Chapter 188: Let’s Find Out

PRIYA’S POV

The following afternoon was a miserable Tuesday in the historic wing of Briar Hall.

The rain was slashing viciously against the leaded casement windows, rattling the iron frames while twenty-four students sat in petrified silence.

At the front of the amphitheater stood Adrian Flores.

He wore a tailored charcoal wool vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled twice to his forearms, exposing lean wrists and a silver watch. His thin wire-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of a sharp, aristocratic nose.

He didn’t lecture from slides. He didn’t use notes.

He paced the front of the room like a prosecutor hunting for blood, dismantling third-year law students and arrogant pre-law seniors brutally.

"The executive branch does not require statutory pre-approval for emergency administrative injunctions under the 1978 Regulatory Act, Mr. Davies," Flores had said smoothly in a condescending voice. "Unless, of course, you can cite a single majority ruling from the past forty years that substantiates your rather creative delusion?"

The senior two rows ahead of me shrank three inches into his sweater, stammering into his notebook.

Flores stopped pacing.

He adjusted his glasses with one long finger, a razor-thin sneer touching the corner of his mouth. "Silence is not an affirmative defense, counsel. Does anyone in this room possess both an intellect and a spine?"

The lecture hall held its breath.

I leaned forward in my wooden desk, my pulse spiking with competitive fury.

"The Fifth Circuit’s 1984 dissent in Vance v. Department of Commerce," I spoke up, my voice cutting through the stifling room. "Sir." I added.

Flores froze mid-step.

He turned slowly, his sharp gaze locking onto me across the terraced rows.

"Pardon, Miss Patel?" he asked, tilting his head.

"You asked for a substantiating ruling," I said, meeting his eyes without blinking. "In eighty-four, Judge Holbrook argued that unchecked administrative injunctions violate procedural due process when commercial assets are frozen without prior judicial review. The Supreme Court denied certiorari, but the precedent was adopted by three state supreme courts in subsequent regulatory disputes."

A ripple of quiet gasps whispered through the lecture hall. Nobody interrupted Professor Flores. Nobody corrected him.

Flores stared at me for five agonizing seconds.

He reached up, slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, and folded the frames into his vest pocket.

Without the lenses, his gaze was raw, predatory, and entirely unshielded.

"Judge Holbrook’s dissent was rendered moot by statutory amendment in nineteen-ninety-one, Miss Patel," he said in a deceptively mild tone.

"Only regarding federal procurement," I countered instantly, tilting my chin. "The constitutional due process question was explicitly preserved in footnote fourteen. Which you would know, Professor, if you had read past the headnotes."

A few students choked on their breath.

A ghost of a smirk flickered across Flores’s sculpted mouth. It wasn’t anger; it was something far more dangerous: genuine, lethal fascination.

"Class dismissed," Flores announced, never taking his eyes off mine. "Miss Patel. My office. Four-thirty."

—

His corner office smelled of aged leather, rain-soaked oak, and rich espresso.

Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with gold-embossed legal reporters and Supreme Court transcripts.

When I walked in at four-thirty, the oak door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the campus corridors.

Prof. Adrian was standing behind his mahogany desk, his jacket draped over the leather armchair, his collar unbuttoned by a single notch.

"You were insolent in class today, Miss Patel," he said, leaning his knuckles onto the polished wood.

"I was legally accurate, Professor," I replied, crossing my arms and stepping closer to the desk. "There’s a difference."

"You undermined my authority in front of twenty-four students to prove you’re the smartest person in the room."

"I didn’t have to prove it," I said with a dangerous spark flashing in my chest. "You walked into a procedural trap and expected everyone to cower. I don’t cower."

Adrian straightened to his full six-foot-one height.

He walked slowly around the mahogany desk, closing the distance between us until the scent of his cedarwood cologne and warm espresso filled my senses.

He stopped less than a foot away.

"You didn’t mention you were an undergraduate when you were in my bed on Friday night, Priya," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that had nothing to do with academia.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs at the sound of my first name on his lips.

"And you didn’t mention you were on the Briar faculty payroll, Adrian," I whispered back, refusing to yield an inch of ground. "I thought you were a visiting corporate consultant."

"I am a visiting professor. And you are enrolled in my seminar."

