Chapter Two
1332 Words
**Office Hours, After Hours**
I didn’t sleep that night.
I couldn’t.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—shirt half undone, sweat-slicked skin under my fingertips, voice low and hungry in my ear. But worse than the memory of our bodies tangled together was the memory of his words:
> *“Then I’ll have no choice but to report our… mistake to the ethics board.”*
He wasn’t bluffing.
Rowan Hart didn’t seem like a man who bluffed.
He didn’t beg. He didn’t stutter. He didn’t ask for permission.
He *warned*.
And warnings from men like him weren’t empty.
So there I was, less than twenty-four hours later, standing outside his office on the sixth floor of the faculty building. The hallway was quiet, and the lights were dim like they, too, were trying to mind their business.
I stared at the name on the door:
**Dr. Rowan Hart — Associate Professor, Business Ethics & Corporate Law**
The irony.
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, I knocked.
The door opened before my knuckles landed a second time.
He was waiting.
Wearing a navy button-down, sleeves rolled up again, eyes sharp as cut glass.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, stepping aside.
“I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”
He arched a brow. “You always this confrontational with your professors?”
I walked past him, pulse thundering. “Only the ones I’ve seen naked.”
He shut the door behind me.
The click was louder than it should’ve been.
I didn’t sit. Neither did he.
The room was lined with bookshelves, papers neatly stacked, and the scent of leather and old wood settled over everything. His desk was clean except for two files—one marked with my name in bold letters.
I pointed at it. “What’s that?”
“Your academic record,” he replied. “Which, unfortunately, looks like a plane spiraling nose-first into the dirt.”
I crossed my arms. “Gee, thanks.”
He didn’t smile. “You’re smart. But you’ve missed three assignments. You bombed your midterm. You’re either distracted or sabotaging yourself.”
“Is this where the mentorship starts? With character assassination?”
“No,” he said. “It starts with honesty.”
I stared at him, pulse pounding. “You want honesty? Fine. I’m drowning. My mom’s in and out of the hospital with stage-three cancer, I work double shifts four nights a week to cover bills, and I barely have time to sleep, let alone study. That night at the club? That wasn’t me being wild. That was me trying to feel like a human being again—for just five f*****g minutes.”
Something in his face cracked.
He didn’t speak for a long second.
Then he walked over to his desk, picked up the file, and slid it into the drawer.
“I didn’t know,” he said softly.
“No,” I snapped. “You didn’t ask.”
Another silence settled between us, thicker now. Heavy with everything we hadn’t said.
He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. “I can help you pass this class. I can give you access to my notes, help you study for the final, guide you through the ethics project.”
“But?”
“But,” he repeated slowly, “we need to be clear on something. Last night? It doesn’t happen again.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You’re the one who blackmailed me into this meeting.”
“I didn’t blackmail you.”
“You threatened to report me!”
“I *warned* you what would happen if this got out. I have a career to protect. A reputation. You’re a student. This can’t continue.”
“Then why did you request me as your mentee?”
He didn’t answer.
I stepped forward, feeling reckless. “Do you always self-destruct this beautifully, Professor Hart? Or am I just your favorite mistake?”
His jaw flexed.
“Ivy,” he warned.
“No.” I stepped even closer, until I was right in front of him. “You said it yourself—last night was a mistake. But you *don’t* regret it.”
He said nothing.
But he didn’t back away.
My hand lifted on instinct, brushing lightly against his shirt. I felt the muscles in his chest tighten under my touch.
“We stop now,” he said hoarsely, “or we both burn.”
“Maybe I want to burn.”
His lips crashed against mine.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t polite.
It was fire meeting gasoline—violent, desperate, messy.
His hands tangled in my hair, my back hit the edge of the desk, and the room dissolved around us.
I kissed him like I was already falling. Like we both knew this wasn’t allowed, but neither of us gave a damn.
But then he pulled away—abruptly.
Breathing hard. Eyes blazing.
“No,” he muttered, backing away like he’d just caught himself stepping over a cliff.
I wiped my mouth, shaking. “Right. Because ethics.”
“Because I care what happens to you.”
That stopped me.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You have no idea the position you’re in. If anyone finds out, your scholarship, your record, your future—gone.”
“And what about *your* future?” I challenged. “You’re risking that too.”
“I’ve already risked too much,” he said bitterly. “You think I planned this? That I make a habit of this kind of recklessness?”
“I think you’re scared,” I whispered. “Scared that you finally found someone who sees past the armor.”
He stilled.
And then he sat down behind his desk like he needed distance just to think clearly again.
“I’ll help you through this course,” he said finally, voice flat. “But we keep it professional from here on.”
I nodded once. “Fine.”
But my heart didn’t believe him.
And neither did his eyes.
—
**Later That Night**
Tara flopped onto the bed in our shared dorm room. “Tell me you didn’t actually *go* to his office.”
I tried to act casual. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he’s *Rowan Hart*,” she said, pulling off her shoes. “Cold, terrifying, morally allergic to fun. Also? Kinda hot in a ‘don’t-touch-the-fire’ way. He makes people cry over plagiarism.”
I swallowed hard. “He’s helping me.”
“He’s helping no one but himself, girl. That man radiates secrets.”
Yeah. No kidding.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the phantom feeling of his lips on mine. The way he said my name like it hurt.
I told myself it was over.
That we’d drawn a line.
But lines don’t matter when you’ve already crossed them.
—
**The Next Day – Lecture Hall**
He didn’t look at me once.
Not during roll call. Not during lecture. Not even when he handed back graded papers.
But when I opened mine, I froze.
It wasn’t the grade that caught my eye.
It was the note scribbled at the bottom corner:
> *“We’re both in danger now. Meet me after class. Alone.”*
—
I showed up, heart in my throat, back in that same office.
The door was unlocked.
I stepped inside.
But Rowan wasn’t alone.
Standing across from him, glaring at me like I’d just walked into a trap, was a woman—mid-thirties, designer heels, perfectly tailored suit, and a look that screamed *trouble*.
“Ivy Carter,” she said coolly, extending her hand. “I’m Professor Elena Black. Head of Ethics and Compliance.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“We need to talk.”
And just like that—my secret wasn’t just between the two of us anymore.
- Writer
