Isabella's POV
The next morning, I arrived early to class, hoping to sit unnoticed. But fate, again, laughed in my face.
Simon walked in with Chloe clinging to his arm. They were smiling and dropped the news on everyone that they were together. Yet again, all eyes snapped to me, and I looked out of the window, ignoring their existence. I could hear the whispers. They felt sorry for me. But I don't care.
I don't hate Simon. But I was upset with Chloe. She was my best friend for four years, and she still eloped with my ex and cheated on me.
Jerry casually sat on my desk as he tapped on it, garnering my attention. "Did he cheat on you?" He asked, and this time I looked at them.
"Yes, I found him screwing Chloe behind my back. I caught them red-handed." I said loud enough, and the whole class gasped, and whispers started yet again.
Simon's jaw ticked as he prowled over to me, so Jerry cautiously stood between us so Simon wouldn't come any closer.
"It's because my ex-girlfriend, Isabella, would start having panic attacks when I simply touch her. There was nothing like a girlfriend and boyfriend between us. She's f*cking defective." He boomed, and my heart shattered into millions of little pieces.
Defective?
"Dude, what the f*ck?" Jerry pushed him away. Jerry wasn't my close friend, but he would always hang around when I was alone.
"You can ask her. I'm not lying. She f*cking forced me to leave her-"
"I'M NOT DEFECTED!" I screamed with tears in my eyes as I stood, and the chair fell back
"Oh, really-" I cut Simon off harshly.
"It's just you couldn't make me arouse." I gritted whatever nonsense that came to my mouth.
"What do you know about these things, Izzy. You're a pathetic virgin-"
"Baby, let's stop." Chloe grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. She looked conflicted. She could go to hell for all I care.
"I know enough because I'm not a virgin anymore," I blurted out, and there was a pin drop silence.
There was shock on Simon's face. "You're lying." He breathed.
"I'm not," I was confident, and one thing Simon knows pretty well is that I don't lie.
"Take your seats," a low growl had all of us flinching. The professor stood in the class, and none of us noticed him. My heart dropped as I braced myself and sat in my seat. Everyone hurried to their seats, and there was dead silence.
He walked in, his gaze sweeping over the room, landing on me. Just for a heartbeat. Then gone.
During the lecture, he didn't look at me again, but his voice, every word, felt directed at me. His jaw was clenched, he looked angry about something, perhaps he hated the drama that had just happened. I wondered how much he heard, and I hoped he didn't hear anything.
When class ended, he dismissed everyone. I waited for him to call my name again. He didn't.
Instead, he said something far worse.
"Miss Martinez," his voice calm, "you'll be assigned as my research assistant for the semester. Report to my office Monday morning."
My breath caught. "Professor-"
"It's an academic decision," he interrupted smoothly. "You're at the top of your class. Don't overthink it."
The look in his eyes told me he was overthinking everything. Why was this all of a sudden? I wanted to forget everything. Why was he hell bent on making it all so difficult for me?
I walked out before my knees could give way.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I stared at the ceiling, the image of him burned into my thoughts. His voice, his scent, the ghost of that night when I'd been too broken to care.
Now, he was everywhere, my professor, my secret, my undoing.
And I had no idea how long I could keep pretending that I didn't still feel the heat of his hands on my skin.
I couldn't breathe outside his office.
My pulse hammered so hard I thought it might give me away.
Research assistant.
The words had haunted me all weekend. I'd told myself a hundred times it meant nothing, that I'd been chosen for my grades, my work ethic, my clean record. But deep down, I knew that was a lie.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Still, I knocked.
"Come in."
His voice, smooth, deep, and quiet, rolled through the door like smoke.
I stepped inside, clutching my notebook like a shield. His office was everything I expected and didn't. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, every spine perfectly aligned. A window spilled soft morning light across the dark wood of his desk. It smelled faintly of cedar, paper, and him.
It was still hard to believe this was the same man from that night. In the bedroom, he was anything but a professor. What the hell am I even thinking?
