The Billionaire Professor's Captive

CLOSED OFF

Meredith

The sun was still high, warm but not harsh, casting a soft light over the pavement as I stepped onto the main road. The place wasn't filled with students like always during weekdays. Just older people like the staff and other workers worked their way through.

My mind was still boggled by the events of the meeting, the suffocating air of that boardroom, the way they had spoken about me like I wasn’t even there. Their judgy looks and how I couldn't even say a word. It was like I didn’t matter.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over my arm as I stepped onto the curb, scanning the road for a taxi. I just wanted to go back to my dorm, shut the door, and breathe.

That's when I felt movement from the corner of my eye. I turned my head just in time to see him, Professor Sherwood, standing near his car, keys in hand, his sharp gaze catching mine across the distance.

For a split second, everything else faded. The Reynolds. The CRI. The tension.

All that existed was the stretch of space between us and the way his dark eyes held mine, steady, unreadable, and waiting.

I should have looked away faster. I should have pretended not to see him at all.

But I didn’t, not immediately. And when I finally forced myself to turn, to rip my gaze from his, I felt that stare still lingering. I took a slow breath, lifting my arm to flag a taxi.

A minute passed. Then another. And then, a car pulled up. It was not a taxi but it was him. The sleek black vehicle came to a smooth stop right in front of me.

The window rolled down, and his voice followed.

"Hop in."

I swallowed. 'Oh.'

My grip tightened around the strap of my bag. "That’s not a good idea."

He didn’t blink. "Get in the car, Meredith."

I hesitated. Then, because I was apparently a glutton for punishment, I smirked.

"Shouldn't you be worried about what the board members will think?" I mused, tilting my head. "You know, seeing me in your car like this. They might assume we’re sleeping together."

His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. And then he spoke again, "Get in the car." His voice had dropped lower, smoother.

Well, I did. Because maybe I was stupid. Maybe I liked to push things I shouldn’t. Or maybe—just maybe—I wanted to see if that tiny flicker of tension I had felt in the meeting wasn’t just my imagination.

The door shut beside me with a soft click. The scent of leather, spice, and something inherently him filled the small space as I settled into my seat. He pulled away from the curb with a smooth ease, the engine purring softly beneath us.

"Seatbelt," he murmured.

I reached for it, grabbing the strap, but the damn thing was jammed. I tugged again. Still stuck.

"Of course," I muttered under my breath, frustration bubbling up.

Without a word, Earl pulled over and reached over. His fingers brushed against mine as he grabbed the seatbelt, his other hand bracing against the headrest behind me as he leaned in.

'Oh. Oh, no.'

The space between us shrank to nothing. His warm, spicy, and masculine scent wrapped around me. The heat of his body, the way his presence added pressure to the small space, sent a slow shiver down my spine.

My breath hitched. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not with his face so dangerously close, the shadow of his jaw barely an inch from mine. Any movement and I could as well feel his lips on mine.

Not with the way his dark eyes lifted to mine, not cold this time, not distant, but something else. The seatbelt clicked into place, and as he pulled the strap down, the back of his hand skimmed against my breast.

A featherlight touch. Barely there and yet, I felt my shameless n*****s harden and my skin pebbled. The breath I had been holding rushed out in a slow, unsteady exhale.

The tension thickened. Neither of us moved. The seatbelt was fastened, but he didn’t lean back. Not yet. His fingers lingered for a second longer.

Then, still too close, still half-hovering over me, he spoke.

"Do you care?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Care about what?"

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze still locked onto mine, he pulled hair away from my face slightly.

"What the school says about who you have s*x with?"

A sharp inhale. Heat flamed up my neck, searing my cheeks, spreading through my body like a slow, creeping fire.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My breath came shaky, uneven, my pulse a frantic, unsteady beat in my ears.

And the worst part? He noticed. I knew it because I saw it in the way his lips twitched, the way his eyes set ablaze with something just barely restrained.

Like he had been waiting for this reaction. Like he had known exactly what he was doing. And I hated how easy it was for him. I hated that I was already losing.

