Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 205

Sophie’s POV

The spa is everything Cleo promised—soft lighting, cucumber water, plush robes, and the kind of hushed tranquility that makes you whisper even when you don't need to.

She organized this entire bachelorette party specifically to be civilized, no wild club scenes or drunken chaos. Just me, Cleo, Emma, and a few university friends who cautiously re-entered my life after the scandal died down.

The atmosphere is relaxed, supportive, exactly what I need three days before the wedding.

We start with massages—an hour of someone working knots out of my shoulders I didn't even know were there. Then facials that leave my skin feeling impossibly soft.

By the time we settle into the manicure chairs with champagne, I feel myself unwinding for the first time in weeks.

Conversation flows easily around me. Wedding excitement, honeymoon plans to a private island resort Adrian insisted on booking, funny stories about past relationships and dating disasters.

One of my university friends tells an elaborate story about a Tinder date that went spectacularly wrong, and we're all laughing so hard tears streak down our faces.

This is what I needed. Just normalcy, friendship, the reminder that I'm more than the scandal or the complicated relationship or the anxiety that's been eating at me.

Then Emma mentions casually, "Oh, I saw Adrian last week at that art gallery opening downtown. You know, the one in the converted warehouse? Beautiful space."

My hand stills, nail polish brush hovering over my thumb. "Art gallery?"

"Yeah, Wednesday night I think? Very exclusive event. I was there with a client." Emma is focused on her own nails, not noticing my sudden tension. "Adrian was with an elegant older woman—they seemed quite close, deep in conversation about one of the pieces."

My stomach drops. Wednesday night. Last week. Adrian said he had a department meeting that ran late, came home after ten. I remember because I'd been annoyed he missed Amelia's bedtime routine, her first time laughing at peek-a-boo.

"What did the woman look like?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.

Emma considers, still not looking at me.

"Striking, very polished, expensive clothes. Commanding presence—like she owned the room. They were standing very close, and she kept touching his arm while they talked. I assumed it was a colleague or maybe a university donor."

I recognize the description immediately. Lolita.

The champagne in my stomach turns acidic. Why would Adrian lie about seeing Lolita? What are they hiding?

The blackmail situation was supposedly resolved—he told me it was handled, that we didn't need to worry about Lisette's letters anymore. So why the secrecy about a gallery opening?

"Sophie?" Cleo's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You look pale."

"Fine," I manage, but my hands are shaking as I set down the nail polish. "I just… I need to make a call."

I grab my phone from my bag and step into the spa's quiet hallway, ignoring the concerned looks from my friends. My fingers fumble as I pull up Adrian's contact and call.

Straight to voicemail.

I try again. Same result.

I text instead: Where are you?

The message shows delivered but no response.

I stand in the hallway, staring at my phone, anxiety building with each passing second. Why isn't he answering? What is he doing right now that's more important than responding to his fiancée three days before their wedding?

Cleo appears beside me, having clearly followed. "What's wrong?"

"Adrian lied to me," I say, my voice tight. "Last Wednesday he said he had a department meeting, but Emma just saw him at an art gallery with Lolita."

Cleo's expression darkens with immediate concern, but she tries to be rational. "Okay, let's think about this. Maybe it was innocent? Maybe he didn't want you worrying about Lolita right before the wedding?"

"Then why lie? Why not just say 'I'm going to a gallery opening with Lolita' instead of inventing a fake meeting?" My voice is rising and I force it back down. "What else has he lied about?"

"Sophie…"

"The blackmail was supposedly handled. Everything was supposed to be resolved. So why is he still secretly meeting with her? What aren't they telling me?"

Cleo takes my shoulders gently. "You need to ask him directly. But not here, not now when you're spiraling. Come back to the party, try to enjoy the afternoon, and when you see Adrian tonight you can have a calm conversation about it."

She's right. I know she's right. But the anxiety is a physical thing now, crawling under my skin, making it hard to breathe.

I let her guide me back to our group, plaster on a smile, and try to focus on the conversation that's shifted to honeymoon destinations and travel horror stories. But I can't stop checking my phone. Refreshing to see if Adrian has responded. Nothing.

We move to dinner at an upscale restaurant Cleo reserved. The food is probably excellent—everyone else is raving about their dishes—but it tastes like cardboard in my mouth.

I laugh at the right moments, contribute to conversations when prompted, but my forced smiles are barely holding together.

Halfway through the main course, I excuse myself to the bathroom and try Adrian again.

This time someone answers. But it's not Adrian.

"Sophie?" Bellamy's voice comes through, surprised. "Everything okay?"

"Where's Adrian? Why do you have his phone?"

"He left it in the car. We're at the bachelor party venue downtown. Do you need me to get him?"

The relief is temporary, quickly replaced by fresh anxiety. Of course he left his phone. Of course he's unreachable. Of course I'm sitting here spinning out about secrets while he's obliviously enjoying his bachelor party.

"No," I say, my voice hollow. "It's fine. Just tell him I called."

"Sophie, are you sure you're…"

I hang up before Bellamy can finish. Stand in the restaurant bathroom staring at my reflection—perfectly done makeup, hair styled in loose waves, wearing a white dress Cleo insisted was "bride vibes." I look like a woman celebrating her upcoming wedding.

I feel like a woman drowning.

When I return to the table, everyone is in high spirits, ordering dessert and more champagne. I rejoin the celebration, make appropriate noises, thank Cleo for organizing everything. But underneath the performance, one thought circles endlessly:

Adrian lied about seeing Lolita. The blackmail is supposedly resolved. So what are they hiding?

And more pressingly—what else has he lied about? What other secrets is he keeping while asking me to promise him forever in three days?

The party continues. My friends are laughing, telling stories, toasting my future happiness. And I sit among them, smiling and nodding and wondering if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life.

Three days until the wedding. Three days until I promise complete honesty, total transparency, a partnership built on trust.

Three days, and I don't even know if my fiancé is telling me the truth about where he spends his evenings.

When we finally leave the restaurant, Cleo pulls me aside. "Talk to him tonight. Get answers. Don't go into this wedding with doubts."

I nod, but we both know the damage is done. The seed of suspicion is planted, and three days isn't enough time for it to stop growing.

What else is Adrian hiding?