Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 70

Sophie’s POV

The lecture hall empties around me in the usual post-class chaos of shuffling papers and overlapping conversations.

I remain frozen in my seat, staring at my notebook where I'd stopped taking notes the moment Adrian burst through that door like some kind of academic tornado.

My hands are still shaking.

The adrenaline from the confrontation hasn't worn off yet, and every time I close my eyes, I see Adrian being dragged away by security, his storm-gray eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my chest ache even through my fury.

Peaches.

I'd said our safe word, the most special one. I'd weaponized something sacred between us, used it like a blade to cut him down when nothing else would work. The memory sits in my stomach like lead, heavy and wrong and necessary all at once.

"Sophie?" Cleo appears at my elbow, her expression tight with concern. "You've been sitting here for ten minutes. People are starting to stare."

I force myself to gather my things, to move like a normal person instead of someone whose entire world just imploded in front of a hundred recording phones. "Sorry. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Ayden joins us, his usual easy demeanor replaced by something more serious. "Half the campus saw what happened. Are you okay?"

"I'm great," I say, shouldering my bag with false brightness. "Never been better. Public humiliation really agrees with me."

We walk out of the building together, and I can feel the stares, hear the whispers that follow in our wake.

By tomorrow, the videos will be everywhere—Adrian dragging me out of class, the security officers, his arrest. My private life turned into public entertainment once again.

"We were going to grab dinner and maybe catch a movie," Cleo says carefully as we reach the parking lot. "You should come with us."

"Agreed," Ayden interjects, slipping his arm around Cleo's waist with a meaningful look, "we were actually hoping to have some alone time tonight. You know, celebrate making it through midterms..."

Cleo shoots him a grateful smile that tells me exactly what kind of celebration they have in mind, and I feel a familiar pang of loneliness.

“But you've been through a lot today, so you’re more than welcome—”

“It’s really okay.” I interrupt Ayden before he continues. Can’t let my problems influence their plans. “Go, have some fun.”

Cleo hesitates, clearly torn between her concern for me and her desire to spend uninterrupted time with her boyfriend. "If you change your mind…"

"I won't." I wave them off with false cheer. "Go, be young and romantic. Use protection."

"We're not all as reckless as you," Ayden teases gently, but there's no real bite to it. Besides, I already accepted that there’s another human being growing inside of me.

As they drive away, leaving me standing alone in the parking lot, I realize how hollow my apartment is going to feel tonight. How quiet and empty and full of thoughts I don't want to think. Being near Cassian also becomes a challenge.

The walk home passes in a blur of familiar streets and unfamiliar stares. By the time I reach the residential area near my building, I'm walking faster, desperate to escape the weight of public scrutiny.

I don't notice the vintage convertible until it pulls alongside me with the soft purr of an expensive engine.

Lolita sits behind the wheel, effortlessly elegant in oversized sunglasses and a silk scarf that probably costs more than my rent. She looks like she stepped out of a 1960s fashion magazine, all smooth sophistication and calculating charm.

"Need a ride, darling?" Her voice carries that familiar mixture of amusement and condescension that makes my skin crawl.

I keep walking, my jaw set with determination. "No, thanks."

The car follows at walking pace, drawing stares from other pedestrians who probably think they're witnessing some kind of movie scene. The attention makes my shoulders tense, another layer of unwanted spectacle added to an already disastrous day.

"Come now, this is rather dramatic," Lolita calls through the open window. "Just get in. We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you." My voice is louder than intended, sharp with the stress of too many eyes watching my every move. "Leave me alone!"

"Hysterics are bad for the child."

The words hit me like ice water, stopping me mid-step so abruptly that the pedestrian behind me nearly collides with my back. Slowly, terror and fury warring in my chest, I turn to face the car.

Lolita's knowing smile confirms my worst fears—my secret isn't safe. The one piece of privacy I have left has been compromised, and she's sitting there looking pleased about it.

"How did you…" I start, but the question dies in my throat as the implications crash over me.

"Adrian called me," Lolita says, pulling smoothly toward the curb with practiced ease. "He was quite... distraught after his little performance today. Poor boy doesn't know what to do with himself."

Against every instinct screaming at me to run, I climb into the passenger seat. The leather is buttery soft beneath me, the interior immaculate and expensively appointed. It feels like stepping into enemy territory.

I cross my arms over my chest, creating what little barrier I can between myself and the woman who seems to know all my secrets. The ride feels suffocating, the air thick with unspoken threats and carefully calculated manipulation.

"He made his position clear," I say bitterly, staring straight ahead rather than looking at her. "He wants nothing to do with me or this baby. Trust me, I got the message loud and clear when he ran out of his own house like I was carrying plague."

"Did he actually say that?" Lolita's voice carries genuine curiosity, like she's conducting some kind of psychological experiment.

"He didn't have to." The memory of Adrian's horrified expression flashes through my mind, sharp and painful. "You didn't see how he reacted when I told him. You didn't see his face."

"Actually, I did see his face," Lolita says quietly, glancing at me with something that might be sympathy. "About an hour after you left, when he called me in complete panic, begging me to help him figure out how to fix what he'd broken."

The words don't compute. "What?"

"You know, I taught Adrian many things over the years."

Lolita continues, her tone becoming almost conversational.

"Control, restraint, the art of emotional detachment. But emotional intelligence wasn't one of them. Sometimes fear masquerades as rejection, especially in men who've spent their entire adult lives avoiding anything that requires genuine vulnerability."

"Not surprised you're defending him," I mutter, that familiar jealousy flaring in my chest. "Considering how close you two are."

Lolita glances at me, and for the first time since I've known her, her smile isn't mocking or calculated.

It's the expression of a woman who's seen enough of life to understand things beyond most people's comprehension, patient and knowing and oddly reassuring.

"Don't look for a threat where there isn't one, my dear," she says gently. "I've known him for twenty years, and I can confidently say that this boy has many more surprises hidden inside than you've ever seen. Just keep that in mind."

When she drops me off in front of my building, I find myself standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the familiar windows of my apartment.

Her words echo in my head, mixing with my memories of Adrian's panic, his desperate phone calls, his public breakdown today.

For the first time since I walked out of his house, I find myself wondering if fear and rejection look the same from the outside.

And whether I might have been wrong about what I saw in his eyes.