He finally leaned back, fingers curling around the steering wheel again, eyes back on the road. I turned toward the window, face burning. My chest was tight. My breathing still not steady.

And as we drove, the only thing I could think was, "I should have never gotten in this car."

The drive was quiet, but my mind was anything but. The tension from earlier still lingered in the car, visible and suffocating, pressing against my skin like something I couldn’t shake off.

Earl didn’t speak. He just drove, his hands steady on the wheel, his face impossibly obscured. I secretly watched and admired the way his veins popped as he steered the wheel, his posture casual. It gave off the demeanour of being in control, and it awaken something inside me.

I stared at him for a long moment, debating whether or not to say anything. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I did.

"So," I started, voice forced into something light, "are you going to kick me out of the CRI?" No response.

I exhaled sharply. "Because, you know, it’d be nice to know if I’m being replaced." Still nothing.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his eyes stayed on the road. I clenched my fingers in my lap. Why was he like this? Why did he get to make decisions about my future and not even have the decency to talk to me about it?

"You know, a normal professor would at least answer their student," I muttered.

He didn’t react. At least, not immediately. It wasn’t until we reached my dorm building, until he pulled up smoothly to the curb and let the engine idle, that he finally spoke.

"Prepare for Monday."

That was it. No explanation or reassurance. Just a mere dismissal. I stared at him, waiting, hoping, for something more. He didn’t give it. So I swallowed the lump in my throat, unclipped my seatbelt, and opened the door.

Fine. Whatever. I wasn’t expecting anything from him anyway.

The moment I stepped out of the car, I felt the thousands of curious eyes. A few girls near the entrance of the dorm had stopped mid-conversation, their gazes flicking between me and the sleek black car still parked behind me.

Some of them looked curious. Some looked envious. All of them were watching. And I hated being the center of attention. I exhaled sharply and squared my shoulders, ignoring them as I made my way inside.

This wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what I told myself. But the second I reached my floor, the second I rounded the hallway to my dorm room, a hand grabbed my shoulder. And before I could react, I was shoved against the wall. My heart jumped into my throat, but then, I heard her.

"OH. MY. GOD." It was Skye.

Her blue eyes were wide with excitement, her entire body practically vibrating as she clutched my shoulders.

She gasped dramatically. "Tell me right now why my roommate just stepped out of the hottest professor’s car."

I groaned, shoving at her hands. "Jesus, Skye—"

"Don’t Jesus me!" she hissed. "Are you f*****g him?"

My entire body locked up. Heat rushed to my face so fast it almost burned. "What?! No!"

She narrowed her eyes. "You sure? Because I just saw you get out of his car looking like you just had three rounds of s*x in the back seat."

I scowled. "That’s...that's terrifyingly graphic, Skye and no, we weren't f*****g in his backseat."

"You so were."

"Was not."

Skye grinned like a cat with cream. "Well, damn. If anyone was gonna break his no-dating-students rule, I’d bet my last dollar on you."

I rolled my eyes. "There’s no rule. And even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing is happening."

She clicked her tongue. "Shame. Though, I guess it makes sense."

I blinked. "What does?"

Skye leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You know what they say about him, right?"

I frowned. "No?"

She grinned. "Sherwood doesn’t do relationships. Never has, never will."

Something cold settled in my stomach. I crossed my arms. "And you know this how?"

Skye shrugged. "Rumors. Observations. The man basically sleeps with his books. That, or with very high-class women. And even then—" she gave me a pointed look—"he doesn’t keep them around for long."

I didn’t know why, but something in me twisted. I forced a light scoff. "Well, that’s not my problem, is it?"

Skye hummed. "Nope. Unless you were expecting something different."

I opened my mouth to shut that down then closed it. Because, for some stupid, ridiculous reason, I felt it again.

That same disappointment from earlier. And I hated it. I hated that it was there at all.