He didn't look up right away. His pen scratched across a paper, deliberate, precise. Then, finally, his gaze lifted.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
"Miss Martinez," he said, setting the pen down. "You're early."
"I thought punctuality mattered," I managed, though my voice betrayed the nerves coiling in my stomach.
"It does." He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. "Sit."
I obeyed. The chair creaked softly as I sank into it, keeping my posture straight, pretending I wasn't hyper aware of his every movement.
"You'll be assisting me with compiling data for my upcoming paper," he said, his tone clipped, professional. "You'll have access to restricted psychological studies and patient transcripts. Confidentiality is non-negotiable."
"Of course."
He leaned back, watching me. "Can you handle that level of discretion?"
I met his gaze. "Yes, professor. As if I haven't kept our secret."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush me.
His eyes darkened, a storm gathering beneath the calm. "Careful, Isabella."
Hearing my name in that low warning tone sent a thrill straight down my spine.
"I didn't mean-"
"Yes, you did," he interrupted softly. "And you shouldn't have."
I looked away, my cheeks heating. "I think assisting you is not the right move, and we should keep our distance," I whispered.
He stood, slow and deliberate, walking around his desk until he was standing right behind me. I could feel the warmth of him even before he spoke.
"We are good at pretending. It's you who keep bringing that up. You should work on forgetting it if you can," he murmured near my ear.
I froze. My pulse jumped so violently I had to grip the armrest to stay grounded.
"I'm your professor," he continued. "You're my student. There are lines we cannot cross." I'm saying the same thing... But...
His words were right. His tone, however, was all wrong, too dark, too rough, too close.
"Then why do you keep looking at me like that?" I whispered.
He exhaled slowly, the sound almost like a growl. "Because I'm not as disciplined as I pretend to be."
My breath caught. I turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. For a fraction of a second, something raw and unguarded passed between us.
Then he stepped back, shattering the moment.
"Is Simon Smith your ex? Because of him, you were there in the club that night?" There was dark curiosity in his voice.
"That's my personal matter, Mr. Volkov, which you should not indulge yourself with," I said curtly.
For a fleeting second, his jaw ticked before he gave a slight nod.
"Focus on your work," he said, voice calm again. "Your first assignment is in the folder on the desk. Read the files, highlight anomalies, and leave them for me by Wednesday."
He sat down, picking up his pen as if nothing had happened. I forced my trembling hands to reach the folder.
"Understood," I said softly.
I left before my heart could betray me.
That night, I couldn't stop replaying it. The way his voice dipped when he said my name. His nearness. The scent of his skin, clean, sharp, maddening.
I tried to read the research files. I really did. But the words blurred together, my mind wandering back to that moment in his office when the air between us had felt like it might ignite.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this.
I was supposed to move on, to prove I was more than some stupid, heartbroken girl who'd fallen for the wrong man. And ended up in a one-night stand, who turned out to be my new professor.
When did my boring life start to twist so crazily?
He was dangerous. I knew it.
And still, I couldn't look away.
By Wednesday, I'd barely slept. My hands shook slightly as I handed him the annotated files.
"Good," he said, scanning them. "You have a sharp eye for detail."
"Thank you," I murmured.
He looked up, studying me. "But you also look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
He tilted his head slightly. "You're lying."
I stiffened. "Excuse me?"
He stood again, rounding the desk, stopping just close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. "You wear your emotions too openly. Your tells are obvious. The eyes. The tremor in your hands. You think hiding behind confidence will fool me? You're scared of me?"
"I'm not," I said too quickly as his brow shot up.
He deliberately turned my chair, placing his hands on the armrests on either side of me. He leaned down, so close that his hot breath fanned my lips.
"Aren't you?" He rasped, and my lips quivered. It felt like he was about to kiss me. My heart jumped to my mouth when he leaned further closer as I placed my hand on my lips, and he smirked.
"I wasn't about to kiss you, Miss Martinez," the way he called me so respectfully made everything far more sinful.
The door was knocked, startling us both as it pulled open, and my heart fell into the pit of my stomach, and my breathing stopped.