Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 195

Adrian’s POV

The wedding planner's office occupies a converted brownstone in the upscale part of downtown, all exposed brick and elegant staging rooms designed to make couples envision their perfect day.

We brought Amelia in her carrier—easier than arranging childcare for what should be a quick final meeting.

Sophie sits beside me on an overstuffed couch while Christine, our planner, walks us through the final details with practiced efficiency.

Finalized menu with three entrée options. Confirmed floral arrangements—white roses and peonies, just like Sophie wanted. Timeline for the day, from ceremony to reception to the grand exit under sparklers.

Everything is perfect, expensive and meticulously designed to show the world we survived the scandal and emerged stronger, more united. A wedding that makes a statement: we're not hiding, we're celebrating.

I watch Sophie nod at fabric swatches and candle options, making appropriate comments and asking intelligent questions. She's engaged but not excited—I can read the difference in her body language.

Her face lights up when Christine mentions the vintage champagne tower we're renting, goes politely neutral when discussing table linens. I make mental notes, filing away what genuinely makes her happy versus what gets dutiful agreement.

"Now, for the processional music," Christine says, pulling up two audio samples on her tablet. "We have the string quartet or the solo harpist. Both are lovely, but they create different atmospheres…"

Amelia starts fussing in her carrier beside the couch, the soft whimper that means she's about to escalate to full crying if someone doesn't intervene immediately.

Sophie moves to pick her up, but I get there first. "I've got her."

I lift Amelia out of the carrier, settling her against my shoulder with practiced ease.

She immediately calms, her tiny fist gripping my collar, her face nuzzling into my neck. The weight of her, the complete trust in how she relaxes against me—it still amazes me every time.

"Oh, how sweet," Christine coos appropriately, then excuses herself. "Let me grab the updated vendor contracts. I'll be right back."

The moment she leaves, the professional performance drops slightly. I bounce Amelia gently, her little body warm and solid against mine. She makes those serious baby sounds—not quite words but definitely communicating something important.

"What do you think, little one?" I murmur, keeping my voice soft and playful. "Should we go with the string quartet or the harpist?"

Amelia responds with elaborate babbling, her expression intensely focused like she's genuinely considering the musical merits of each option. Her tiny hand waves in the air, punctuating what I'm choosing to interpret as strong opinions about wedding music.

I grin, charmed despite myself. "The quartet? Good choice. Very sophisticated. You have excellent taste for someone who can't even sit up on her own yet."

When I glance at Sophie, ready to share the joke, I find her watching us with an expression that makes my chest tighten almost painfully: soft, genuine, completely unguarded.

She's smiling at me, at us, in a way she hasn't directed at me in weeks, maybe longer.

"You're good with her," Sophie says quietly, and there's wonder in her voice. "Really good. I love watching you two together."

The words spread warmth through my entire body.

This—this is what I want. This version of our life where we're a team, a family, where Sophie looks at me like I'm someone worth loving rather than someone she's obligated to.

Where I can be a good father, a good partner, someone who breaks the patterns I inherited.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, jarring against the moment. I shift Amelia slightly to check it, expecting Christine with a question or maybe a vendor confirmation.

Instead: Lolita's name on the screen.

‘Don't forget our arrangement starts the day after the wedding. I've already planned Amelia's first visit. Looking forward to beginning her education.’

My blood runs cold. The warmth from seconds ago vanishes, replaced by ice water in my veins.

I can feel Amelia's trusting weight against my shoulder, Sophie's soft gaze still on us, and all I can think about is Lolita's hands on my daughter, shaping her the way she shaped me.

I delete the message immediately, my thumb moving on autopilot. Slip the phone back into my pocket like it burned me.

"Everything okay?" Sophie's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

I look up and she's watching me with slight concern, the unguarded softness from moments ago replaced by that watchful caution I've become too familiar with. She knows something shifted. She always knows.

"Just a vendor confirmation," I lie, and the ease with which the deception rolls off my tongue should bother me more than it does. "Nothing important."

Sophie's eyes linger on my face for another beat, searching. I keep my expression neutral, practiced. Then Amelia makes a demanding sound and Sophie's attention shifts back to our daughter.

I hand Amelia over, watching Sophie settle her against her chest with the kind of natural grace that makes it look effortless.

Christine returns with a tablet full of contracts and we finish the meeting with professional efficiency. Signatures, handshakes, confirmation that everything is set. In two and a half weeks, this will all become real—the ceremony, the reception, the legally binding promises.

In the car afterward, I drive while Sophie sits in back with Amelia, keeping her entertained with a stuffed elephant that makes crinkling sounds.

Through the rearview mirror, I watch them together—Sophie making exaggerated faces that pull delighted giggles from Amelia, both of them bathed in afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

"The planning is going so well," Sophie says, still focused on Amelia but clearly addressing me. "Everything is going to be beautiful. Christine really outdid herself."

"She did," I agree, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. "It'll be perfect."

"Are you nervous? About the wedding?"

The question catches me off guard. I glance in the rearview mirror, meeting her eyes briefly. "No. Excited, maybe. But not nervous."

It's mostly true. I'm not nervous about marrying Sophie—I want that more than I've wanted almost anything.

But I am terrified about everything else. About the secrets I'm keeping, the deals I've made, the ways I keep compromising my principles to protect what we're building.

About Lolita's message burning a hole in my conscience: Looking forward to beginning her education.

Sophie seems satisfied with my answer, returning her attention to Amelia. They play some kind of peek-a-boo game that involves the elephant and a lot of giggling. The sound should make me happy. Does make me happy, in the moment.

But underneath runs a current of guilt I can't shake. I think about Lolita's message, about the arrangement I agreed to. About the secret I'm keeping from the woman who just looked at me with such tenderness, who told me she loves watching me with our daughter.

The woman I'm about to marry while hiding the fact that I've essentially sold access to our child to secure this wedding, to neutralize threats, to build the perfect life we're supposed to be creating together.

The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, acid and uncomfortable. But I push it down the way I'm learning to push everything down. Compartmentalize. Justify. Convince myself it's protection rather than betrayal.

Just like Lolita taught me.

Two and a half weeks until the wedding. Two and a half weeks until Lolita starts her visits with Amelia. Two and a half weeks until I prove definitively that I'm exactly what Sophie's family fears—my father's son, wearing a better disguise.

I grip the steering wheel and drive us home, the sound of Amelia's laughter filling the car like an accusation I'll spend years trying to answer for.