Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
ROSE
“Turn off your phones and take out your notebooks.” Professor Maxwell’s unsympathetic voice reverberated around the classroom. “I don’t allow laptops, and I don’t repeat myself. Write fast, and if you miss anything, too bad. Don’t interrupt me.”
There was a moment of confusion, followed by a flurry of movement as everyone realized our eccentric professor was gracing us with a lecture.
His decision to share his knowledge was a rare gem.
We had no idea what changed his mind about teaching us, but no one dared to contradict his orders and rushed to pull out their notebooks.
I turned off my phone and was slow to pull out my notebook.
I lined up two pens, unconsciously rotating them three times.
The professor’s gaze landed on me, lingering while I performed my odd routine.
If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was waiting for me to be fully prepared before starting his lecture.
He looked away once I uncapped my pen. “Let’s start with the basic elements on the periodic table. If you haven’t memorized the chart already, I suggest leaving my classroom.”
I was a slow note-taker and preferred a laptop over writing by hand.
However, that option was unavailable in Professor Maxwell’s class.
I scribbled as fast as possible, and midway through the most intense lecture of my life, the pen ran out of ink.
I grabbed my second pen and realized the ink was also running low.
Are you serious?
I kept more spare pens in my bag, but Amelie had moved our bags to the floor so we would have more space on the table. Before I could hop off my stool to find my bag, Matt gave me an inquisitive look. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.
I shook the pen in my hand.
He gave me a reassuring smile. “Here, I have an extra,” he murmured, extending a rollerball pen.
Professor Maxwell’s gaze landed on the exchange just as I reached for it. “Am I boring you, Mr. Doyle?” he asked, forcing the lecture to a screeching halt.
My back straightened while Matt’s head anxiously moved side to side. “O-of course not, Professor.”
I wanted to chime in and explain, but I already knew speaking with many eyes on me would be impossible.
Matt noticed my dilemma, and replied, “Rose ran out of ink and needed a pen.”
Professor Maxwell appeared calm, but it wasn’t the good kind, it was the calm before the storm. “Let’s stop here for the day since Rose is out of ink.”
My face flushed as my classmates’ accusatory eyes sought me out. Ugh. They were pissed that I had ruined this exclusive lecture.
“Rose, I suggest you return the pen since there are no more notes to be taken,” Professor Maxwell instructed in that indifferent tone of his.
It seemed like he was joking until I realized his gaze wouldn’t move until I complied. With trembling fingers and everyone watching, I held out the pen. Professor Maxwell didn’t speak again until the transaction was complete.
“Finish the tasks from yesterday,” he ordered vaguely before walking out of the lab, his deep voice forcing my stomach to do somersaults.
The students would’ve groaned if they had the nerve to express anger. Instead, most of them cast sideways glares at me.
Oh God.
As everyone busied themselves with their respective tasks, someone behind me called out in a clear voice. “Rose.” I turned to find Miles. Our teaching assistant wore a quizzical expression, lips pursed in contemplation. “Come with me.”
What had I done now?
My eyes were full of questions, prompting him to provide a clipped explanation. “Professor Maxwell asked to see you.”
Matt dropped the notebook in his hand, and Amelie toyed with the edge of her silky blouse. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
I shrugged and followed Miles on wooden legs. The other research assistants speared me with peculiar glances as we passed them. One brunette was particularly irked by my presence.
Did they know something I didn’t? Was Professor Maxwell about to punish me for breaking into his lab?
I had called in the big guns, my cousin Poppy, to track down PMU, and she came through for me.
Professor Maxwell blamed me for destroying his precious inventory during the first day of class.
I didn’t have the nerve to hand it to him in person, so I snuck into his lab to replenish his stock.
Technically, it was still breaking and entering.
I expected Miles to ask me to wait at Professor Maxwell’s workstation. Instead, he led me to an adjoining room and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Professor Maxwell said from the other side.
Miles hesitated, seemingly struggling with a thought. Finally, he confessed, “Professor Maxwell asked that you assist him today.”
