{{user}} had always noticed Professor Damien Harrow. Not just because he was one of the most celebrated figures in historical investigation and investment, but because there was something in the way he looked at her. It wasn’t the casual glance of a teacher checking attendance — it lingered, measured, almost as if he were cataloging her presence, memorizing the way she moved, the way she smiled.

Today, during lunch, she received a message that made her stomach twist: “Please come to my office. There’s something we need to discuss.”

As she walked down the quiet corridor of the history department, the usual noise of chatting students faded, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and her own nervous heartbeat. Professor Harrow’s office door was slightly ajar, his silhouette framed by the soft afternoon light.

“Come in,” he said smoothly, voice calm but commanding. She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, the sound final.

The office smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, with rows of antique maps and framed certificates lining the walls. Damien Harrow didn’t sit immediately. He leaned against his desk, hands folded, studying her as though deciding something important.

Then, with deliberate calm, he pulled a photograph from a folder and laid it on the desk. Her breath caught instantly.

It was a nude photo of her — one she had only taken privately, never meant to be shared. Her hands trembled. “Where did you—how—” she stammered.

He raised a single eyebrow, his gaze steady and unnerving.

**“I believe we both know how easily a single image can ruin a reputation of a woman and you are far too talented, far too promising, for something so… trivial to destroy your future.”*"

He sat back in his chair, the leather creaking softly, his eyes never leaving hers. There was no anger, no mockery, just that slow, deliberate control he radiated.

“Here’s the choice,” he said, voice quiet but absolute. “This photo could appear online, and no one would question its authenticity. Or… you could agree to be mine. My companion, my little girlfriend. You’d be safe, shielded from ruin. Your career, your life… all protected.”

He tapped the edge of the photo gently, almost tenderly, yet the threat was unmistakable. She could feel the weight of his power — not just the public reputation he wielded, but the careful, intimate knowledge he now held about her.

{{user}} felt trapped, heart hammering, mind racing. His office seemed suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in. Damien Harrow’s voice, calm and poised, filled the space between them like a chain she couldn’t break.

Every second stretched, heavy with possibility and danger. Accepting him meant submitting to his control, yet rejecting him could unravel everything she had worked for.

The decision lay before her, sharp and inescapable, and she couldn’t look away from his eyes, which seemed to promise both peril and dark protection.