Chapter 4: Warning

Freya’s POV

My hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds by the time I finally lifted it.

“Present,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

Professor Clarence Finerman didn’t glance my way, pause to make a note, or acknowledge my existence. He just moved on to the next name with that same smooth, unreadable tone.

I let out a slow breath. A little bit of the tension in my chest eased. Maybe he didn’t recognize me after all. Maybe the darkness last night had worked in my favor. Maybe—

“Today’s topic is justice.”

The vindictive edge in his voice when he said “justice” brought my wishful thinking to a crashing halt.

“Law exists to serve order. But the foundation of that order is fairness. Equity. Which is why,” he continued, stepping slowly around the desk, “there is no room for abuse of power within it. Not in society. And certainly not on this campus.”

The room went quiet. You could hear the sound of pens stopping mid-scribble. Even Grace, who had been taking relentless notes—out of awe, nerves, or both—went still.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His calm, level tone carried more weight than shouting ever could.

My throat tightened.

Was that meant for everyone—or was it aimed at me?

I stared down at my notebook. The blank page didn’t just reflect my poor focus—it mirrored my uncertainty. 

Had he seen through Stella? Was this a veiled reprimand for what I’d done? Maybe both. Or maybe neither. It was hard to tell with that neutral face on. 

But I knew people like him, and they didn’t miss things.

Which meant his silence wasn’t mercy.

It was a strategy.

I kept my eyes down for the rest of the lecture. I took notes when I could force my hand to move. But mostly, I watched the clock, second by second, willing the class to come to an end.

When he finally closed the textbook and dismissed us, the room snapped back to life and conversations resumed—but all I could see was the exit. I never thought an exit would be so beautiful to look at until I found myself in that moment. So when Grace waved at me from her seat, mouthing something about lunch, I couldn’t be happier.

I nodded quickly and slipped my notebook under my arm.

I was two steps from freedom.

Then his voice stopped me cold.

“Freya.”

Such a pleasant baritone—why did it chill my name like that?

I froze, my hand resting on the door’s metal bar, praying for half a second that I’d imagined it.

But when I turned, he was looking straight at me.

Gray eyes steady.

Expression unreadable.

“I’d like to speak with you in my office,” he said.

My mouth went dry. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

A few students nearby turned to look. Some of them were clearly jealous, thinking I’d been chosen.

If only they knew.

I nodded, trying to look normal.

I kept a few steps behind him, nerves rattling in my chest like loose change. Professor Clarence neither spoke nor looked back to see if I was following. Not that I dared run.

I wish I could say I didn’t care. That I wasn’t bothered. But the truth was, my palms were already sweaty, and I kept wiping them against my jeans, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

When we reached the faculty wing, everything felt quieter. The chaos that came with students faded, replaced by polished floors and cool air that smelled like old books and lemon disinfectant. He stopped in front of an office door, unlocked it with a key card, and pushed it open.

He held it there, waiting.

I stepped inside.

The space was bigger than I expected. Shelves of law books lined one wall, neatly organized by color and size. There was a wide desk in the center, clean except for a silver laptop and a leather notebook. A low-backed chair faced the desk. The blinds were half drawn, filtering in just enough light to cast long shadows across the room.

He stepped around me and shut the door. The quiet click of it closing made something inside me tighten.

Then he moved behind the desk and stood there, hands resting on the polished surface like he owned the world.

And maybe he did. In here, at least.

I swallowed, shifting my weight. “I’m here…”

What a dumb thing to say. I wasn’t usually this lame, but being in his presence alone was too pressurizing.

And the worst part was, he was just looking at me.

No—looking was too tame. He was scrutinizing me.

And with nothing else to focus on—not a crowd or a shadow between us—I finally saw him properly. And God help me, the man was… beautiful.

Not in a soft, safe kind of way. He had the sort of face that could make a girl forget logic. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, those stormy gray eyes that didn’t blink much, lashes too long for a man, that mouth—soft, plush, completely unreadable.

His hair looked freshly tousled, like he’d dragged a hand through it a few minutes ago, but it worked too well to be accidental.

And that shirt—

Fitted just right. Hugged his arms where the sleeves were rolled to the elbows.

I knew I shouldn’t stare. But my eyes betrayed me.

And those hands.