Me?
I thought he would kick me out for sneaking into his lab.
At best, he would punish me with more terrible chores.
Other than his vetted research assistants, no one was allowed to help him with his work.
Even then, he chose the most capable ones that didn’t piss him off.
No wonder they were all staring at me, wondering how I had caught his attention.
A sinking feeling settled into my stomach at all the unwarranted attention.
This request was odder than the one from last night to see the long-term care plan for my scars.
I didn’t understand this man or his motivations.
“He has never allowed a student to help with his work,” Miles echoed my thoughts. “Especially a female one,” he added pointedly. “For whatever reason, he’s giving you a chance. Don’t blow it by hitting on him,” he stated bluntly as if I were shamelessly flaunting my goods for his attention.
I quickly shook my head, trying to convey I would never do such a thing.
Miles turned the knob and opened the door to the interconnected room.
Peering around at what looked like the professor’s office, I found him sitting at the edge of his desk, reviewing something in a manila folder.
Since the lecture, he had taken off his lab coat and undone the top few buttons of his shirt.
The sleeves of his light blue shirt were rolled up to reveal his strong, veiny forearms. My eyes bulged.
The glimpse of his tanned, muscular chest might as well be soft-core porn.
What was he thinking, sitting in his office, dressed like that?
“Did you find out about the long-term care plan?” he asked without looking up from his notes.
The question was meant for me, but I peeked at Miles for confirmation.
“Unless he’s your primary care physician, the answer won’t be written on his face.”
I gulped and returned my attention to Professor Maxwell, who was now glaring at me for some undisclosed reason.
“You can go, Miles,” he ordered coldly.
With a nod, Miles shut the door behind him as if he had done his job by delivering the package. I stared after him, silently begging him not to leave me alone in the lion’s den.
When I returned my attention to Professor Maxwell, another flicker of irritation crossed his expression at my seeking out Miles. “Stop staring at the door,” he muttered under his breath. He appeared to exercise immense restraint to keep from barking at me.
Was he trying to be nice?
“Did you find the care plan?” he pressed.
I shook my head.
I was too young when the incident occurred, and I asked my father if my attending physicians provided a long-term plan.
It turned out that no one had followed up with the doctors.
My family was busy tracking down the assailant.
Because, of course, it was more important to deal with anyone threatening the Ambani name rather than taking care of the eleven-year-old who was nearly stabbed to death.
I had Professor Maxwell to thank for making me face the harsh reality.
It made me wish I could shed the burden of being an Ambani.
“I figured as much.” He held up the document in his hand. “That’s why I made one.”
My body stiffened at the unexpected declaration. He was a world-renowned physician and scientist. Why did he care about some scars on my body or make a medical plan for me?
I didn’t dare ask and merely nodded, accepting the folder. He watched me quietly as I studied his notes.
Anti-inflammatory diet plan.
Topical treatments.
“How well do you know Mr. Doyle?”
My fingers froze before I could turn the page and review the rest of his carefully crafted plan. The abrupt question and the accusation in his deep voice were more staggering than the extensive plan he had drawn up for me. My mind blanked, and I asked, “You mean Matt?”
His eyes twitched when I uttered Matt’s name. It was the most expressive thing he had done thus far.
More so, we were both surprised that I had spoken at all. Sometimes, he shocked me just enough to speak without thinking.
Professor Maxwell folded his arms across his chest. Everything about him was closed off as he waited for my response. Unlike last night, he exercised more patience. Perhaps because he wasn’t pestering me, the words jumped to my lips.
“I don’t know him that well,” I whispered, focusing on a spot on the floor.
He was quiet for so long that it caught me off guard, even though I thrived in the silence.
My lids flew up to look him in the face.
His strong jaw moved side to side as if he were grinding the bottom set of his teeth.
The five-o’clock shadow he sported today hadn’t existed yesterday.
It made him look older and gruffer, and my attention lingered on it momentarily.
I internally cursed myself upon realizing I was gawking. How could I forget the one thing everyone warned me not to do?
