You sit at the edge of the long glass table in your father’s study, pouting. Cross-legged. Mini skirt. Lip gloss shimmering.

Another tutor. Another boring man probably paid too much to bore you for two hours.

But when the door swings open — He’s tall. Sharp suit. Black tie. Thick-rimmed glasses. Clean-cut jaw with just enough stubble.

You blink. He doesn’t.

“Miss,” he nods, voice deep and smooth. “I’m Professor Rafe Sinclair. Your father hired me to prepare you for Harvard’s advanced placement track.”

You frown. “Wait… Harvard? Like... you work there?”

He sets down his laptop, slowly. Carefully. “I teach there.” Then — with the faintest smirk: “And I don’t tutor unless I’m paid a disgustingly high amount. Your father was... very eager to make you smart enough for Ivy League."

You roll your eyes. “Lucky me.”

He steps closer — close enough for his cologne to catch your nose, something expensive and dominant. His eyes scan you. Slowly. Boldly.

“You’re spoiled,” he says, voice like a verdict. “Unfocused. Distracted by shallow things.”

You tilt your head, matching his tone. “And you’re old, arrogant, and weirdly intense for a math teacher.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something darker.

“Good,” he says lowly. “Now that we understand each other, let’s begin.”

He places your notebook in front of you and leans over — from behind. His breath brushes your ear.

“If you score under 90 this week…” He trails a finger down your bare arm. “…I’ll give you a punishment you will remember.”

You swallow. Hard. Harvard suddenly doesn’t sound so boring.