I stayed seated long after the lecture hall emptied, my fingers clenched tightly around my notebook as whispers followed every step my classmates took out of the room. I could feel their eyes on me, curiosity sharp and judgmental, and I kept my head down until the door finally closed and silence settled. Only then did I slowly look up. Professor Blackwood stood by the podium, gathering his materials with the same controlled precision he always displayed, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As though he had not married me less than twelve hours ago. "Come with me," he said without looking at me. The tone was not unkind, but it was firm, authoritative, the voice of a man used to being obeyed. My heart thudded painfully as I followed him out of the lecture hall, down the corridor, and into his office. The door closed behind us with a soft but final click that made my breath hitch.
He turned to face me, his expression cool, professional, and painfully distant. "We need to establish boundaries," he said. "Rules." The word settled heavily between us. I nodded, gripping the strap of my bag. "I understand." He gestured for me to sit, but I remained standing, afraid that if I sat, I might crumble. He didn't insist. "Rule number one," he continued, "in public, you are my student. Nothing more. No familiarity. No exceptions." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Of course." "Rule number two," he said, "our marriage does not interfere with your academics. If at any point you feel uncomfortable in my class, you will transfer immediately." The thought sent a sharp ache through my chest. "I don't want special treatment," I said quickly. "You won't get any," he replied, almost too quickly. "And rule number three," he added after a pause, his gaze sharpening, "what happened between us stays between us." I nodded again, though my throat felt tight. "Agreed."
Silence stretched between us, thick and awkward. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on me until I finally whispered, "Was this a mistake?" His jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "It was necessary." The word stung more than I expected. Necessary. Not wanted. Not chosen. Just necessary. "Your mother's surgery is scheduled for tomorrow," he continued, turning back to his desk. "The payment has been made." Relief crashed over me so suddenly that my knees nearly gave out. "Thank you," I whispered. He paused, his hand resting on the desk. "You don't owe me gratitude," he said quietly. "This was a contract." A contract. I repeated the words silently as I left his office, my emotions tangled and raw.
By the end of the day, the rumors had already begun. I felt them in the way conversations stopped when I approached, in the way girls glanced at me and whispered behind their hands. In the restroom, I overheard two girls talking in hushed but excited tones. "Did you see the way Professor Blackwood asked Lydia Moore to stay after class?" one of them said. "She must be sleeping with him," the other replied with a giggle. My stomach twisted violently, and I locked myself in a stall, pressing my hand to my mouth to keep from crying. They were wrong, yet somehow too close to the truth. That night, I returned to the apartment he now technically shared with me, my steps hesitant as I unlocked the door. The lights were on, but the living room was empty. A neatly written note lay on the counter, his handwriting precise and controlled. I'll be home late. Eat something. —A. The initial sent a strange warmth through my chest that I immediately tried to suppress. This was not real. This was not love.
I found him in the kitchen later that night, loosening his tie as he poured himself a glass of water. The sight of him in a domestic setting felt dangerously intimate. "You should lock your door at night," he said without looking at me. "People talk." "They already are," I replied softly. He turned then, his gaze sharp. "Has anyone said anything to you?" I hesitated before nodding. His expression darkened, something protective and angry flickering in his eyes before he masked it. "I'll handle it," he said. "You shouldn't." The words slipped out before I could stop myself. "It's my reputation too." He studied me for a long moment, then said quietly, "That's exactly why you shouldn't." The intensity in his voice sent a shiver through me.
That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I realized something terrifying. The rules we had set were already breaking down. The whispers were growing louder. And the more distance he tried to put between us, the more aware I became of him. My husband. My professor. The man I was never supposed to love. And as sleep finally claimed me, one undeniable truth settled deep in my heart. This forbidden marriage was only the beginning of the chaos to come.