Tamed By The Professor

Chapter 2

Aria Vanderbilt is sprawled across a white leather couch in the living room of their Makati tower penthouse, one bare foot dangling languidly over the edge like a forgotten accessory, the other tucked beneath her silk clad thigh.

The room was a study of crisp white walls accented by abstract Basquiats and a crystal chandelier that dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain.

But Aria barely noticed. Her world was narrowed to the glow of her phone screen, propped against a half empty bottle of 2008 Dom Pérignon Rosé, chilled to perfection by the silent butler service downstairs.

She took a slow sip from her flute, the bubbles sharp and effervescent on her tongue, chasing away the boredom that had settled in like a bad hangover.

A silver envelope lay unopened on the marble coffee table, its edges crisp and gleaming under the recessed lighting.

The crest of Manila University was embossed in gold foil, a symbol of prestige that Aria knew was as hollow as the promises in those acceptance speeches.

She already knew what it said because her father's executive assistant, that weaselly little man named Victor, had leaked the good news two days ago.

The private elevator chimed softly in the foyer, a melodic ding that announced arrivals like a royal herald.

Heavy footsteps echoed across the polished marble floor, confident, measured, the stride of a man who owned half the skyline view.

Reginald Vanderbilt strode in, shedding his navy suit jacket with the ease of someone who treated Armani like casual wears.

At fifty five, he was still handsome in that predatory smile, sharp jawline, silver flecked hair slicked back, eyes like polished obsidian that made boardrooms quiver and competitors sweat.

"Aria," he said, his voice a low rumble laced with disapproval. He hated when she drank alone before noon. She didn't look up from her phone, swirling the champagne in her glass. "Daddy," she replied, drawing out the word like a sigh.

He dropped a sleek tablet onto the coffee table beside the envelope, the screen lighting up with what looked like stock tickers and acquisition reports.

"Acceptance letter came. Congratulations. You're officially a student again." His tone was congratulatory, but edged with the weariness of a parent reciting lines from a script they had both rewritten a hundred times.

She finally lifted her gaze, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Aria had her mother's emerald eyes framed by long lashes.

She set her phone down, the influencer's sobs fading into silence. "Miracles do happen when you own forty three percent of the university's new business building."

Reginald exhaled through his nose, a sharp huff that betrayed his irritation. "Don't start." But Aria was already rolling her eyes again, manicured nails tapping against her glass.

"I'm not starting. I'm appreciating." She reached for the envelope with one fluid motion, tearing it open with a single, blood red nail.

The thick cream cardstock slid out, embossed and formal. She scanned it briefly, then read aloud in a bored drawl that dripped with sarcasm, as if reciting a grocery list.

"Dear Miss Vanderbilt... we are delighted to offer you admission to our esteemed institution... we look forward to your unique contributions to campus life..."

She didn't bother finishing, tossing it aside like yesterday's takeout menu.

"Unique contributions. That's cute. They mean my tuition money and the donation that bought the dean a new yacht."

Reginald loosened his cufflinks with deliberate slowness. He poured himself a finger of scotch from the decanter on the sideboard, the ice cubes cracking like tiny thunderclaps.

"You'll attend classes. You'll maintain a 3.0 GPA. And you'll stay out of Page Six with no scandals, no viral meltdowns. Those are the terms."

Aria stood in one fluid motion, her silk robe slipping off one tanned shoulder to reveal the lace strap of a bralette beneath. She was all lean lines and effortless grace, five-foot-seven in bare feet, her long auburn hair cascading in loose waves. "Terms? Daddy, I'm twenty-one.

I don't do terms." Her voice was light, teasing, but there was steel underneath, honed from years of boardroom eavesdropping and society page wars.

"You do if you want the Amex to keep working," Reginald threatened, his eyes narrowing. The black Centurion card was her lifeline.

It's unlimited, untraceable, and a bottomless well of excess. He had cut it off once, briefly, after that infamous Ibiza incident involving a yacht party and a senator's son. She survived on spite and petty cash for a week but never again.

Aria smiled then, slow and venomous, like a cat spotting a mouse. "Speaking of the Amex... I need the Gulfstream. Tomorrow."

He barked a laugh, short and disbelieving, setting his glass down with a clink. "For what?"

"For Christmas in the Maldives. Me, Sasha, and Valentina. Maybe that Spanish prince if he finally answers my DMs. whatever his name is." She sauntered toward the window, the robe swishing against her legs, and leaned against the glass.

"You owe me a graduation trip that never happened because you were too busy buying hospitals in Singapore. Remember. I walked across that stage in my Louboutins, and you sent a fruit basket via courier."

Reginald pinched the bridge of his nose, lines deepening around his mouth. He was a man who commanded empires, but Aria was his Achille's heel. the one variable he couldn't control.

"You graduated two and a half years ago, Aria. You have had trips to Bali, Tokyo, the Amalfi Coast. What makes this one special?"

"Exactly. I'm overdue." She turned to face him, arms crossed, the robe gaping just enough to flash a hint of lace. Silence stretched between them, thick and tactical.

Aria knew how to wield it like a weapon. Let the guilt simmer, let him remember the empty seats at her recitals, the missed parent teacher conferences buried under deal memos.

