Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 93

Sophie’s POV

The same evening I corner Adrian in his study.

He's seated behind his desk, surrounded by papers and the soft glow of his laptop screen, looking every inch the professor he used to be.

When I close the door behind me with a decisive click, he looks up with an expression that suggests he's been expecting this conversation.

"I want answers."

Adrian leans back in his chair, studying me with those storm-gray eyes that always see too much. "He's an old friend. I told you that."

"You told me nothing. 'Old friend' could mean college roommate or war buddy or someone you met at a cocktail party once." I cross my arms. "Explain why you trust this man enough to put my safety in his hands. Explain what connects you. Explain—"

Before I can finish, Adrian rises from his chair. He moves around the desk with that predatory grace I know so well, and suddenly he's right in front of me, his hands finding my waist, pulling me against him until there's no space left between us.

"Stress is bad for the baby." His voice drops to that low register that always undoes me, his lips brushing mine as he speaks. "For the next nine months, Sophie, I need you to trust me. Focus on yourself. On your studies—if you haven't changed your mind about returning to campus."

His closeness weakens my resolve. The questions that felt so urgent moments ago start to blur at the edges, crowded out by the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of him, the way his thumb traces circles on my hip through the thin fabric of my shirt.

"You can't just kiss me every time I ask questions you don't want to answer," I manage, but my voice lacks conviction.

"Can't I?" His lips curve against mine. "It seems to be working."

His hands slide up my spine, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. The study disappears around us, and there's only this: his mouth, his touch, the ache of wanting him despite everything.

A cough shatters the moment.

We spring apart like teenagers caught by a parent. Bellamy stands in the doorway, expression flat, watching us with the bored detachment of someone who's witnessed far worse and found it equally unimpressive.

"I'm leaving." His voice carries no inflection whatsoever. "But before I go—Sophie, the paternity test is scheduled for ten tomorrow morning. I'll be driving you since Adrian has meetings he apparently can't reschedule."

He doesn't wait for a response. Just turns and walks out, his footsteps fading down the hallway. I pull back from Adrian, face burning with embarrassment and fury in equal measure.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!"

***

The next day, I go for the paternity test. Bellamy is my new shadow now, a constant reminder that I'm being managed, monitored, controlled from a distance even when Adrian isn't physically present.

The car ride is hostile silence. Neither of us wants to be here, both of us are obligated—me by circumstance, Bellamy by whatever debt or loyalty binds him to Adrian.

He drives with focused efficiency, eyes on the road, jaw set, radiating a clear desire to get this over with as quickly as possible.

I try to pry. The questions from last night still burn in my chest, unanswered and festering.

"What's the history between you and Adrian?" I ask, watching his profile for any reaction.

Bellamy's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Barely perceptible, but I catch it.

"Ask Adrian."

"I did. He deflected."

"Then take the hint."

"I don't take hints well." I shift in my seat to face him more directly. "What ties you together? Why does he trust you so completely? Why did you look at me yesterday like—"

"Like what?" His voice cuts sharp, the first real emotion I've heard from him.

"Like I reminded you of someone."

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Bellamy's jaw works, muscles tensing and releasing, but he doesn't answer. Just stares ahead at the road like I haven't spoken at all.

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"

"There's nothing to tell that concerns you."

I let out a frustrated breath, turning to stare out the window. The city bleeds past in gray streaks—buildings, bare trees, people living normal lives without bodyguards and scandals and paternity tests.

When I speak again, my voice is harder.

"I'm carrying a baby whose father might be one of two men. I'm trapped in an apartment with a bodyguard I didn't ask for. My entire life has become a public spectacle." I turn back to him. "Everything concerns me right now."

"Dramatic." He takes a turn, smooth and precise, completely unbothered. "Does Adrian know you're this exhausting, or is this a special performance for me?"

"Does Adrian know you're this insufferable, or does he just not care?"

Something that might be amusement flickers across his features before disappearing. "He knows exactly what I am. That's why he hired me."

"To babysit his pregnant girlfriend like she's a child who can't be trusted?"

"To protect an asset he can't afford to lose."

The word lands like a slap. I feel my spine stiffen, my hands curling into fists in my lap.

"Asset." I let out a bitter laugh. "Is that what I am?"

"You're carrying his child. In his world, that makes you valuable." He changes lanes with mechanical precision, checking mirrors, signaling, everything correct and controlled. "Valuable things need protection."

This ignites something in my chest. "I'm the mother of his child—potentially. I live in his home. I've given up my entire life for this relationship. How am I not owed basic honesty?"

"You chose this." His voice remains flat, unmoved, like he's discussing the weather rather than dismantling my entire existence. "Every step of the way, you made choices that led you here. Don't act like you're a victim of circumstances when you're a victim of your own decisions."

I open my mouth to argue, but he continues before I can.

"Young girl falls for an older, powerful man. Gets swept up in the intensity, mistakes control for passion." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes never leaving the road. "It's not exactly a new story."

Heat floods my face—anger and shame tangled together until I can't tell them apart. "You don't know anything about my choices. You don't know what Adrian and I have."

"I know Adrian." His tone suggests that's more than enough. "He protects what belongs to him."

"I don't belong to anyone."

Bellamy actually laughs at that—a short, humorless sound that scrapes against my nerves. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that while you sit in his apartment, wear clothes he bought, and let him decide who gets to be in your life."

My hands are shaking now. I press them flat against my thighs to hide it. "At least he's trying to build something. At least he cares. What are you building? What do you have that gives you the right to look down on everyone else's choices?"

"I'm not looking down, I'm observing."

"You're judging. You've been judging since the moment you saw me."

He doesn't deny it. Just keeps driving, keeps watching the road, keeps existing in that infuriating bubble of detachment that makes me want to scream.

"You don't get to have opinions about my life," I snap. "What do you even know about parenting? Standing there judging Adrian's choices when you've probably never been responsible for anyone but yourself."

Bellamy's voice is calm when he responds, even too calm. "I have a two-year-old son."

I blink. The words don't compute at first—this cold, dismissive man as a father? Changing diapers, reading bedtime stories, softening his voice for a child?

I recover with sarcasm before I can think better of it. "Your poor wife. Must be hard being stuck with you."

Something in Bellamy's face shifts.

It happens fast—a flicker, a crack, then nothing. His expression goes cold in a way that's different from his usual detachment.

This isn't boredom or dismissal. This is ice forming over deep water. This is a wound I've just torn open without knowing it existed.

"The mother of my child is dead."

The words fall into the car like stones into still water. My response—whatever cruel thing I was about to say—dies in my throat.

"Bellamy, I…" I scramble for an apology, for something to unsay what I've said. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I shouldn't have—"

He doesn't let me finish.

The car pulls into the hospital parking lot, and he's out of the driver's seat before I can complete a sentence. He rounds the vehicle, opens my door, and gestures toward the entrance with a face carved from granite.

"Let's get this over with."

I follow him toward the hospital, shame burning in my chest.