Page 60 of Marrying My Professor

"You're free to go," he says. "But Professor Draven—don't come back on campus until you're cleared by the administration. Not even to see your wife."

My wife.

The absurdity of it hits me all at once. Forty-eight hours ago, I was a tenured professor with two years left on my sentence, counting down the days until freedom. Now I'm a married man on administrative leave, bound to the Veritas forever, my career potentially destroyed, all because I couldn't let them kill her.

I'd do it again. Without hesitation. But that doesn't make it any less of a catastrophe.

I climb into the Mercedes, start the engine, and sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to process what just happened.

My phone buzzes. A text from Elara: Fine. Just finishing up. Be home soon.

Home.

The word carries weight it didn't have yesterday. Because it's not just my house anymore. It's our house. The place where my wife will be waiting when I get there, probably with her own set of crises to deal with.

I pull out of the parking lot, leaving Belgrave University in my rearview mirror for what might be the last time.

Paid administrative leave, I think bitterly. A nicer way of saying your life is over, pending review.

But at least Elara's alive.

At least she's safe.

At least, for now, that has to be enough.

18

ELARA

The dress cost more than my first car.

I know this because Alexander handed me his black card this morning with instructions to "get something appropriate for tonight" and when I tried to protest—when I started to say that I could wear something I already owned, that I didn't need him to buy me things—he just kissed my temple and told me that as his wife, I needed to look the part. That the Veritas expect a certain... presentation.

Presentation. Like I'm a product being marketed. Like I'm another accessory he needs to complete his outfit.

I wanted to throw the card back at him. Wanted to tell him I don't need his money or his protection or his carefully constructed image of what a Veritas wife should look like. But then I remembered that his protection is literally the only thing keeping me alive right now, and swallowed my pride along with my feminist outrage.

So here I am, standing in front of the full-length mirror in our—our, still getting used to that possessive plural—bedroom, wearing a strapless black gown that fits like it was sewn onto my body by someone who took my measurements while I was unconscious. The fabric is covered in tiny crystals that catch the light with every breath, creating the illusion that I'm wrapped in starlight or trapped in a very expensive fishing net—I can't decide which.

It's body-con in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination, hugging every curve from chest to mid-thigh before flaring slightly at the knees in what the saleswoman called "elegant movement" but what I'm pretty sure is just "you can walk but only if you take very small steps like a geisha."

My hair is swept up in an intricate updo that took the stylist an hour to perfect—soft curls pinned strategically to look effortless while probably requiring an entire can of hairspray to maintain. She kept saying things like "romantic" and "timeless" while I sat there thinking about how much I miss my old bob, how this updo makes me look like every other woman who's ever attended one of these things.

My makeup is dramatic: smoky eyes that the makeup artist assured me were "sultry but sophisticated," sharp liner that could cut glass, lips painted a deep wine color that makes my skin look porcelain-pale. I look like a 1940s film noir actress. Or a very expensive escort. Again, can't decide which.

I look like someone who belongs at a Veritas event.

I look like someone I don't recognize.

I look like someone who's complicit in the same system that killed her brother.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. You're doing this to get information. To get justice. To make sure what happened to Brandon doesn't happen to anyone else.

But the woman in the mirror doesn't look like someone on a justice mission. She looks like someone who married into money and power and is perfectly content to play the game.

"Elara?" Alexander's voice carries from downstairs. "Are you ready? The car will be here in ten minutes."

I take a breath—careful not to disturb the dress or the hair or the carefully constructed facade—and slip into the black stilettos that add four inches to my height and make my legs look impossibly long. The shoes alone cost six hundred dollars. Six hundred dollars for something that's going to make my feet bleed by the end of the night.