His forearm muscles flexed subtly as he rolled a pen between his fingers, veins snaking over his skin with every movement. I normally wouldn’t pay attention to such things, but he was so close, and he looked even more—fuck.

'I bet it’d feel secure to be picked up by those hands,' a traitorous thought whispered.

I stared, helplessly fixated, picturing what they’d feel like gripping my waist. Holding me up. Spreading me open. Lifting me off my feet like I weighed nothing, just to slam me down on this desk behind him and—

Jesus, Freya, get a grip.

I squeezed my thighs together, pretending it was from the cold air in the office. But no. It was him—his scent, faint but clean—something woodsy, expensive, like smoke wrapped in silk. I lifted my eyes a bit to get the thoughts of his arms and hands out of my system, only to be met with his chest.

Broad and defined under that button-down, but not showy. I wanted to feel it under my palms, to drag my fingers down it, to press my cheek against it while his arms came around me and—stop. Stop.

It was like a fever, this fantasy version of him spiraling in my head, ruthless and silent and hot. I felt drunk on the idea of him—how he’d hold me, how his voice would sound if he weren’t being harsh. What it’d be like to lose control with someone like that, like this.

I couldn’t recognize this lustrous version of myself at all, and I couldn’t even control it. For a second, I thought if he really made a move, I… I didn’t know what I’d do…

“I believe this is yours.”

His voice yanked me back to reality like a slap of cold water.

I looked up.

He reached into the top drawer and pulled something small out, then extended his hand across the desk.

A black hair clip.

I blinked.

My stomach twisted sharply as recognition hit.

I’d worn that clip the night before—used it to tug my curls back before heading out. I hadn’t even realized it was missing.

I took a step forward, eyes fixed on the object in his palm. The metal glinted faintly under the light, dull from the scuff it got when it hit the ground.

He said nothing else.

Just waited.

I reached for it slowly, my fingers brushing his briefly as I took it from him.

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “I didn’t realize I—”

“You dropped it,” he said, voice cool. “Near the east path. Last night.”

I froze.

He had recognized me. Probably from the moment his gaze swept across the lecture hall when he stepped in.

Then why was he only acknowledging it now?

I clutched the clip tighter, my heart pounding as my brain registered the severity of the issue.

“I didn’t bully her,” I said quietly.

He didn’t blink.

“The girl you saw on the floor, Grace—she’s my roommate. She was the one being picked on. I just… stepped in. I know how that probably looked, but—”

“You don’t have to explain.”

His voice cut clean through mine, the finality in it making me unreasonably upset.

“I saw everything.”

I stared at him. “Then… why didn’t you say anything?”

He exhaled slightly and leaned back against the desk.

“I know what kind of girl you are.”

Of course. Why did I even entertain the thought that he’d be different?

“I’m not interested in what happened last night,” he continued. “It’s done. I’m not here to hold grudges. But I hope,” he said, pausing just long enough to pin me with that cold gaze, “you remember what I said in class today.”

Fairness. No tolerance for abuse. No second chances.

I nodded slowly, because what else could I do?

“Alright,” he said, standing upright and moving toward the door. “You’re free to go.”

I turned without a word and walked out.

The hallway felt colder than it had going in.

I took slow steps, trying to make sense of the mess I’d just walked into. So that was it? He saw everything—heard everything—and still lumped me in with girls like Stella?

If this wasn’t him going against his own principles—about not cozying up to students with influence—then it meant he only saw his version of things. And his self-assuredness wouldn’t let him question it.

I wanted to call him out on being quick to judge—for a lawyer, no less—but that would only make things worse. If he didn’t take it well, offending a respected professor on the first day wasn’t the kind of impression I could undo with a smile and a paper turned in on time.

I passed a bulletin board, not even registering what was on it. My head was too full.

Somehow, I had to fix this.

Somehow, I had to make Clarence Finerman unsee whatever he thought he saw in me.

***

Clarence’s POV

After she left, I stayed still for a moment, listening to the soft click of the door fading behind her.

Then I pulled open the drawer and took out the document I’d tucked beneath the others.

A will.

Jack Ramaswamy’s.

He had passed just a few months ago, leaving behind an empire most people could only imagine. Stocks, property, liquid assets… all of it wrapped into one estate valued at over a hundred billion dollars.

And all of it left to one person.

My eyes paused on the name written in neat, formal script near the bottom.

Freya Madison.