Page 15 of Marrying My Professor

There’s the slightest lift at the end of it, the barest question threaded through the syllables, and the sound of my name in his voice hits me low and sharp. The moment it leaves his mouth, he looks up, his gaze cutting through the room with intent as he searches for me. I stay silent for a heartbeat too long, my throat closing as I swallow hard, before forcing out a rough, almost embarrassing, “Here.”

For the briefest fraction of a second, Alexander’s head lifts fully.

Our eyes meet.

His pen hovers above the page instead of moving, the faint scratch of it stopping short. His eyes lift and find mine immediately, not searching, not guessing, and the line of his mouth pulls tight as if he’s bitten down on something he didn’t expect to taste. A breath leaves him through his nose, measured and controlled, and then his pen moves again, gaze dropping back to the list with deliberate calm, the moment sealed shut as if it never existed.

He clears his throat once, clean and deliberate, and drops his gaze back to the page like nothing happened at all, even as my heart hammers against my ribs, loud enough that I’m convinced the entire room can hear it.

“Thank you,” he says, already moving on. “Danvers, Luke.”

My heart is pounding loud enough that I’m sure Wesley can hear it.

Alexander finishes attendance without another falter, sets the clipboard aside, and turns to face the room fully. He rests one hand lightly on the podium, the other sliding into his pocket, posture relaxed but authoritative in a way that immediately shifts the energy.

“This course,” he begins, “is not about comfort. If you’re here looking for easy answers or moral absolutes, you are in the wrong room.”

I swallow.

“This is Forbidden Ethics,” he continues, his voice steady as it moves through the room. “We will discuss power. Corruption. Institutional failure. The places where law pretends neutrality while actively protecting the wrong people.”

I keep my eyes forward, fixed on the podium, on the way his hand rests against it like restraint is a physical act. The room is quiet enough that I can hear pages turning, someone shifting in their seat.

Then a chair slides closer behind me.

Wesley’s knee nudges the back of my seat, light at first, testing. His breath finds my ear, warm and confident. “There’s a party this weekend,” he murmurs.

I don’t turn. I don’t react. I write a meaningless line across my page just to give my hands something to do. “Oh really?”

“Off campus. Everyone who matters will be there.” Wesley adds as if that would make this more intriguing for me.

“I could pick you up,” he adds, softer now, closer. “Save you the walk. Those heels don’t look built for Belgrave winters.”

“I rather be carried,” I corner, continuing to write meaningless lines, because I can’t hear Alexander, over his heavy breathing.

“You’d be my personal guest,” he continues, clearly enjoying the performance. “And I take good care of my guests.”

A sharp, ugly snort, sudden and unfiltered, slicing through the quiet like a crack in glass. Fuck.

Alexander’s gaze snaps to me.

“Ms. Cross,” he says, calm but pointed. “Since you seem engaged already, perhaps you’d like to answer.”

I cross my legs, the motion clean and unhurried. His gaze dips and catches before he schools it, jaw setting as I switch them again and feel the attention linger anyway.

“Tell me,” he continues, adjusting his glasses, eyes unreadable behind the lenses, “why ethical frameworks often fail when applied to elite institutions.”

I lift my chin and meet his gaze, holding it just long enough to register. “You’re asking why ethical frameworks fail at elite levels?” I say, steady, measured, nothing in my voice betraying the spike in my pulse. “Because ethics depend on consequence. And at the top, consequences become… negotiable. Wealth and influence turn accountability into a suggestion instead of a rule.”

A low murmur ripples through the room.

Alexander tilts his head slightly. “Close,” he says, and the single word lands heavier than praise would have. He takes a step away from the podium,, the suit moving with him in a way that should not be legal in an academic setting. “But incomplete.”

He stops a few feet from my desk.

“Ethics don’t fail because power negotiates consequences,” he continues. “They fail because the system was designed to protect power in the first place. Ethical language becomes camouflage. A performance. Something institutions use to appear just while continuing exactly as they are.”

His eyes flick back to mine, and for a second I see the same storm I saw two weeks ago. “Pay attention, Miss Cross.”