Page 57 of Marrying My Professor

"Yes."

She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "Why?"

"Because I love him," I say, and I'm surprised by how easily the lie comes. Or maybe it's not entirely a lie. Maybe there's something there, beneath the terror and the obligation and the sheer insanity of the last forty-eight hours. Something that feels dangerously close to real.

Georgia must see something in my expression because her face softens. "Okay. Okay, I believe you. But Elara—this is fast. Really fast. And I'm worried about you."

"I know." I reach out and squeeze her hand. "But I promise, I'm okay. Better than okay, actually. Alexander is... he's good to me. He makes me feel safe."

Safe from being murdered by a secret society, but safe nonetheless.

"Fine," she sighs. "But if he turns out to be a secret serial killer or something, I'm saying I told you so."

"Noted."

We finish packing in relative silence after that, filling boxes with my meager possessions—books, clothes, the few kitchen items I've accumulated. It's depressing how little I have to show for twenty-three years of life. How easily everything I own fits into the back of Alexander's Mercedes.

Speaking of which.

I check my phone—he texted an hour ago saying I could take his car to move my things, that he had a faculty meeting he couldn't miss but would be home by dinner. The black Mercedes is parked on the street outside, looking absurdly expensive next to the beat-up Hondas and Toyotas that populate this neighborhood.

"Last box," Georgia announces, hefting a container labeled KITCHEN in her looping handwriting.

We carry it down together, navigating the narrow stairwell of my soon-to-be-former apartment building. The April air is cool and fresh, still holding onto the last traces of spring chill, making me pull my jacket tighter as we approach the car.

I pop the trunk, and Georgia slides the box in with the others. "You know I'm going to need to see this house, right? Like, immediately. I need to know what kind of lair Professor Hottie lives in."

"It's not a lair," I laugh. "It's actually really nice. Very minimalist. Very⁠—"

"Elara?"

The voice comes from behind me, sharp and accusatory and definitely not friendly.

I turn.

Taylor Jackson stands about ten feet away, and he looks terrible. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with red like he's been crying or hasn't slept in days—possibly both. His hair is disheveled, his Belgrave hoodie wrinkled, and there's a manic energy radiating off him that makes my stomach drop.

"Taylor," I say carefully, taking a step back toward the car. "Hi. Are you⁠—"

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" he yells, and several people on the street turn to look. "Do you have any fucking clue?"

Georgia immediately positions herself slightly in front of me, protective instinct kicking in. "Excuse me?"

"Not you," Taylor snaps, his eyes never leaving mine. "Her. The nosey bitch who ruined everything."

My pulse spikes. "Taylor, I don't know what you're⁠—"

"My mom called me," he interrupts, his voice breaking. "Called me crying, begging me to drop out of the initiation. Said some girl from Belgrave called her and told her they were abusing me. That I was in danger. That I needed to get out."

Oh God.

Oh God, no.

"So I did," he continues, and there are actual tears streaming down his face now. "I dropped out. Told them I was done. And you know what happened? They revoked my scholarship. Kicked me out of campus housing. Told me I had twenty-four hours to pack my shit and leave Belgrave."

"Taylor—"

"I could have fixed everything," he yells, his voice raw with anguish. "Do you understand that? I could have given my family a better life. Could have gotten my mom out of that shitty apartment in Burlington. Could have paid for my sister's college. All I had to do was make it through one more week—one more fucking week—and I would have been set for life."