My Professor Obsession
One night, I was a girl seeking vengeance in a velvet mask. He was the stranger who took me against a cold stone wall, his touch a silent, lethal promise.
Now, he is Caspian Blackwood-the most feared architecture professor at Aethelgard. When my "perfect" boyfriend, Dominic Calloway, cheats on me and sabotages my degree, Caspian offers a lifeline with a razor-thin edge: Be his silent, nude model for thirty days.
The rules are absolute. I must wear a silk mask and a weighted collar. I must never speak. I must hold the poses he demands until my muscles scream for mercy. In the lecture hall, he ignores me with arctic indifference. In the studio, his gaze is a physical weight, stripping me faster than his hands ever could. But as the charcoal scratches against the paper, I realize the "deal" isn't just for art. It's for the soul I accidentally gave him in the dark. Will the deal destroy his career, or consume me first?
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Chapter 6
The bruises on my soul were starting to match the ones on my skin.
The drive to the Glass Cage the next night felt like a descent into a beautiful, high-tech tomb. The image of those sketches-me at nineteen, me at twenty, me in a mask I hadn't even bought yet-burned behind my eyelids like a brand. Caspian hadn't just chanced upon my ruin; he had curated it. He had watched my family crumble and my brother spiral, waiting for the exact moment I became desperate enough to sell myself to the only man who could "save" me.
The hydraulic doors hissed open, and the cold, salt-tinged air of the studio hit me. Caspian was already there, standing by a massive slab of black granite that served as a secondary posing table. He didn't look up from the charcoal he was sharpening with a surgical blade.
"Five minutes early," he noted, his voice a low, clinical vibration. "Knowledge seems to have made you punctual, Seraphina. Or perhaps just more afraid."
"Why did you do it?" I whispered, my voice trembling as I stepped into the spotlight. I knew I was risking another ten days on the contract, but the silence felt like a physical weight in my lungs. "Why me? There are a thousand girls at Aethelgard who would have given you their souls for free."
Caspian finally looked up. His eyes were arctic, stripped of even the dark heat from the night before. "You're breaking the silence again. That's another ten days. Keep talking, and you'll be my guest until you're thirty."
He walked toward me, his boots clicking with a lethal rhythm on the stone floor. He didn't touch my face tonight. He grabbed my arm, his grip like a vice, and led me to the granite slab.
"Tonight, we test your endurance. Strip. Every stitch."
I obeyed, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of the black silk dress he'd demanded I wear. Standing naked under the harsh LED spotlights, I felt like a specimen under a microscope. He didn't wait for me to get comfortable. He picked up the iron collar, the metal chilled from the studio air, and snapped it around my neck.
"On the table," he commanded. "On your back. Arch until only your heels and your shoulder blades touch the stone. Arms stretched over your head, wrists crossed."
It was a bridge pose-brutal, exhausting, and designed to make every muscle in my core and thighs scream within minutes. As soon as I took the position, he used a thin silk cord to anchor my crossed wrists to a ring bolt in the floor behind me. My chest was thrust upward, my pussy exposed and aching, my stomach flat and trembling from the strain.
"Don't move," he hissed, leaning over me. "I want to see the way your muscles cord when you're fighting for breath. I want to see the exact moment the pride leaves your eyes."
He went back to his board. For an hour, the only sound was the scratching of charcoal and the rhythmic crashing of the Atlantic outside. My legs began to shake. A bead of sweat rolled down my ribs, stinging a small scratch on my hip. Every time my hips dipped even a fraction of an inch, Caspian's voice would cut through the dark.
"Higher, Sera. If you drop, I add a week."
He was harsher tonight, his clinical coldness a sharp contrast to the man who had banged me against the garden wall. It was as if knowing his secret had stripped away the last of his humanity. He wasn't a lover or even a savior; he was a collector, and I was his prized, broken thing.
"You think you're a victim," he said suddenly, his voice loud in the silence. He didn't stop drawing. "But you're a collaborator. You liked the way I took you in the dark. You liked that I was the only one who saw through the 'perfect' St. Claire facade. You didn't want a boyfriend, Sera. You wanted a master."
I bit my lip to keep from sobbing. My muscles were on fire. I could feel the wetness between my legs-a treacherous, humiliating response to his verbal flaying. My pussy throbbed with every heavy beat of my heart, the iron collar pressing into my windpipe as I struggled to hold the arch.
"Session over," he finally said, the charcoal snapping with a sharp crack.
I collapsed onto the granite slab, my limbs like jelly. I couldn't even move to cover myself. Caspian didn't offer a hand. He simply turned off the spotlight, leaving me in the dim gray light of the moon.
"Dress and go. I have a faculty meeting at eight."
I dragged myself to my feet, my body feeling like it had been through a war. As I reached for my dress near his desk, I saw my phone screen light up with a notification. It wasn't a text from Dominic or a news alert. It was an encrypted message from an unknown number-the same one Vane used when he was in trouble.
I swiped it open. It was a photo of Vane sitting in a dark car, his face bruised, a man's hand visible on his shoulder holding a heavy gold ring with the Blackwood crest.
Below the photo was a single line of text: "The debt isn't just about money anymore, Little Bird. If you run, he doesn't just go to jail. He disappears."
I looked up, my eyes finding Caspian in the shadows. He was watching me, his silhouette tall and unyielding against the glass. He didn't say a word, but the message was clear. I wasn't just a model, and this wasn't just a thirty-day deal.
I was in a cage with no key, and the man holding the bars was the only one who could keep my brother alive.
"Problem, Miss St. Claire?" he asked, his voice smooth and dangerous.
"No," I whispered, clutching the phone until my knuckles turned white. "No problem, Professor."