“He’s interested in you,” he announced at long last, eyes moving over my face, calculating my reaction to his assessment.
I slanted my head for an, Oh. I had no idea where he was going with this or how he wanted me to react.
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” When I said nothing, he followed up with, “You two aren’t a good fit.” His tone was unwavering, as if he had the final say on the matter.
Were faculty members allowed to comment on our personal lives?
His opinion was beyond inappropriate. Then again, Professor Maxwell was an unorthodox teacher. Should I be surprised he had weighed in on my dating life as if he had every right?
I shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do.
When I didn’t acknowledge his veto on a suitable partner, his brows lowered. “You’re wealthy; he is rich,” he said in a justifying tone. “It’s not a good match.”
“Isn’t rich and wealthy the same thing?” I asked, confused. He had a way of pushing my buttons, which made me speak out when I was around him.
“No, Little Rose, there’s a big difference.”
The nickname, Little Rose, was almost a slip of his tongue. It was not lost on me that I was also the only person he called by their first name. He was otherwise formal with everyone else.
Was he taking a personal interest in me so he could butter me up for more PMU? If so, he was wasting his time. Poppy clarified it was a one-time favor, she couldn’t procure more.
It was possible he pitied me because of my scars. He was weirdly invested in them, though I wouldn’t complain if it garnered me some sympathy with the elusive professor.
As I highly doubted that he cared enough about my well-being, I thought of another plausible theory.
Perhaps he was working on an ointment to heal old scars and needed a lab rat.
I heard he had run unethical experiments before.
The college looked the other way, of course.
They would let him get away with murder.
I regarded his posture—seated at the edge of his desk with a hand gripping the ledge—and waited for his explanation.
“Rich people’s status depends on an income that can disappear at any time.
Wealthy people can maintain their lifestyle without an income.
” He stood to height. “That’s why rich people show off their money, but wealthy people are discreet about their assets.
Mr. Doyle is rich, but you, Little Rose, ” he enunciated with purpose, “You’re wealthy.
” He skimmed my outfit at an exceedingly slow pace.
I crossed my arms over my stomach protectively.
With my head bowed, I scanned my outfit as well.
It was relatively simple—a cap-sleeve white shirt with a tan jacket, beige linen pants, and low-platform heels.
Sure, they were designer brands handpicked by the family stylist, but you wouldn’t know it unless you looked at the tag or had an exceptional eye for this stuff.
No one in our family wore flashy clothing, and we usually stuck to a neutral palette.
Labels had to be discreetly placed because expensive clothing made you a target.
Wealth had to be hidden, and neutral colors didn’t attract attention.
I shouldn’t be surprised that Professor Maxwell figured it out; his family rivaled mine in wealth. The thought made me do something uncharacteristic—pry unprovoked. “Which one are you?”
“Which do you think?”
I inwardly scoffed. By his standards, our two families were the only wealthy ones in this circle. Does that mean my only suitable match was a member of his family? If only he knew of my feelings for Damon.
“Do you always wear white or beige and cover every inch of your body?” he asked from left field. I couldn’t keep up with this man.
“My jacket’s tan,” I protested.
Everyone had implied that Professor Maxwell hated women seeking his attention in the workplace. This outfit should be a white flag where he was concerned. So, why did it seem like he was displeased with my style?
Instead of further engaging in the absurd conversation, I mumbled, “Did you need something from me, Professor Maxwell?”
His eye twitched when I called him Professor Maxwell as if the label was offensive. I thought he would dismiss me, but instead, he said, “Yes, you’re working with me today.”
He guided me to a workstation in his office, separate from the one outside. There was a table with a few beakers, a sink, and documents, all of which looked confidential and important. I realized it was work he didn’t share with his research assistants. So why was he sharing it with me?
He provided no explanations, just instructions on separating a few formulas. I assisted him quietly for the remainder of the class, highly aware of his presence and every small movement he made. Throughout our time together, I kept wondering what I had set in motion.