Finally, he sighed, the sound of a man who had long ago accepted defeat in every battle that involved his only child. It was the sound of surrender, wrapped in paternal love and exasperation.

"Two weeks maximum. Pilot files the flight plan tonight. And you take Marco and Leo as bodyguards, no arguments. That resort's remote. I don't want headlines about kidnappings or worse."

Aria spun on her heel, the robe flaring like a matador's cape. "Done." She crossed the room in three strides, planting a kiss on his cheek with theatrical sweetness, perfume scent, lingering just long enough to soften the sting. "Love you, Daddy."

He caught her wrist before she could dance away, his grip firm but not bruising. His voice dropped to a gravelly murmur, eyes searching hers. "Your mother would have wanted...."

"Don't." The single word cracked like a whip, slicing through the air. The temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees, the chandelier's light casting harsh shadows.

Aria yanked her hand free, her green eyes flashing with something raw and unguarded, pain, quickly masked. "Don't you dare use her."

Sarah Vanderbilt had been the heart of their world. She was elegant,a philanthropic, the one who baked Aria's birthday cakes from scratch and read bedtime stories in French.

Cancer had stolen her five years ago, swift and merciless, leaving a void no amount of money could fill. Reginald invoked her ghost rarely, but when he did, it was a low blow.

Reginald's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. He released her, stepping back as if burned. "Wheels up at nine a.m. tomorrow. Be ready." His voice was clipped, the deal sealed.

Aria was already halfway to her room, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen. She didn't look back.

She flung open the doors to her walk in closet. a climate controlled cavern the size of a Manhattan studio, lined with racks of designers whose names evoked runways and red carpets.

A framed photo on the vanity caught her eye, silver frame etched with vines. It was her mother, laughing on a yacht in Capri the summer before the cancer.

Her wind tousled blonde hair, oversized sunglasses, a white sundress billowing like sails. Sarah's arm was around a ten year old Aria, both of them golden and carefree against a turquoise sea.

Aria's fingers brushed the glass once, almost tenderly, tracing the curve of her mother's smile. A lump rose in her throat.

She turned away sharply, shoving the emotion down with the force of habit. Vanderbilt women didn't cry. they bought islands instead. Or jetted off to them.

By seven that evening, the penthouse had descended into glorious chaos. Racks of clothes wheeled in by personal shoppers from Rustan's. Her final fittings for the Maldives wardrobe clogged the hallways.

Sasha and Valentina had arrived, half drunk on vintage Krug champagne straight from the cellar, dancing barefoot to a playlist blasting through hidden Sonos speakers.

"Girl, this jet life is chef's kiss," Sasha crowed, her platinum bob swinging as she twirled in a crop top and micro shorts. She was the wild one, a socialite from old money Cebu, with a tattoo of a scorpion on her hip and a habit of collecting scandals like Pokémon cards.

Valentina, more poised with her raven hair in a sleek ponytail, sipped her flute and eyed a rack of swimsuits. "I need that emerald one, it matches my aura. Aria, you're gonna slay in those crochet things. The influencers won't know what hit them."

Aria laughed, popping a bottle of rosé and filling flutes. "Slay?, We're conquering. Beach parties, underwater spas."

Reginald appeared in the doorway then, like a ghost from the corporate realm, still in his suit but tieless and rumpled.

Exhaustion etched around his eyes, dark circles from late night calls to Shanghai.

The girls froze mid twirl, the music suddenly too loud in the silence. Sasha and Valentina exchanged awkward glances, suddenly sober.

He looked only at Aria, ignoring the girls. "Nannies raised you after your mother died," he said, his voice quiet but carrying over the hum of hairdryers.

"Private schools in Switzerland, tutors from Harvard, therapists I flew in from Zurich on the Citation. I gave you everything money could buy, be it mansions, jets, a life without want." He paused, the weight of unspoken years hanging heavy.

"One day you'll have to figure out what to do with a heart, Aria. Not just spend it."

She met his gaze without flinching, chin lifted, the robe now swapped for a silk slip dress that hugged her curves. The glam squad pretended to fuss with brushes, but the air crackled.

"Hearts are overrated, Daddy," she replied coolly, her voice steady as marble. "They break and become messy, unpredictable. But credit cards, They don't. They just keep giving."

For a moment, guilt flickered across his face. It was raw, unguarded, the crack in the tycoon's armor.

He nodded once, curt, and left without another word, the elevator swallowing him whole.

The party resumed, louder now but Aria felt the echo of his words linger like smoke.

At 4 a.m., while the glam squad packed the last suitcase of Louis Vuitton stacked like modern art.

Aria stood alone on the terrace of the penthouse, she lit a cigarette with the solid gold Cartier lighter her mother had used. the flame dancing in the pre dawn hush.

Inhaling deeply, she blew smoke into the hot night, watching it dissipate like forgotten promises. The nicotine buzzed through her veins, chasing the champagne haze.

In less than twenty four hours, she would be wheels up on the Gulfstream, slicing through clouds to a different ocean. Surrounded by people who worshipped her.

"That's all I need," she told herself, stamping out the cigarette. "No hearts. No tears. Just the blue."

But as the first pink streaks of sunrise bled across the horizon, a whisper of doubt crept in. Sarah's laugh from that photo, Reginald's weary eyes. Paradise waited, but so did the mirror.