"Good," he said, stepping into the light to adjust his cufflinks. "See you in class. Try to look like you haven't been banged into submission. It's bad for my reputation."
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9.3
Alyssa Gregory slept with Benton Steele, a recently disgraced and bankrupt heir, just to humiliate him.
She threw a massive check at his bare chest, treating the former prince of Wall Street like a cheap escort.
But Benton didn't take the charity.
Instead, he manipulated her anger, tricking her into signing an ironclad contract that surrendered absolute control of her entire trust fund to him.
When her abusive mother found out she had funded a penniless outcast, she slapped Alyssa across the face.
Her mother froze all her bank accounts, locked her inside her bedroom, and arranged to sell her off to a degenerate politician.
Desperate to escape, Alyssa climbed down her balcony, falling fifteen feet and shattering her ankle on the stones below.
Stripped of her money and freedom, she dragged her broken body to a VIP club just to publicly declare that Benton belonged to her.
She thought she was the boss, playing a rebellious game with a broken man.
But when Benton effortlessly carried her away from the club and locked her inside his rundown apartment, the terrifying calculation in his dark eyes shattered her illusion.
How could a man stripped of his entire empire still radiate such suffocating, violent power?
"You bought me," Benton whispered, his massive frame trapping her against the sofa. "That means I have to take care of you."
Physically trapped and completely broke, Alyssa stared into his consuming eyes, her mind racing to find a way to turn the tables.
8.3
My husband watched as my skin melted, scalded by boiling soup, yet his hands were busy comforting my attacker. Five years of marriage, built on a foundation of my family's power, crumbled with a single, brutal act of betrayal. He bought me off with a penthouse and a trust fund, but I tore out my IV and threw his charity back in his face.
It was our fifth anniversary, but my husband, Ethan, remained distant, avoiding any talk of Chicago or the mafia protection my family once offered him. He then pushed a black velvet box across the table.
Inside was a Separation and Property Division Agreement, not a diamond. He told me to sign for Ilene's security, offering millions. When I refused, Ilene hurled boiling soup. Ethan shielded her, not me, as the scalding liquid melted my dress.
With second-degree burns, he blamed me, ordering me from our home for Ilene’s comfort. My family saved him, yet he sacrificed my body and marriage for another woman.
The love I felt turned to ash. What kind of debt demanded my flesh and marriage?
I ripped the IV from my arm, hurling his "charity" keys back. My diamond ring placed on the agreement, I walked away. From today on, Ethan, you and I are dead to each other.
8.7
I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella.
Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark.
But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved.
Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies.
When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel.
While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest.
The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella.
He ordered my father to punish me.
I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth.
That night, the love in my heart finally died.
On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape-the only proof that I was Seven.
Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney.
By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.
9.0
My ex-husband returned after a three-year bet, ready to reclaim me and the son he thought was his. He had no idea that I'd secretly aborted his child, divorced him, and remarried the day he left. His world was about to come crashing down.
His delusion turned deadly when he and his manipulative best friend, Haylee, kidnapped my son, Leo.
I found them at his family's mansion, with Leo suffocating from a severe allergic reaction to a dog they were forcing him to play with. Elliot physically restrained me, scolding me for overreacting while Haylee giggled as my son turned blue.
At the hospital, as Leo fought for his life, Elliot grabbed my arm, demanding to know who the man standing beside me was. He was convinced this was all a game to make him jealous.
That's when my real husband, billionaire Gregory Morton, stepped forward.
"Since when is this child yours, Elliot?"
7.5
I was Nyx, a top-tier covert operative. But when I opened my eyes, I was trapped in the unfamiliar, overweight body of a bullied girl named Eliza.
Before I could even process the body swap, the bedroom door splintered open. I was in bed with Julian Malone, a wealthy military heir, both of us heavily drugged. Cameras flashed wildly. It was a vicious setup to ruin his career, and I was the bait.
To save his family's reputation, Julian was forced to marry me. But the moment the wedding was over, he abandoned me. His elite family treated me like a disease. His mother froze my only bank account, trying to starve me into submission.
I even intercepted a private conversation between his parents.
"Once she's in a private facility, she loses all legal standing. We can sign anything we want on her behalf."
They planned to lock me up in a mental asylum and erase my existence entirely to get rid of the "trailer park trash."
To them, I was just a weak, pathetic pawn they could crush without a second thought. They thought they had backed a helpless girl into a corner.
They had no idea they had just declared war on a lethal weapon.
I didn't cry or beg. Instead, I bypassed their state-of-the-art security, cracked their safe, and stole the financial secrets that could destroy their entire empire.
"I want five hundred thousand dollars, or these files go to the IRS."
This time, I was playing by my own rules.
9.5
My husband told me I was a contractual obligation, an irritant he was forced to endure after a car crash stole his memory of our love five years ago. He replaced me with a social media influencer, a woman whose lies were as polished as her feed.
But when her baby was found with a small cut on her lip, she tearfully accused me of being a jealous monster who attacked an innocent child.
My husband, the man I had stood by through everything, didn't hesitate. In a blind rage, he ordered a guard to take a needle and thread and sew my lips shut.
"She needs to see nothing. Hear nothing. Say nothing," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy.
He then had me hung upside down in the lobby of my own wellness retreat, a public spectacle for the world to condemn.
As I dangled there, bleeding and broken, I finally understood. My blind love and foolish hope had been my downfall. I had loved the wrong man, and he had utterly destroyed me.
But they made one fatal mistake. They didn't know about the hidden camera I' d planted in the baby's room. And they had no idea that my family could crush his entire empire with a single phone call.