Heinrich Becker's study smells like old books and decisions made without raising one's voice.
I stand in the doorway and catalog escape routes out of habit—a window behind his desk, two doors flanking the built-in shelves, the hallway I just walked through. It's a reflex now, this constant inventory of exits, this silent calculation of how quickly I could disappear if the conversation turned ugly.
Heinrich gestures for me to sit. I choose the chair farthest from his desk, a small rebellion he probably notices and politely ignores. The leather creaks beneath me, expensive and well-maintained, like everything else in this house.
"Tea?" He lifts an ornate pot from a silver tray.
"No, thank you."
He pours himself a cup with unhurried ease. The steam curls upward between us while I wait for whatever blow is coming. Men like Heinrich don't summon near-strangers to their private studies for pleasant conversation.
"I want to be direct with you, Skye." He sets the teacup down and meets my eyes. "I have no intention of playing father. Alistair was your father. I have no interest in replacing him or pretending to fill a role I didn't earn."
The statement catches me off guard. I was braced for conditions, for expectations, for the fine print hidden beneath his generosity.
"I won't ask you to call me Dad," he continues, his voice steady and unhurried. "I won't expect holidays together or heart-to-hearts or any performance of family you don't want to give. If you want distance, I will respect it. If you want something else eventually, the door is open." He pauses, watching my face. "But I will not push."
Where's the catch?
The question burns through my mind like acid. Men like Heinrich don't offer things without expecting something in return. I've learned this lesson the hard way, paid for the education in scars and sleepless nights and a savings account that dwindled to nothing while I trusted the wrong people.
But he just sips his tea and watches me with a patient expression.
"I appreciate the room," I say finally, forcing my voice into something resembling composure. "But I won't be staying long. A few weeks, maybe a month. Just until I find my footing."
"Of course."
"I have savings. Not much, but enough to get started somewhere else." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "I don't accept charity."
Heinrich nods as if he expected exactly this response—as if he's been watching me through some invisible window and already knows every word I'll say before I say it.
"Diane told me about you," he says, and my spine stiffens. "Enough to understand that you don't take help easily. That you would rather drown quietly than ask someone to throw you a rope."
I bristle at being analyzed, at being reduced to a collection of predictable traits by a man I've known for less than twenty-four hours. I bristle more at the accuracy.
Is this a family trait? Do all the Beckers see through people like glass?
He sets down his teacup with a soft clink against the saucer. "Because of this, I've done something out of character."
My stomach tightens. The price tag attached to his hospitality.
"I've arranged a position for you at Whitmore Academy." He watches my reaction carefully. "The school where Kai is currently a student. My family has sponsored it for three generations. I sit on the board."
"I didn't ask for—"
"I know." His voice is gentle but firm. "But you need it, whether you'll admit that to me or not."
"Because of the recent scandal," Heinrich continues, and the word lands between us without judgment or pity, just fact, "I couldn't secure a full-time teaching position. The administration was reluctant. There were concerns."
Of course he knows.
I should have expected this. A man like Heinrich doesn't arrange favors blindly. He would have made inquiries, pulled strings, asked questions that led to other questions that led to Dylan Cooley.
The details unspool in my mind like a wound reopening. Dylan, nineteen years old, from a family with lawyers on retainer and donations that funded the school's new library wing.
He sat in the front row of my literature class and watched me with an intensity I mistook for academic interest. He lingered after lectures. He sent emails that grew increasingly personal, increasingly inappropriate.
When I finally addressed it—firmly, professionally, with documentation—he flipped the narrative like a card in a magic trick.
He told the administration we were involved. He produced fabricated messages, timestamps that lined up just well enough to raise questions. His family's lawyers sent letters that made the school's legal team very, very nervous.
No formal charges. No legal record. Just a quiet resignation and whispers that traveled faster than I could outrun them.
And now Heinrich Becker knows. Has probably known since before I walked through his front door.
"I found a workaround," he says, pulling me back from the memory. "You'll tutor students with poor academic performance in literature. Flexible hours, technically contract work rather than faculty. It keeps you off the main roster while still allowing you to teach."
"That's..." I search for the word. "Generous."
"It's practical." He pauses, and I catch a flicker of discomfort in his expression. "The primary focus of your tutoring will be my son, of course. One-on-one sessions."
I stare at him.
Kai. The fake golden retriever with the sharp eyes who walked into my room without knocking and picked through my belongings like he had the right. The man-child who smiled at me across the dinner table like he already knew my dirty secret.
"Kai is in his senior year and struggling with several subjects—literature among them," Heinrich continues. "I won't have him repeat it, and I don't believe in buying grades." His tone hardens slightly here, a glimpse of steel beneath all that warmth. "But I do believe in providing support. You will provide that support."
"With respect, sir, why would Kai accept help from me?" I ask. "We've known each other less than a day, and I'm fairly certain he already hates me."
Heinrich's mouth curves into a small, tired smile—the expression of a man who has spent years watching his son disappoint him and loves him anyway.
"He won't accept it," Heinrich says. "Not at first. But you strike me as someone who doesn't give up easily."
I want to refuse. I want to tell him that tutoring his arrogant, boundary-violating son sounds like a special circle of hell designed specifically for women who've already suffered enough.
But the money would help me move states. The money would help me start over.
"When do I start?" I ask.
"Monday." Heinrich lifts his teacup again, the conversation clearly concluded in his mind. "Mrs. Aldén will prepare your schedule."
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