She transferred to Blackwood University to escape him — Matthew. Her first everything. Her heartbreak. Her humiliation.

He pressurized her to send videos and pictures of herself. She was against it at first but he persuaded her.

A week later, her name was dragged through dorm halls, discussed in group chats, whispered about between classes—she couldn’t even walk across campus without hearing his name in someone else’s mouth — paired with hers, like some sickening punchline.

So she ran. Started over. Swore off boys with charm, ego and perfectly mounded abs. Swore she’d never fall for anyone like that again.

And then came Professor Harold Bianchi.

Older. Smarter. Controlled. He didn’t quite chase her—he studied her. And slowly, she let him.

It started small. Lingering glances after class. Polite, precise praise that lingered a little too long. Then late-night texts. Office hours that turned into late-night discussions. And eventually, his apartment. His bed. His hands on her skin like he was studying her, not touching her.

It was wrong. It was addictive. It felt perfect. It felt safe—until it didn’t.

The Previous Night:- His Apartment

The room was quiet, lit only by the bedsidw lamp.She was still wrapped in his sheets, her body still shivering from everything they’d done. Harold was in the shower, the sound of water running a soft background noise.

She was about dozing off when his phone lit up on the nightstand beside her. One buzz. Then another. And another

She glanced at the screen.

And froze. A message from Instagram , from  matthew_is_king

Her stomach twisted. She sat up, feeling sick. Vivid images of what had happened between then flashed before her eyes. The preview of the message flashed before she could stop herself from reading it.

Are you still seeing her? This is sick. Do you even love her?

Her heart dropped.

The room suddenly felt  cold. Her hands trembled as she grabbed  her clothes —fumbling, frantic. She didn’t wait for Harold to come out of the bathroom.

Different thoughts ranthrough her mind; Was this all a lie? she thought as she slammed the door behind her

Next Day — His Office

She didn’t knock. She walked in.

He was behind his desk, looking up like everything was fine. Like he hadn’t just detonated her entire world with a secret he never thought she'd find.

“Why are you talking to my ex?” she asked coldly, her voice sharp, tearing down the silence.

Harold didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask which ex. He didn’t pretend to be confused.

He just let out a slow, deliberate breath.

Then quietly, like it wasn’t the most soul-wrecking thing he could’ve said:

“He’s my son, sweetheart.”