My Professor, My Fiancé

“You will marry that man whether you like it or not!” My father’s voice thundered across the room, crashing into the walls like a verdict already decided. I clutched the hem of my shirt so tightly my knuckles ached, my fingers trembling as if they might tear the fabric apart. My lips pressed together, locking every word inside. My eyes remained glued to the floor—unable to look up, unable to speak, unable to breathe properly. “Do you understand me, Eliza?!” Tears slipped freely from my eyes, splattering onto the polished tiles beneath my feet. I nodded silently, the movement stiff and mechanical, swallowing the sob that clawed its way up my throat. Any sound I made would be a mistake. Any protest would only make things worse. I never wanted to be born—and yet the idea that I owed them my life had been drilled into my head countless times. Even when I was still a toddler, barely capable of forming thoughts. I never learned how to say no. Not out of gratitude—but out of fear. What kind of parents instill fear in their own child? Parents were supposed to be a place of safety, of comfort. Not the very reason their child learned how to stay quiet. Not the reason she learned how to disappear. The familiar scratch of my stylus against paper grounded me, dragging me back into the present. I sat hunched over my notebook, filling a blank canvas with careful strokes. Lines became shapes, and shapes became him. I drew every attractive feature without hesitation—because there were too many to ignore. A perfectly sculpted nose, sharp and elegant. A small mole just beneath his eye, subtle yet impossible to miss. His eyes, intense and observant, always holding a glint of something unreadable. And his lips. Naturally red. Infuriatingly distracting. Whenever he spoke in class, my attention abandoned logic. I stopped taking notes. Stopped blinking. All I could do was stare at the way his lips moved—how they curved ever so slightly when he made an intelligent remark, how they tightened when he challenged the class. Econometrics—his class—was the hardest subject I had ever taken. Numbers, theories, regressions that twisted my brain into knots. And yet, it was my favorite. Everything he said made sense. Or maybe it only felt that way because his presence alone injected motivation straight into my veins. Maybe it was his confidence, or his voice, or the way he commanded the room without trying. I had never liked anyone before him. And I hated myself for it. Because he was my professor. “Class dismissed.” His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. Chairs scraped against the floor as students packed up, laughter and chatter filling the room. I quickly gathered my things, slipping my notebook into my bag, eager to escape before my heart betrayed me again. I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed toward the door. “Miss Montoya.” I froze mid-step. “I need you to stay for a while.” My heart slammed violently against my ribs. Slowly, I turned around. It was the first time he had ever called my name. The first time he had noticed me—not as another face in the classroom, but as me. The room was empty now. Just us. When I fully faced him, my breath caught in my throat. He was leaning casually against the desk, sleeves rolled up, exhaustion softening his sharp features—but doing nothing to dull his appeal. His gaze locked onto mine, intense and unwavering. “S—Sir?” I stammered. He scoffed, pushing himself off the desk. One hand slid into his pocket as he started walking toward me. “Sir?” he repeated mockingly. “I believe it’s honey, Miss Montoya.” My pulse roared in my ears. “Or should I say…” He stopped just inches away from me, towering over my trembling frame. “…Mrs. Kingsley?” My heart went wild, beating so fast it felt like it might shatter. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even blink. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around—to run as far as I could. Run. Run. Run. But my feet stayed rooted to the floor. “Hello there,” he murmured teasingly, lifting my chin so I was forced to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed my skin far too gently. “My fiancée.” And that—that was the cruelest part of it all. Because the man I wasn’t supposed to fall for… The man who was completely forbidden… Was the very man I had been promised to marry. Yes. My own freaking professor.