Page 2 of Marrying My Professor

“But I digress, Joseph. Do you want me to top you up?” I smirk, shifting closer to Joseph and out of Mike’s claws.

Joseph chuckles, holding out his glass. Up close, his cologne is heavy and expensive, with an undercurrent of entitlement. “She’s a dream.”

“And she’s all mine,” Mike says, stretching his mouth into a wide smile that should be dazzling but lands hollow. His eyes look dead, the exact shade of a man spiraling quietly inside his own suit.

I tilt my face up to him with a saccharine little grin. “Do you need anything, baby?”

“Jack and Coke,” he says with a wink that tries so hard it practically squeaks.

I nod and turn back toward Joseph, who is still staring at my ass with the kind of hunger that would be flattering if it didn’t also scream HR violation.

“I’m assuming you drink the most expensive bourbon behind the bar?” I ask lightly, letting my voice drip sweet enough to pass for natural.

He laughs, placing a heavy hand on Mike’s shoulder, squeezing as though testing his integrity. “She knows me too well.”

I widen my smile, leaning into the performance with deliberate flair. “You’re easy to read, Josey. Mikey taught me how to spot a tell.”

Joseph’s brows lift, a flicker of surprise crossing his sharp, weathered features before he schools them again. He offers Mike a thin, wired smile, the kind men give one another right before deciding whether someone is prey or peer. “You are one strong man to teach an outsider some lawyer tricks.”

I tilt my head slightly, letting my smile stretch just a little wider as I turn on my heel, swaying my hips with a calculated effortlessness, the kind of thing I learned to perfect long before I ever started charging for my time. I can feel the eyes in the room hook onto me instantly, a magnetic pull I’ve grown used to. Some gazes skim politely, others linger far too long, sharp and assessing. A few are downright ravenous.

Fuck. The New York Elite are different from the California Elite in every conceivable way. Here, everything is more direct, and in the open. These men stare openly, greedily, as if they’re evaluating a stock they might want to buy. There’s no finesse to it, no charm.

At least in California, the men who preyed on me had the decency to pretend they weren’t. They slipped numbers into my purse like secrets. Sent a drink to the bar with a knowing smile. Whispered smooth, sultry questions about why someone like me was with someone like my client—always framed as curiosity, never accusation. And I liked that. I liked the theater of it, the unspoken flirtation, the soft brush of ego against ego.

I liked feeling flattered, and wanted too. I don’t feel that way here.

If it were up to me, I’d still be on the West Coast slinging drinks behind a bar, still getting my degree in dance, and showing up to open calls for music videos on my days off. I’d be tired, sure, but I’d be happy. I’d have sunlight on my skin and ocean air in my lungs, and maybe—just maybe—I’d still remember what it feels like to have small pockets of joy that belonged only to me.

But after my brother died last April, those little moments stopped coming. They slipped away one by one until the world felt like a place I didn’t recognize. No one would tell me what happened. No one knew anything—at least that’s what they kept saying. One moment he was here, and the next he was gone, and everyone spoke about it like Brandon had simply evaporated.

I couldn’t let that be the end of it.

So I spent the summer tracking down his old roommate in Cape Cod, chasing rumors like smoke. And what I found was barely a thread, but it was enough: Brandon had been part of a strange club on campus at Belgrave University in upstate New York. A club with no official website, no social media, nothing. No paper trail. Just whispers buried in old Reddit threads, screenshots of screenshots, archive pages half-corrupted with time. A club people talked around, never about.

And I intend to join it, if they let girls in, that is.

And if I want to get to the bottom of my brother’s death, I had to transfer to Belgrave for my junior year. It wasn’t an easy choice, but Brandon was all I had left in this world. He deserved answers. He deserved justice. He deserved a long, happy life instead of whatever nightmare ended his.

Whoever took that from him—whoever killed him—will have to pay for it.

I reach the bar and lean in slightly, feeling the familiar thrum of energy that only comes from being noticed. I slide my hand over the cool marble, and make eye contact with the cute bartender. He has long blonde hair and an easy grin that I plan on riding once Mike’s paid time is up.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he murmurs as he leans across the bar, his smile slow and warm enough to melt the ice in my glass. “What can I get for you?”

“Let’s see…” I drag out the words, twisting my clear-glossed lips as I slide the half-empty bourbon glass toward him with a lazy little push. “The most expensive bourbon you’ve got. A Jack and Coke. And…” I tilt my head. “Do you know how to make a Hugo Spritz?”

His mouth curves. “Is the Hugo for you?” he asks, already reaching for the bourbon glass.

I lift a brow. “Why? I don’t look like a bourbon girl?”

He gives me a slow once-over, lingering in a way that feels appreciative instead of predatory. “No,” he says, voice dipping lower. “You look a little too sweet for that.”

“Mmm,” I drag my finger along the edge of the bar and look at him through my eyelashes. “You bet I am.”

He chokes on a laugh, scoffing as he pulls back like he suddenly needs more oxygen than the room can give him. Cute. Maybe I won’t ride his face later—he clearly doesn’t have the breath control required for the job.

I turn around, leaning my elbows on the edge of the bar, letting the crowd come into focus as the bartender gets to work behind me. The ballroom glitters under the soft gold light, a kaleidoscope of sequins and suits and champagne. People laugh too loudly, drink too quickly, pretend too convincingly. I scan the room, each face a mask polished to perfection, and wonder what secrets they’re hiding behind their practiced smiles. Affairs, addictions, ambitions that could ruin careers. Regrets that sit like stones in their stomachs. Lies sharp enough to cut through the silk ties around their throats.