My Professor's Obsession

The Gala Trap

"You’re shaking again," Caspian said.

We were in the back of his black town car, the leather seats smelling of expensive wood and cold power. The Maine night was a wall of black glass outside. I was wearing a gown of midnight blue silk—high-necked, long-sleeved, and suffocatingly elegant. Underneath the stiff collar of the dress, the iron-and-silk weight of his brand was hidden, a secret anchor against my skin.

"It's a gala, Professor. Half the Board wants to kick me out, and the other half wants to pretend my family never existed. Why am I here?"

"You're here because an architect needs to show off his most prized acquisition," he said, not looking at me. He was staring at the passing lights, his profile sharp enough to cut stone. "And because Dominic Calloway needs to see exactly how much you don't belong to him anymore."

"He's going to make a scene. You know how he is. He’s like a dog with a bone."

Caspian turned his head then, his arctic eyes pinning me to the seat. "Let him bark. You are my assistant tonight, Seraphina. That means you are an extension of me. You do not speak unless I command it. You do not move unless I guide you. Do you understand the rules of this game?"

"Is everything a game to you?" I whispered. "My life, my degree, my brother?"

"Everything is design," he countered, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. "And right now, the design requires you to be perfect. If you break tonight—if you cry, if you scream, if you let Dominic provoke you—the thirty days start over from zero. Am I clear?"

The threat hit me like a physical blow. "Clear."

The car pulled up to the grand stone steps of the Great Hall. It was a palace of light and glass, filled with the glitter of Aethelgard’s elite. As the valet opened the door, Caspian stepped out first. He didn't offer me his hand like a gentleman; he stood there, waiting for me to find my own balance, watching me like a hawk.

As soon as we stepped into the ballroom, the whispers started. It was like a wave of static moving through the crowd.

"Is that the St. Claire girl?"

"Why is she with Blackwood?"

"I heard her scholarship was flagged..."

Caspian didn't seem to hear them. He walked through the crowd with a terrifying grace, his hand landing firmly on the small of my back. It wasn't a comfort; it was a steering wheel. He guided me toward the center of the room where the Calloways were standing like royalty.

"Ah, Caspian," Director Huxley said, stepping forward with a glass of champagne. "And you’ve brought... assistance."

"Miss St. Claire is helping me with the archives for the solo exhibition," Caspian said, his voice smooth and professional. "Her eye for detail is... unique."

"I bet it is," a voice sneered from behind us.

Dominic stepped forward, looking sharp in a tuxedo that couldn't hide the ugliness underneath. Isolde was on his arm, her eyes raking over my dress with pure venom.

"Bit of a step up from the library basement, isn't it, Sera?" Dominic asked, his eyes dancing with malice. "Tell me, does the Professor pay you in grades or in cash? Because I know you're short on both."

I felt the heat rush to my face. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell the whole room that he was an incestuous thief who deleted my life’s work. But I felt Caspian’s hand tighten on my back, his thumb pressing into a specific nerve that made my whole body go stiff.

Silence.

"Mr. Calloway," Caspian said, his voice so quiet it made everyone nearby lean in. "Your obsession with my staff is becoming tedious. Don't you have a legacy to maintain? Or perhaps a sister to entertain?"

The jab was so subtle, so sharp, that Dominic’s face turned a violent shade of red. Isolde gasped, her hand fluttering to her throat.

"What did you say?" Dominic hissed.

"I said you look bored," Caspian replied, his expression completely blank. "Miss St. Claire, fetch me a water from the terrace. The air in here is getting... stagnant."

It was a command. I turned and walked away, my legs feeling like lead. I could feel every eye in the room on my back. I made it to the terrace, the cold Maine air hitting me like a blessing. I gripped the stone railing, gasping for breath.

"You think you're safe with him?"

I spun around. Isolde was standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the gold light of the ballroom.

"Go away, Isolde."

"He’s using you, you little i***t," she said, stepping onto the terrace. Her heels clicked like a countdown. "Caspian Blackwood doesn't have 'assistants.' He has victims. Do you know why he stopped practicing architecture? Why he really came to this backwater school?"

