Bound to My Former Professor

Brendon stilled, his body a taut line of surprise and a nascent, dangerous irritation. He leaned back slightly, his dark eyes narrowing behind the lenses of his glasses. The abrupt, violent shift from her hesitant, sacrificial compliance to frantic, almost hysterical resistance clearly puzzled him. He easily caught her flailing wrists, his grip like steel bands, effortlessly neutralizing her struggles. "What is it now?" he demanded, his voice low and laced with a sharp, impatient edge that sent a shiver of fear down her spine.

"You're married!" Fiona cried out again, the words a desperate, ragged accusation. Her eyes were locked on the gold band on his finger, staring at it with a mixture of horror and loathing, as if it were a venomous snake poised to strike. It was the symbol of his profound betrayal, and now, the potential emblem of her own inescapable depravity.

Brendon followed her gaze down to his own hand. A flicker of comprehension—and something that looked like profound annoyance—crossed his patrician features. He glanced at the ring, then back at her, his expression unreadable. "I'm not married," he said, his tone flat, clipped, and utterly dismissive. "I wear it for fun."

It was, in its own infuriatingly technical way, the truth. The ring was a constant nuisance, a gold talisman his deeply superstitious mother had cajoled him into wearing after a particularly expensive session with her feng shui master. It was meant to ward off "unsuitable energy" and attract a proper, blue-blooded wife from a family of equal or greater standing. He found the entire notion absurd, but it was easier to wear the damn ring than to endure his mother’s lectures. But to Fiona’s ears, raw with trauma and primed for betrayal, his arrogant, clipped explanation sounded like the most cliché, insulting, and transparent lie a cheating, powerful man could possibly utter. It was a dismissal not only of her valid question but of her intelligence, her moral outrage, and her very personhood. He didn't even deem her worthy of a plausible lie.

Before she could voice the hot, furious disbelief that was choking her, before she could scream at him for the monster he was, the sharp, electronic buzz of the penthouse intercom sliced through the tense, charged silence.

With a sigh of profound, palpable irritation, Brendon released one of her wrists and jabbed the button on the sleek, wall-mounted panel. "Yes?" His voice was cold steel.

The concierge’s voice, impeccably crisp and deferential, echoed into the silent room, each word a hammer blow to Fiona's fragile state. "Mr. Powell, my sincere apologies for the interruption. Your mother, Mrs. Powell, and your fiancée, Ms. Estela Alford, are in the lobby. They say they are here to surprise you for a late dinner and have taken the liberty of holding a table for you at Daniel."

Fiancée.

The word struck Fiona like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving a ringing in her ears. It wasn't a wife hidden away in some country estate. It was a fiancée. A beautiful, high-society heiress, a public figure, a woman whose picture she had probably seen in the glossy pages of Vogue or Town & Country. A woman who was waiting for him downstairs, in the grand lobby, while he was up here, trying to claim his new "pet." The confirmation of his deceit was so absolute, so devastatingly complete, it left her feeling hollowed out, scoured clean of any remaining naivete. He was a hypocrite of the highest, most despicable order, an elite predator who played god with the lives of broken girls while maintaining a pristine, untouchable public facade.

Fiona watched as Brendon’s jaw clenched so tightly she could see the powerful muscle jump under his skin. She knew, with chilling certainty, that the fury radiating from him wasn't directed at his family's surprise visit. It was the cold, contained rage of being caught, of his meticulously compartmentalized worlds colliding so inconveniently.

"Tell them I will be down in ten minutes," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low temperature that promised retribution. He ended the call and turned his full, furious attention back to Fiona. His eyes glittered with a cold promise that made her blood freeze. He hadn't forgotten their transaction for a single second.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument or escape. "Do not move from this room. We will finish this when I return."