Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 51

I'm curled between Cleo and Ayden on my old couch, a slice of pepperoni pizza balanced on my knee while we engage in the age-old debate about whether pineapple belongs anywhere near Italian cuisine.

The apartment feels warm and safe, filled with the kind of easy laughter that comes from being surrounded by people who actually care about your wellbeing.

"I'm telling you, it's basically a crime against humanity," Cleo insists, gesturing dramatically with her own slice. "Pineapple is a fruit. Pizza is savory. They should never meet."

"That's like saying tomatoes don't belong on pizza because they're technically fruit," Ayden counters, earning an indignant squawk from Cleo. "Sweet and savory combinations can be incredible when done right."

"Thank you," I say, raising my wine glass in his direction. "Finally, someone with sophisticated taste buds."

"Sophisticated?" Cleo clutches her chest in mock horror. "Sophie, I thought I knew you better than this. This betrayal cuts deep."

We're all laughing when the doorbell cuts through our debate, sharp and unexpected. I glance at the clock—too late for deliveries, too early for drunk neighbors looking for help.

"Expecting someone?" Cleo asks, but I'm already shaking my head as I pad to the door in my fuzzy socks and oversized sweater.

I open it expecting a delivery driver with the wrong address and find Lolita instead, immaculate in a tailored black coat despite the evening chill.

She looks like she's stepped out of a magazine spread about sophisticated urban living, every detail perfect from her styled hair to her expensive heels.

"Sophie, darling." Her smile is razor-sharp, all teeth and calculated charm. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

My stomach drops, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. Behind me, I can hear Cleo and Ayden's conversation fade into curious silence.

"Lolita. What are you doing here?"

She extends an elegant invitation card—heavy cardstock embossed with gold lettering that catches the hallway light. "I'm hosting a little gathering this weekend. Costume party with a... specific theme. Adrian thought you might enjoy it."

I take the invitation with fingers that I hope aren't visibly trembling, reading the words "Masks & Submission" in flowing script. The implications hit me like a physical blow, but I keep my face carefully blank.

"He also sent this." Lolita hands over an expensive-looking box tied with black silk ribbon. "For the occasion."

"Why?" The word comes out before I can stop it, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "Why would he want me there?"

Lolita's laugh is like champagne bubbles—light, effervescent, and utterly condescending. "Oh, sweet girl. You really don't understand your place in all this, do you?"

"I understand perfectly," I say, lifting my chin with as much dignity as I can muster. "Adrian and I…"

"Adrian and you what?"

She steps closer, and I catch the scent of her perfume—expensive and sophisticated, everything I'm not. "Had a few passionate encounters? Played some delicious games? Darling, that's adorable, but you don't honestly think that makes you special, do you?"

Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to back down. "I think that's between Adrian and me."

"Is it?"

Lolita tilts her head, studying me like I'm an interesting specimen under a microscope.

"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're terrified I'm going to steal him away. That one conversation with me has you questioning everything you thought you knew about your place in his world."

The accuracy of her assessment makes my chest tight, but I force myself to meet her gaze steadily. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Her smile widens, and there's genuine amusement in her eyes now. "You think I'm some kind of threat, some femme fatale here to reclaim my lost love. It's really quite flattering, actually."

"Then why are you here?" I demand, my composure starting to crack despite my best efforts. "What do you want?"

"Nothing from you, darling. Nothing at all." She adjusts her coat with casual elegance. "I'm simply curious about the girl who's managed to capture Adrian's attention for more than a few weeks. Usually, his interests are much more... fleeting."

The barb hits exactly where she intended, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much it stings. "Adrian's choices are his own."

"Of course they are." Lolita's tone is patronizing, like she's talking to a child who doesn't understand how the adult world works. "But choices can change so quickly, can't they? Especially when presented with... better options."

"Is that a threat?"

"A threat?" She laughs again, and the sound makes my skin crawl. "Oh no, sweetheart. I don't need to threaten anyone. I simply exist, and that tends to be quite enough."

She steps back, preparing to leave, but pauses at the top of the stairs. "Wear the dress, darling. Red has always been his favorite color."

And then she's gone, disappearing down the stairwell like some perfectly groomed ghost, leaving me standing in my doorway with an invitation to what feels like my own execution and a box that might as well contain a bomb for how much I want to touch it.

I close the door and lean against it, trying to steady my breathing. When I turn around, Cleo and Ayden are both staring at me with expressions of concern and barely contained curiosity.

"Who was that?" Cleo asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"Someone from Adrian’s past," I say, which isn't technically a lie.

"Sophie." Ayden's voice is gentle but firm. "Are you okay? Did she say something to you? Was it something bad?"

I look down at the box in my hands, the black silk ribbon feeling like a noose against my fingers. Part of me wants to throw it away without opening it, to pretend this whole interaction never happened.

But a larger part, the part that's still desperately, pathetically drawn to Adrian Lewis, needs to know what he's sent me.

"No, it’s fine," I lie, moving toward the coffee table. "Just... unexpected."

With shaking hands, I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

Inside, nestled in black tissue paper like precious artifacts, lies a scarlet dress that would hug every curve I have, a matching mask adorned with delicate beading, and lingerie so delicate it barely qualifies as fabric.

Something about the ensemble nags at me—too perfect, too specifically tailored to my measurements, like it was made just for me. But the thought slips away as Cleo leans forward, her eyes widening.

"Holy shit, Sophie. What kind of party is this?"

I stare at the invitation still clutched in my other hand, at the words "Masks & Submission" that suddenly feel like a challenge and a trap all at once.

"The kind I'm not sure I'm ready for," I whisper.