Page 61 of Marrying My Professor

I grab the small clutch that matches the dress—because apparently everything has to match in this world—and head for the stairs, taking each step carefully because one wrong move in this dress and these heels and I'll tumble down like Cinderella—if Cinderella was a fraud who married her professor to avoid getting murdered by a cult.

Alexander is waiting at the bottom, and the expression on his face when he sees me makes every uncomfortable, expensive, soul-selling moment of getting ready worth it.

He's wearing a tuxedo—full black tie, perfectly tailored, the kind of formal wear that transforms men into something dangerous and untouchable. His hair is styled back with just enough product to look deliberate without looking like he tried, his jaw freshly shaved so I can see the sharp line of it. There's a small scar near his ear I've never noticed before, barely visible, and I find myself wanting to ask about it even as I know tonight isn't the time.

There's something about seeing him like this—polished and controlled and absolutely devastating—that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the fact that this man is my husband and I still can't quite process that reality.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes traveling slowly from my face down to my heels and back up again, taking their time, cataloging every detail. "You're beautiful."

Heat floods my cheeks despite myself. "You said appropriate."

"I said appropriate. You delivered—" He stops, jaw working like he's physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence. "We should leave now."

"The car isn't here yet."

"I don't care about the car." He crosses to me in three strides, one hand coming up to cup my face while the other settles possessively on my hip, his thumb finding bare skin where the dress cuts low on my back. "We should leave now because if we stay here another five minutes, I'm going to ruin that dress and your hair and we're going to be very, very late."

My breath catches. "Alexander⁠—"

"And I'm supposed to be keeping my hands to myself tonight," he continues, his thumb brushing my cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicts the heat in his eyes. "Supposed to be the perfect gentleman. Introduce you to people who matter. Make sure everyone understands that you're mine and under my protection. But looking at you right now, all I can think about is how much I want to peel you out of this dress and make you forget your own name."

God, why is that so hot when it should be objectifying?

"That's very ungentlemanly of you, Professor," I manage, my voice coming out breathier than intended.

"I'm not your professor anymore," he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against mine—soft, careful, not enough to smudge my lipstick but enough to make me want more. "I'm your husband. And my wife looks like a goddamn fantasy."

The sound of a car horn saves me from having to respond, which is good because my brain has temporarily short-circuited.

"That's our ride," Alexander says, pulling back with visible reluctance. "Come on. Let's go make an entrance."

The Spring Ball is being held at the Belgrave Grand—a historic hotel downtown that's been hosting Veritas events since the 1920s, back when the organization was young and probably just as corrupt but better at hiding it. The building is all art deco elegance, the kind of architecture that screams old money and older secrets.

We pull up to the entrance where an actual red carpet has been rolled out—a red carpet, are you kidding me—and valets in matching uniforms wait to park cars that cost more than most people's houses.

Alexander helps me out of the town car, his hand firm and steady, and I'm immediately aware of eyes on us. People staring. Phones discreetly angled to capture photos. The flash of cameras from what I assume are society photographers documenting who wore what and who arrived with whom.

This is insane. This is absolutely insane.

"Smile," Alexander murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back as we start up the red carpet. "You're doing great."

I paste on a smile that I hope looks genuine and not like someone being led to their execution, which is honestly how this feels.

The ballroom is exactly what I expected and somehow worse: soaring ceilings painted with cherubs and clouds like we're in some kind of baroque church dedicated to the worship of wealth. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hang from the ceiling, each one probably worth more than my education. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine reflect the golden light, making the whole space glow with an almost supernatural warmth.

Everything is decorated in shades of cream and gold, with massive floral arrangements that probably cost more than my semester's tuition placed at strategic intervals. White roses, calla lilies, orchids so perfect they look fake—though I'm sure they're devastatingly real and devastatingly expensive.

The room is already packed when we arrive. Men in tuxedos that fit like second skins, women in gowns that make mine look modest—silk and satin and fabrics I can't even name, all cut to show just enough skin to be interesting without crossing into scandalous. Everyone moving through the space with the kind of ease that comes from a lifetime of events like this, of knowing which fork to use and which glass is for which wine and how to make small talk about market trends like it's the weather.

I recognize faces from campus—professors I've seen in passing, administrators whose names I don't know but whose positions I can guess from the way people defer to them. Students from wealthy families who've clearly been attending functions like this since they could walk, who probably had their first formal dinner at age six and learned to waltz before they learned to read.

And scattered throughout, like predators among prey: the Veritas members.

I can identify them now, after weeks of observation and Alexander's reluctant education. The subtle pins on lapels—different designs for different factions, small enough to be missed if you're not looking but unmistakable once you know what to look for. The particular way they carry themselves, like they own not just the room but the entire concept of rooms. The signet rings that catch the light when they gesture, heavy gold that speaks of tradition and bloodlines and promises made in darker places than this.

My stomach turns.

This room is full of people who might have killed Brandon.