The afternoon sun spilled through the dorm window, golden and warm, but my mind was somewhere else. Somewhere distant. I was still stuck in Skye’s words, the tight coil of something I refused to name sitting in my stomach.

Sherwood doesn’t do relationships. Never has, never will. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. I was about to push the thought away when my phone rang. I glanced at the screen.

Dad.

My stomach dipped. I hesitated for half a second before answering.

"Meredith," he greeted warmly. "How’s my favorite girl?"

I swallowed, shifting on my bed. "I’m good, Dad."

"Busy with school?"

"Yeah."

A small chuckle. "Well, don’t forget to take a break. Especially tonight."

I stiffened. "You didn’t forget, did you?" he asked, amusement in his voice.

I bit my lip. No, I hadn’t forgotten.

The Reese Keeler’s birthday party. The annual over-the-top display of wealth and status that I had spent most of my life attending.

I forced a small smile. "I remember."

"Good," he said. "I expect to see you there."

A beat of silence. Then, before he could press further, before he could make me promise—I said, "I’ll try."

"Meri—"

"I have to go," I cut in quickly. "I’ll call you later. Happy birthday, Dad."

Before he could say another word, I hung up. And when I turned, Skye was staring at me like I had just committed a crime.

"Okay," Skye said, throwing her hands up. "What the hell was that?"

I groaned, flopping back on my bed. "What was what?"

She scoffed. "You were so vague. I’ll try? That’s code for I’m totally not going, but I don’t want to say it outright."

I folded my arms. "Maybe because I don’t want to go. One, it's a childish party full of adults who are going to wear masks like they are in Disneyland when the birthday is in Collage Estate. Also, my dad just does this every year to show off wealth and I'm tired of it."

Skye’s jaw dropped. "You’re skipping a billionaire’s party?" She clutched her chest dramatically. "Are you sick? Do you have a fever? Should I call 911?"

I rolled my eyes. "First off, my dad is not a billionaire. Secondly, It’s just a party."

"Just a party?" she repeated, scandalized. "It’s a masked ball at one of the fanciest estates in the city! Do you know how many people would kill for an invitation?"

"Then they can go instead," I muttered.

Skye flopped beside me, shaking her head. "I cannot believe you."

I sighed. "It’s not my thing, Skye. And I don't want to go alone."

"So?! I can go with you." She waved a hand. "Look, you’re not skipping this. End of discussion."

I lifted a brow. "Oh? And what exactly am I supposed to wear to this little fairytale soirée?"

She grinned. Like a predator sensing weakness. "Glad you asked," she purred.

A slow sense of dread settled in my stomach. Because I knew that look. And before I could react, she grabbed my wrist and yanked me off the bed.

"We," she declared, dragging me toward the door, "are going shopping."

The boutique was a dreamland of luxury and glitter. Rows of elegant gowns in rich fabrics hung on golden racks, their price tags too absurd to look at. Masks of every shape and color sat behind glass displays, some feathered, some jeweled, some straight out of a Gatsby fantasy.

Skye was in heaven. I was in hell.

"Okay," she said, grabbing a handful of dresses. "Let’s do this."

And then—the chaos began. I was shoved into dressing rooms, stripped, zipped, spun around, and critiqued.

"Too poofy."

"Too tight."

"Too much like a bridesmaid’s dress."

"Meredith, are you trying to look like a nun?"

Skye, on the other hand, was thriving. She twirled in front of the mirror, switching between a sleek silver dress and a slinky emerald one, posing dramatically as she admired herself.

Meanwhile, I stood there in my fifth dress, scowling at my reflection.

"I feel like a pastry," I muttered, tugging at the skirt.

Skye peeked in, appraising me. "Hmm. You look like a pretty pastry, though."

"Not helping."

She sighed, then snapped her fingers."Wait. I think I saw something in the back."

She dashed off, disappearing between racks.

I let out a slow breath, staring at myself in the mirror. This was stupid. It was just one night. Just a party I didn’t even want to go to.

But the second Skye returned, holding something in deep crimson silk, all sleek lines and delicate straps, I knew. I was going.