Page 17 of The Professor's Indecent Obsession

The silence is thick. Only broken by the sound of her trying not to cry.

She’s making those awful, stifled gasps, like she’s trying to swallow all her feelings down. I hate it. I hate it more than I’ve hated anything in my goddamn life. Her quiet tears are worse than any scream.

I don’t say a word. Not yet. Because I know if I open my mouth now, it’ll come out wrong. Too rough. Too sharp. And I don’t want her to think this rage boiling inside me is her fault.

I should have got there sooner. I should never have let her walk into that meeting alone. But it had taken me longer than expected to get all the information I’d needed. As soon as I knew what a piece of shit Gideon was, I’d rushed straight to the restaurant.

But I hadn’t been quick enough. That fucker put his hands on my girl.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her face is blotchy and pale, streaked with the remnants of mascara. Her bottom lip trembles as she wipes her cheek with the back of her free hand.She doesn’t say anything, but the sound she makes, small and broken, is enough to cleave me straight down the middle.

Every protective instinct I have is howling. My foot is heavy on the gas. I want to get her home now, where I can wrap her in a blanket and press her to my chest and swear to her that nothing like this will ever touch her again. Not while I’m breathing.

We’re almost there.

I get her home as quickly as I can. Once we’re inside, she drifts to the couch like she’s being drawn by gravity and collapses into it, her dress crumpling around her, shoulder’s caving in like she’s too tired to hold herself up.

I cross to her slowly and drop to a crouch in front of her, careful not to crowd her. My hands rest lightly on her knees.

“Tell me everything,” I murmur.

She doesn’t respond for a second. Her eyes are distant, glazed. And then, all at once, her chest heaves, and she lets out a small, broken sound that breaks my heart.

“My dad left last spring,” she says, voice so small it barely exists. “Just packed a bag one night and never came back. My mom… she didn’t know what to do. She’s trying to work all the hours she can around raising my three younger siblings by herself. My little sister’s only six.”

Fuck.

“Mom doesn’t ask for anything,” she goes on, her lip trembling. “But I know the bills are piling up. The mortgage. Groceries. School fees. I try to send her money whenever I can to help her out.”

I take one of her hands gently, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s on autopilot now, tumbling down the slope of everything she’s been holding in.

“When Gideon reached out, I thought that would be the end to all our financial worries. But then he started asking for money,” she whispers. “Editing costs. Formatting. Proofreading. Coverdesign. Submission packages. He always made it sound urgent, like if I didn’t pay right then, I’d miss the opportunity. So I found the money.”

“How?” I ask, my throat tight.

She laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. Just a razor’s edge. “I sold most of my clothes. I’ve only got a few things left now. Stopped buying groceries for a while. I haven’t eaten three meals a day in months. I sold my headphones, my tablet, all the things I saved up for before college. I just… I kept thinking if I could publish the book, it would be worth it.”

She finally looks at me, and the pain in her eyes is devastating. “That book was supposed to help them. I was supposed to help them. And now it’s gone, and I’ve got nothing left.”

It’s like being punched in the chest.

She’s been slowly bleeding herself dry while trying to help the people she loves. She’s been suffering in silence, starving and sacrificing and drowning in guilt, while I’ve been clueless.

“I’ve failed them,” she whispers, and that’s what breaks me.

“No,” I say, sitting beside her, taking both of her hands in mine. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t, so I cup her face gently, tilting her chin until her eyes meet mine.

“Real agents don’t charge authors. Ever. That bastard was a scam artist, plain and simple.”

Her brows knit together. “But he seemed so...”

“Convincing. I know. That’s how they work. But in this industry? Authors don’t pay up front. You get an advance from the publisher. The agent takes a cut of that, a percentage. They make money when you do. Never before.”

She blinks at me, taking it in like she’s hearing it for the first time.

“You didn’t fail your family,” I tell her, my voice soft but firm. “You’ve been fighting like hell for them. You’re smart and braveand selfless, and he targeted you because of that. Because you shine.”

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