"Section 4.2 of the faculty handbook," I breathed, looking into his burning gaze.

"Section 4.2 says I should have you escorted from this building by campus security," he whispered, his eyes burning into mine.

I tilted my head, my breath hitching as electricity raced down my spine.

"Then call security, Professor," I challenged softly. "Or shut up and kiss me."

Adrian let out a low, ragged sound in his throat.

He gripped my waist, lifted me clean off the hardwood floor, backed me against the edge of his mahogany bookshelf, and crashed his mouth down onto mine in a demanding, possessive, and hungry kiss, shattering every rule, every syllabus, and every shred of sanity in the room.

My fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer as the world outside ceased to exist.

***

The memory vanished as the soft chime of a car horn echoed from the street below.

I snapped back to the present, sitting on the futon in Room 304.

I stood up, walked to the window, and parted the blinds.

Down in the snowy North Hall lot, Knox’s black truck was idling, exhaust billowing white into the freezing air.

I watched as Knox lifted Nora off her feet, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, kissing her with that deep, protective tenderness that made my cynical heart ache with quiet envy.

He helped Nora into the passenger seat, closed the door, jogged around to the driver’s side, and pulled out of the lot, their taillights disappearing down Route 93 toward Oakhaven.

The coast was clear.

I turned away from the window, walked to the dorm door, and turned the deadbolt with a sharp, decisive CLICK.

I stripped off the oversized decoy grey sweatpants and baggy Briar hoodie, letting them drop to the rug.

Underneath, I was already wearing a fitted, ribbed cream cashmere sweater and dark designer denim that hugged every curve.

I slid my feet into knee-high black leather boots, pulled my hair down from its messy bun into sleek, dark waves, and spritzed my wrists with the upscale French jasmine perfume Nora had noticed yesterday.

From the very back of my closet, beneath a laundry basket, I pulled out a sleek black leather weekender bag packed with tailored winter clothes, silk lingerie, and a bottle of expensive red wine.

I pulled on my tailored wool trench coat, grabbed my purse, and slipped my phone into my pocket.

My Uber notification buzzed: Your driver, Marcus, is arriving at the North Gate in a silver Camry.

I took one last look around Room 304.

The fake bowls of popcorn were on the counter. The Netflix screen on my laptop was paused on episode one of The Wire. The decoy was bulletproof.

"Forgive me, Bennett," I whispered to the empty room. "Your roommate is about to break the law."

I unlocked the door, stepped into the quiet holiday corridor, and headed down the stairwell.

***

The drive across town took fifteen minutes through thickening snow flurries.

The Grand Harborside was a five-star boutique hotel set back from the waterfront, surrounded by frosted weeping willows and gas-lamp pillars. It was four miles off-campus... far enough from Briar to ensure no undergraduate ran into a dean.

The silver Camry pulled up under the heated portico.

I paid the driver, hoisted my leather weekender over my shoulder, and stepped through the revolving glass doors into the lobby.

The lobby was warm, paved in polished white marble with a crackling stone fireplace and the soft strains of jazz playing overhead.

I walked past the concierge desk, my boots clicking softly against the stone, heading toward the private elevator bank.

And then I saw him.

Adrian was leaning against a marble pillar beside the elevators, waiting for me.

He wore a tailored charcoal overcoat unbuttoned over a black turtleneck, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. His dark hair was brushed back, slightly damp from the snow, and his wire-rimmed glasses were pushed down the bridge of his nose.

The second I crossed the marble floor, his eyes lifted.

His gaze swept over me from the hem of my coat to the dark waves falling over my shoulders, slow and thorough, burning with unmistakable hunger.

A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips.

"Two minutes late, Miss Patel," Adrian murmured, his voice smooth as aged bourbon as he stepped away from the pillar. "I was beginning to think your nerve failed you."

I stopped in front of him, looking straight into those lethal eyes, my heart thumping wildly against my ribs.

"My nerve is intact, Professor Flores," I countered softly, lifting my chin. "The question is whether you have the stamina to keep up with me."

Adrian’s smirk sharpened into something wicked.

He stepped closer, his knuckles lightly brushing against the leather of my weekender bag as his other hand pressed the elevator call button.

"Room 408," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Let’s find out."