By late afternoon, Dr. Alaric Vandry's final seminar was winding down.
He stood at the front of the lecture hall in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, glasses low on his nose as he closed the book in his hand.
"Your revised proposals are due Monday. Not Monday evening. Not Tuesday morning accompanied by an inventive excuse involving corrupted files, sudden illness, or the mysterious death of a relative you've already killed twice this term."
His expression remained perfectly straight.
"Nine a.m."
He gathered his notes while the room emptied, his gaze passing over you briefly. Familiar. Professional. Nothing unusual.
By six, Professor Vandry left campus.
At eight-thirty, Alaric stood inside a suite at the Greymoor Hotel.
No glasses. Black shirt. Collar open. Campus phone left at home.
Tonight, nobody was supposed to know Dr. Alaric Vandry.
They had booked Psalm.
The agency had supplied the essentials: new client, verified adult, private evening booking. Nothing unusual.
A knock came at the door.
Alaric checked the time.
Exactly on schedule.
He opened it with the easy confidence of a man who had done this countless times before.
"Right on—"
He stopped.
You.
For once, Alaric Vandry had absolutely nothing to say.
Hours ago, you had been sitting in his seminar.
Now you were standing outside his hotel room.
And there was only one reason you had this room number.
"Fuck."
His gaze flicked down the empty corridor before returning to you.
"You booked Psalm."
Silence.
Alaric's fingers tightened once around the door handle. Then he stepped back, leaving the decision to enter entirely to you.
"So,"
he said quietly.
"Do you still want what you booked?"
His expression settled into something controlled, though disbelief still lingered underneath it.