"I don't care."

"He destroyed his last muse," she whispered, leaning in close. I could smell the expensive gin on her breath. "She didn't just disappear, Sera. He broke her. He’s an artist of ruin. And look at you—bankrupt, desperate, clutching onto his suit jacket like it’s a life raft. You’re already halfway to the bottom."

"At least I'm not sleeping with my brother," I snapped.

The slap was so fast I didn't even see it coming. My head snapped to the side, the sting blooming across my cheek. I reached up, my fingers touching the skin, my eyes watering.

"You're a dead girl, St. Claire," Isolde hissed. "By the time I'm done, even Blackwood won't want your scraps."

She turned and swept back into the ballroom. I stood there, trembling, the cold air biting at the tears on my face. I couldn't go back in there. I couldn't face them.

"Did I give you permission to leave the terrace?"

Caspian was standing in the shadows by the stone archway. He walked toward me, his eyes scanning my face until they landed on the red mark on my cheek.

"She hit me," I whispered.

"I saw."

"And you just let her?"

Caspian stepped into my space, his hand coming up to catch my chin. He tilted my head, inspecting the damage with that same clinical, terrifying focus. "A masterpiece doesn't fight back against a fly, Sera. It simply outlasts it."

"I'm not a masterpiece! I'm a person! And they're destroying me!"

"They're testing the structural integrity of the cage," he corrected, his thumb rubbing over the bruise. "And you're failing. You let her get a reaction. You let her see that you bleed."

"I do bleed!"

"Not tonight," he growled, his hand moving to the back of my neck, gripping the hidden iron collar through the silk of my dress. He pulled me toward him until our chests were touching. "Tonight, you are the anatomy of silence. You are going to walk back into that room, you are going to stand by my side, and you are going to look at Dominic Calloway like he is a speck of dust on your shoe."

"I can't."

"You can. Because if you don't, I call the O’Sheas. Right now. And Vane won't make it to morning."

The coldness in his voice was absolute. He wasn't my protector. He was just a different kind of monster.

"Fix your hair," he commanded. "We have a dance to finish."

He led me back into the ballroom. The music was a slow, haunting waltz. He didn't ask; he simply pulled me onto the floor. He held me with a terrifying precision, his hand splayed across my back, his other hand gripping mine so tight I thought the bones might snap.

We moved through the crowd like a single, dark entity. Everyone was watching. Dominic was staring from the sidelines, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with a mix of jealousy and rage.

"Look at him," Caspian whispered in my ear as we spun.

"No."

"Look at him, Sera. See how small he is. See how much it kills him that he can't touch you. That he can't even get a word out of you."

I looked. Dominic looked pathetic. He looked like a child throwing a tantrum in a tuxedo. And then I looked at Caspian. He was calm. He was in total control. He was a billionaire, a genius, a stalker, and my master.

As the music swelled, he leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.

"You're doing well, Little Bird," he murmured. "Only twenty-three days left. Try not to fall in love with the chains before then."

The dance ended, and the room erupted in polite applause. But as we walked off the floor, I saw a flash of light from the mezzanine. A camera.

A man was standing there, a man I didn't recognize. He was holding a Polaroid camera. He tucked a photo into his pocket and vanished into the shadows.

"Caspian," I whispered, forgetting the rules for a second. "Someone is watching us. Not like the students. Someone else."

Caspian didn't even blink. He adjusted his cufflink, his eyes tracking the spot where the man had been. "I know. The Ghost is getting impatient."

"The Ghost?"

"A story for another night, Sera," he said, guiding me toward the exit. "For now, be happy. You survived your first trap. Even if you did get a little bit bruised in the process."

As we walked to the car, I felt the weight of the collar more than ever. I had survived the gala, but the trap was only getting tighter. And the worst part? As Caspian’s hand settled on my thigh in the dark of the car, I realized I wasn't just afraid of him anymore.

I was afraid of what would happen when the thirty days were over and he finally let me go.