BOUND BY SECRETS

Chapter 3 -The Lecturer

Ethan’s POV

The morning light slanted through the blinds of my office, spilling across the pile of orientation forms I hadn’t yet touched. My head throbbed faintly — not from alcohol, but from lack of sleep.

I hadn’t slept well. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.

Charlotte.

The softness of her laugh. The warmth of her skin. The look in her eyes when she leaned into me — hesitant but sure.

And then, the cold emptiness of the bed when I woke up and found her gone.

No note. No sound. Just the faint scent of her perfume still lingering in the air.

It shouldn’t have mattered. I’d made peace with the fact that it was a mistake — a fleeting lapse in judgment, two strangers caught in a moment that meant nothing beyond the night.

Or at least, that’s what I’d been telling myself.

I exhaled, closing the last file and straightening my tie. It was my first lecture with the new batch of students — I needed to look like a man who had control over his life. Not someone haunted by the memory of a stranger’s lips.

The lecture hall was already buzzing when I walked in. Conversations echoed against the walls — laughter, the shuffle of papers, the hum of young excitement.

Then I saw her.

It felt like someone had pulled the air out of the room.

She was sitting three rows from the front, notebook in hand, looking completely unaware of me. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, catching the light just enough to make me forget where I was.

For a second, I genuinely thought I was imagining it — that my mind was playing cruel tricks.

But then she looked up.

And everything inside me stopped.

Her eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing across her face before she quickly looked away, pretending to scribble something on her paper.

My pulse hammered. My throat felt dry. I barely managed to place my notes on the table without dropping them.

This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Yet there she was — the woman who had disappeared from my bed at dawn — now seated in front of me, dressed like any other student, watching me with a careful, guarded expression.

I forced myself to speak. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Dr. Ethan Cole…”

The sound of my own voice startled me. It felt foreign, too controlled. I slipped into routine, into professionalism, hoping the structure of words could hide the storm underneath.

I talked about course outlines, attendance, grading systems — all on autopilot. But every time my gaze swept the room, my eyes found her again, unbidden.

She was taking notes — or pretending to. Her pen trembled slightly.

I noticed everything now — the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, the curve of her shoulders, the way she refused to meet my gaze for too long.

And I knew, without question, she remembered.

It took everything in me to stay composed. To act as if I didn’t know the shape of her silhouette in the dark, or the sound she made when she whispered my name.

I’d been careless. No — reckless.

She was my student now.

The thought landed like a weight in my chest. I had built my life on discipline, on boundaries, and last night I’d crossed one without even realizing it.

When the lecture ended, students gathered around, asking questions, introducing themselves. I smiled, answered, gave the usual encouragement. But my attention kept drifting to where she sat, still frozen in her seat.

When she finally stood, I did something stupid. Something I knew I shouldn’t.

“Miss… Charlotte, is it?”

The name rolled off my tongue too easily — too familiar.

She turned, startled, and I saw the faint panic in her eyes.

“Stay behind for a minute,” I said evenly. “I’d like a quick word.”

I could feel every curious glance in the room, the silent teasing from her classmates. But I didn’t care. I needed to talk to her — not as a lecturer, not as anything I should be — but as the man who couldn’t seem to forget her.

As the last student left, I stayed behind my desk, pretending to sort papers while my pulse raced.

When the door finally closed and we were alone, I exhaled, trying to steady my voice.

What was I supposed to say to her?

“Last night was a mistake”?

Or worse — “I can’t stop thinking about you”?

Neither sounded right.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, gathering the fragments of my composure.

Whatever I said next had to draw a line — firm, final. Because I already knew: if I didn’t, I might never stop crossing it.