror, tilting her head. “Thoughts?”
“Too much goddess, not enough ruin,” I tease, slipping a sequined mask over my face and grimacing at the way the glitter scratches my skin.
Claire gasps dramatically. “You need a dress that says all of the above. Plus, ‘I’m secretly sleeping with the professor everyone fantasizes about but pretends to hate.’”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Claire.”
She grins. “Half the freshmen student body’s noticed. Rumors are swirling like pumpkin spice in a Starbucks cup. Good thing, Sheridan will be too busy schmoozing donors’ asses to notice if you’re there.”
I busy myself flipping through hangers, as if the rustling of taffeta fabric can drown her out. “At this point, I almost want to back out of the gala, the whole plan.”
Claire plants herself in front of me, shoving a black lace sheathed gown into my hands. The feminine neckline is elegant, but the thigh-high slit makes it daring. “No. You’re going. We’ll find you a dress that makes Sheridan choke on his words.”
I trail my fingers over the fabric, and the small sequins catch the light of the window.
“Go try that on, NOW!” She shrieks as she pushes me toward the dressing room with curtains for doors.
The price tag alone is more than I’m used to.
But the dress itself throws me out of my comfort zone.
It’s too much skin, and brings too much attention to myself.
I’ve spent months hiding in long tunics and dark colors, blending into classrooms and library stacks, and now this dress dares me to be seen.
Sexy and elegant—everything I’ve trained myself not to be.
The thought makes my stomach flutter with equal parts dread and thrill.
The dress fits like a second skin, and it hugs every curve I try to keep hidden.
The sheath silhouette skims my frame, smooth and sculpted, the boned corset drawing me in tight until my posture feels taller.
One shoulder is bared completely while the other disappears under a long sleeve of black lace, intricate patterns crawling over my skin like ivy.
The high slit slices up my right thigh, dangerous and tempting, revealing more than it conceals each time I shift.
One wrong move and the entire gala will get a peep show.
And the sweep of the train behind me softens the edge, as though the dress itself knows I need elegance to balance the temptation.
I catch my reflection and almost don’t recognize the person looking back at me.
The girl in the mirror is commanding and untouchable—a far cry from the nervous student who used to blend into lecture halls when I first arrived here.
Now my fingertips trace the lace at my wrist, cool and intricate against my skin, while the dress parts with each step, revealing a flash of thigh that would have once made me tug the fabric closed.
I imagine Kieran seeing me in it, the way his eyes will narrow first in disbelief, then darken with something that will make me weak at the knees.
He’ll hate that I’m stepping into a room full of people who will see me like this, want me like this.
But he’ll love it too—because he’ll know every glance sent my way is wasted.
I want him to look at me across that ballroom and remember what Sheridan doesn’t know, what no rumor can ever touch: that beneath the gown, beneath the mask, I belong only to him.
I tug the curtain back, careful not to trip over the delicate fabric of the train, and step onto the small platform in front of the mirror.
Claire’s eyes go wide the second she sees me. Her hand flies to her mouth, then she drops it with a dramatic gasp.
“Holy. Shit.”
She blinks once, twice, then starts fanning herself with a random sequined clutch from the rack. “Okay, okay, I need a minute. This is…lethal.”
I can feel my cheeks flush. “You think it’s too much?”
“Too much?” Claire circles me like she’s inspecting a work of art, her curls bouncing with each step.
“This isn’t too much. This is just enough to make Professor Broody lose his goddamn mind.“ She gestures wildly at the slit. “That leg! That slit! That lace sleeve? It’s giving—how do I put this politely—‘fuck me in front of the entire student body!’”
I can’t help laughing, though my stomach twists with nerves. “Claire—”
“No, don’t even start.” She plants her hands on her hips, eyes blazing with approval.
“You look like you were poured into that dress by the gods themselves. Kieran is going to combust on the spot. Actually, no, he’s going to glare at every man in the room like he’s plotting a murder. And honestly? I’m going to love it.”
I shake my head, but my reflection silences any argument. Claire isn’t wrong—the dress transforms me. And the thought of Kieran’s reaction makes my pulse quicken in a way I can’t ignore.
Claire smirks knowingly, like she can read every apprehensive thought flickering across my face. “Oh, honey. That man’s going to forget how to breathe.”
After I reluctantly peel off the dress, I place it back on its hanger and walk out of the dressing room.
“And what about the mask?”
Claire spins toward the display, plucking up a bedazzled dark grey and black half-mask with Venetian gold details.
“This one. It’s mysterious and lethal, which is your goal for the night, right? You’re going to look like if Poe’s raven came to life and decided to attend a party.”
I let out a giggle. “That’s…oddly specific.”
“It’s perfect.” She presses it into my hand. “Trust me. And if Sheridan pulls any bullshit, you can remind him that you’re not the bitch to mess with.”
Her conviction almost makes me believe it.
Almost.
Deirdre: Be prepared for your jaw to drop, Professor.
Kieran: You enjoy torturing me.
Deirdre: Only a little.
Kieran: You are playing with fire.
Deirdre: And you’ll be the one burning when I walk into that ballroom.
Kieran: Dangerous words, Miss Ravencroft. You’ll see what it means to be mine in a room full of people who can only look.
I stare at his last message until the words blur, heat curling low in my stomach. Mine in a room full of people who can only look.
Claire’s voice pulls me back. She’s fussing with hangers, humming to herself, blissfully unaware that my entire body just went molten over a single line of text. I lock my phone, slip it into my bag, and force my legs to move toward the exit after Claire checks out.
The dress is now tucked in its garment bag over my arm, and the mask is wrapped in protective tissue paper tucked neatly in the small shopping bag.
I can already feel the weight of his gaze when I wear it. The danger, the promise.
A shiver slides down my spine.
For the first time, I’m not just dreading the gala. I’m aching for it.