My Professor, My Fiancé

Chapter 3: The Ride Home

It was a disaster.

A disaster indeed.

Now my classmates wouldn’t stop giving me suspicious glances—those lingering looks that pretended to be casual but screamed curiosity. Judgment. Speculation. I could almost hear the whispers forming behind my back.

I sighed, nudging a small pebble back and forth with my foot as I stood outside the campus gates. The sky had already darkened into that heavy shade of blue that pressed down on your chest. Our class had dismissed late, as usual, and now I was stranded here, waiting for a freaking taxi.

Yes. A taxi.

Can you believe that? An heiress reduced to standing on the sidewalk like this, checking her phone every thirty seconds, hoping a vacant car would magically appear.

No personal driver. No black sedan waiting obediently at the curb.

It said a lot about how I was treated at home—less like a daughter, more like a possession. An object kept only as long as it served its purpose. Something to be displayed, maintained, and eventually discarded the moment it failed to function properly.

I let out a quiet, humorless laugh and hugged my arms around myself.

Then headlights cut through the dim street.

A car slowed and pulled over in front of me. I didn’t bother looking at first—probably another full taxi stopping just to disappoint me—but then the windows rolled down.

And of course.

I rolled my eyes the instant I recognized him.

My professor.

My fiancé.

My personal nightmare wrapped in an expensive suit and quiet authority.

“It’s late,” he said calmly, his voice annoyingly steady, infuriatingly composed. “I’ll drive you home.”

I stared at him blankly, not moving an inch. My expression didn’t change—not because I wasn’t feeling anything, but because I was feeling too much. If I stood there long enough, if I ignored him hard enough, maybe he’d get the hint. Maybe he’d sigh, check his watch, and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.

That was usually how it went.

People always left when I didn’t respond fast enough. When I didn’t perform gratitude or obedience on cue.

The engine idled between us, humming softly, filling the silence I refused to break. I kept my arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenience blocking my view.

Seconds passed.

Then, instead of driving off, he spoke again.

“Most of the transportation’s full,” he added, tone unchanged. “There was an event that just ended down the street.”

Of course there was. I could still hear the distant echo of music and laughter carried by the night air. Groups of people spilled onto the sidewalks, well-dressed and careless, flags of celebration trailing behind them. Taxis would be swarmed. Ride apps would surge. I knew all of that.

He knew that too.

That was the problem.

I clenched my jaw, hating that he was right, hating even more that he hadn’t raised his voice or pushed. He simply stated facts, like he always did, leaving me with no argument that didn’t sound childish.

The streetlight above us flickered once, bathing his car in a brief wash of yellow. His eyes stayed on me, patient, waiting—not expectant, not demanding.

I clenched my jaw.

The sensible part of me knew he was right. The exhausted part of me didn’t care. My feet hurt, my head ached, and today had already taken more from me than I was willing to admit.

With another sigh, I yanked the front passenger door open and slid inside.

The car smelled faintly of leather and something clean—expensive, controlled, just like him. The door shut with a solid thud, sealing us into the silence.

It was late. I needed rest.

And besides… I needed to talk to him.

The engine started, the car easing back onto the road.

“You’re an i***t,” I said suddenly, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “Did you know that?”

“It’s your professor you’re talking to,” he said evenly. “Did you know that?”

I let out an irritated sigh, rubbing my temples. “I don’t care. You’re creating a scene.”

He glanced at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Creating a scene? I asked a simple question.”

“A question you never ask,” I shot back without missing a beat. “That’s what makes it strange. You don’t suddenly check on the invisible student of the entire school and ask if she’s eaten.” My voice sharpened despite myself. “That’s not kindness. That’s not concern. That’s curiosity bait.”

The silence that followed was thick.

He kept driving, posture composed, hands steady on the wheel. His eyes were laser-focused on the road ahead, jaw set in that infuriating way that told me he was listening—but refusing to react.

I sighed again, this time heavier, the anger draining into exhaustion.

“If people find out,” I continued, my voice lower now, frayed at the edges, “it won’t just be gossip. It’ll be a scandal. A big one.” I swallowed. “Our parents are trying to keep this low-profile for a reason.”

The city slid past my window—glass towers reflecting fading light, trees blurring into shadows. The sky darkened slowly, a soft pink gradient bleeding into deep indigo. It felt like the day was closing in on me, layer by layer.

“Don’t ruin everything,” I said quietly. “Especially not for me.” I pressed my forehead lightly against the cool glass. “I just want to get through college. That’s all I’m asking for.”

The car slowed to a stop.

I straightened, blinking, and looked ahead. Red brake lights stretched endlessly in front of us. Traffic.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he exhaled—slow, deliberate.

“Alright,” he said calmly. “We’ll go back to normal.”

I turned to him.

“We’ll act like we don’t know each other,” he continued. “Like this engagement—this marriage arrangement—doesn’t exist. In public, in class, on campus.” His tone was precise, measured. “I’ll keep my distance. No special treatment. No questions. Nothing that could draw attention.”

He paused, as if choosing his words carefully.

“You’ll be just another student.”

I studied his profile as he spoke, trying to read between the lines. He wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t offended. If anything, he sounded… resolved.

I nodded slowly while he laid out the boundaries—what he would do, what he wouldn’t. What lines he wouldn’t cross again.

When he finally finished, I looked down at my hands, then back up.

“Alright,” I said softly.

He glanced at me then, just briefly.

“You have my word,” he added.