Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 189

Adrian’s POV

"Adrian?"

Sophie's voice doesn't register at first. I'm staring at the photo she's holding, but I'm not actually seeing it. My mind is replaying Lolita's words from this morning, the deal I made, the price I agreed to pay.

I want to be part of her life. Her development. Her education. I shaped you into who you are. Imagine what I could do for her with intentionality from the beginning.

The thought makes my skin crawl even hours later. Lolita getting her hands on Amelia, molding her into something sophisticated and damaged the way she molded me…

"Adrian."

This time her tone cuts through. I blink, refocusing on the living room where we're sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by printed photos of wedding venues, floral arrangements, and table settings.

Sophie is holding up two venue options, her expression patient but increasingly concerned.

"Sorry," I say, shaking my head to clear it. "What were you asking?"

"Which one feels more like us?"

She holds up the photos again—one shows an outdoor garden venue with vine-covered arches and natural light, the other a grand ballroom with crystal chandeliers and marble floors.

"I've been asking for five minutes."

Five minutes. I've been completely gone, lost in thoughts about what I just traded away. What kind of access I just granted to the woman who turned me into someone capable of making deals like this.

"The ballroom," I say, choosing without really thinking.

Sophie studies me carefully. "Why?"

I scramble for reasoning that sounds genuine.

"It makes a statement, shows we're not hiding from the scandal, that we're confident enough to make our wedding a spectacle. The garden venue feels like we're trying to slip away quietly."

She considers this, then nods slowly and sets the photos aside. But her eyes never leave my face, and I can see she knows something is wrong.

"What's been bothering you all evening?" she asks directly.

I take her hand, trying to ground myself in this moment, in her. Her fingers are warm, real, tangible proof that I'm doing all of this for something that matters. For someone who matters.

"Just wedding stress. Finalizing details, making sure everything is perfect for you."

The guilt of keeping Lolita's arrangement secret already weighs on me like a physical thing, heavy in my chest. But I justify it the way I'm learning to justify everything—as protection. Sophie doesn't need to carry this burden.

She doesn't need to know how close we came to destruction, or what I traded to prevent it. She doesn't need to know that starting next month, Lolita will have regular access to our daughter.

"You've been somewhere else since this morning." Sophie's thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "You barely touched your lunch. You've been staring into space for hours. What's going on?"

"Do you have cold feet about the wedding?" she asks quietly, and there's vulnerability in her voice that makes my chest tighten.

The question jolts me into full presence. I turn to face her completely, both hands framing her face so she can see the truth in my eyes.

"No. God, no. The opposite, actually." My voice comes out fierce with sincerity. "I want to marry you desperately, Sophie. I need you to believe that. Every day between now and the ceremony feels impossibly long."

And it's true. Every word is true. I do want to marry her, do want our life together, do want to build something lasting and real.

Even as I'm aware of the irony: I just sold access to our daughter to secure this wedding. The blackmail threat is neutralized, Lisette's letters will never see the light of day, Sophie's future is protected.

But at what cost? What kind of man makes that trade?

The kind of man Lolita raised me to be, apparently.

Sophie searches my expression, looking for cracks, for doubts. I let her look. This part is completely honest—I do want to marry her more than I've wanted anything.

She seems satisfied by what she sees. Leans forward and kisses me gently, a gesture of reassurance for both of us. When she pulls back, she returns to sorting through photos, moving past the venue selection to floral arrangements.

"I still need to finalize things with Bellamy," she says, her tone carefully casual. "About his departure after the wedding. Make sure the transition to new security is smooth."

My jaw tightens involuntarily at his name. I try to keep my response brief, neutral. "He'll transition out. We'll find someone new. It's handled."

Sophie glances at me but doesn't push. We continue sorting through wedding details—table linens, centerpiece options, dinner menu selections. She makes notes on her tablet while I try to stay present, to focus on this moment instead of the deal I made this morning.

But Lolita's words keep circling: Our secret. Sophie doesn't need to know.

Just one more secret in a relationship I keep promising will be built on honesty.

We work for another hour, making decisions about flowers and food and seating arrangements. Sophie is animated when discussing certain details, her face lighting up as she describes her vision.

I watch her and think about how much she's sacrificed for this relationship, how much she's endured. The scandal, the public humiliation, giving birth alone while I was running from my responsibilities.

She deserves better than a man who keeps making deals with demons to protect what we're building.

But she chose me anyway, keeps choosing me. And I'll do whatever it takes to make sure she never regrets that choice—even if it means making choices she'd hate if she knew about them.

Later that night, after the wedding planning materials are packed away and Amelia is asleep in her nursery, I'm in my study reviewing student papers when Sophie appears in the doorway.

She's changed into something simple—soft gray pants and a white tank top—but there's intention in her expression, a determination I recognize.

"Come with me," she says quietly.

I look up from my laptop. "Where?"

"Red Room. We both need it."

I study her face, see the determination there mixed with something vulnerable.

She's reaching for me, trying to reconnect through the one language that's never failed us. The physical connection that works even when words don't, when everything else feels complicated and heavy.

She needs this. Maybe I need it too—to lose myself in sensation, in the dynamic we understand, in the place where we make sense.

I close my laptop and stand, following her down the hallway toward the door that leads to our sanctuary.