I am Lucan
531 Words
Olivia sank into the chair beside Lucan, her pen scratching furiously across the notebook.
Equations and jargon spilled from her lips like incantations, her crimson-stained mouth a stark contrast to the sterile academic terms.
She’d swept her wild curls over one shoulder, baring the pale slope of her neck.
Her glasses slipped—again—and she nudged them back with an impatient flick.
Lucan hadn’t expected her to actually tutor him.
But here they were. Three hours in, and she’d mapped every gap in his electromagnetism knowledge like a general strategizing war. He’d never admit it, but her ruthless clarity was…weirdly hot.
Focus, he chided himself.
“Staring won’t make Maxwell’s equations easier,” Olivia snapped without looking up. Her voice was ice, but Lucan caught the faint smirk. Classic professor move.
He slid a glass of water toward her, ducking his head in a practiced show of contrition. “Apologies, Professor. Won’t happen again.”
She drained the glass, throat bobbing, then snapped the textbook shut. “We’re done. Rest tomorrow.”
Rest? Lucan blinked. Since when did Olivia “workaholic” Vega schedule breaks? But he masked his shock with a sugar-coated grin. “Looking forward to it, Professor!”
Her lips twitched—almost a smile—before her phone chimed. A wedding invitation glowed on the screen. Her expression darkened, the air thickening with a tension Lucan knew too well.
“Fetch the Bordeaux,” she ordered, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city’s neon glow clawed at her reflection.
Lucan’s spine stiffened. Here we go.
Nightfall turned Olivia from drill sergeant to disaster. The “Pro Max Edition,” as he privately called it. Expensive wine, erratic demands, and that box—the one she’d hauled in last week, filled with…tools.
He set the bottle beside her, then retreated to scrub the already-spotless kitchen.
Observing her now—slouched against the glass, silk robe slipping off one shoulder—Lucan pitied her. The golden child of academia, crumbling under the weight of perfection. A runaway fiancé? Please. But to Olivia, it was a nuclear-grade humiliation.
Rich people problems, he mused, polishing a fork.
By the third glass, Olivia swayed to her feet. Her eyes glinted, unsteady but lethal. “You—” She stumbled, caught herself on Lucan’s arm.
He steadied her, voice soft. “Careful, Professor.”
“Don’t.” She shoved him hard, sending him sprawling. Her laugh was jagged as she rifled through the box. “Think you’re clever? Playing martyr?”
Lucan stayed silent. Layers of padded clothing hid bruises, but her rage? That cut deeper.
She seized a riding crop, wine dripping down her throat like blood. “Ready?”
He nodded, mentally reciting Faraday’s laws. Cha-ching. This paycheck would be sweet.
Twenty minutes later, Olivia collapsed mid-swing, out cold.
“Short-lived tantrum,” Lucan muttered, massaging his knees. He stepped over her, repacking his books.
In sleep, she looked almost innocent—lips parted, lashes trembling. He scooped her up, carrying her to the bath.
“Why’s the crazy ones always pay the best?” he sighed, scrubbing wine from her hair.
Outside, the city buzzed, oblivious.
- Writer
