"He threatened Liv. Not directly, but—"
Victor's got me by the elbow, practically dragging me down the empty hallway. His grip isn't painful but it's definitely sending a message: we're having this conversation whether I want to or not.
He yanks open a door marked "Maintenance" and pulls me into what turns out to be a janitor's closet that smells like industrial disinfectant.
"But you got the message," I finish for him, exhausted down to my bone marrow. "Yeah, we all got it. Kilian speaks fluent subtext."
"This is serious, Elisa. What he said about unexpected consequences—"
He's pacing in the three feet of available space.
"You think I don't know it's serious? You think I'm playing house with a psychopath for fun?"
The laugh that escapes me bounces off the concrete walls.
"What do you want me to do, Victor? I'm managing him the only way I know how."
"By fucking him?"
The jealousy in his voice is so thick you could use it to clean these floors.
"Yes, Victor. By fucking him."
I lean against a shelf of toilet paper rolls, making sure he feels every word.
"By being useful. By keeping him happy so he doesn't release those photos two months before Liv's trust fund matures. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
His hands ball into fists, then release, then ball again like he's trying to squeeze his rage into something the size of this closet can contain.
"I can't stand thinking about him touching you."
"Then you shouldn't have explained why you can't choose me."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair? You want to talk about fair?" I push off from my toilet paper throne. "Fair would've been telling me about the trust fund before Montreal. Fair would've been not fucking me in your Volvo if you knew you'd throw me away the second things got complicated."
"I didn't throw you away—"
"You literally told me to leave your hotel room while your cum was still dripping down my thighs."
"Jesus, Elisa—"
"What? Too graphic? Not philosophical enough for you?"
I'm in his space now, close enough to see his pupils dilate in the fluorescent lighting.
"You want me to quote Kant while describing how your ethical imperatives disappeared the moment Kilian sent those photos?"
He pushes me against the wall so fast my brain doesn't process movement until my shoulders hit the concrete between a shelf of paper towels and what looks like enough bleach to hide a murder.
His hands bracket my face, not touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his palms.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he says, the words ripped from somewhere deeper than his professor voice can reach. "I grade papers and see your handwriting. I teach Rousseau and remember you asking about breaking social contracts. Clara touches me and all I feel is that it's not you."
"Victor—"
"I know I have no right. I know I chose them. I know I'm a hypocrite and a coward and everything you accused me of being." His forehead drops to rest against mine. "But watching you walk away with him, knowing what he does to you, knowing you go to him because I sent you there—it's killing me."
"Good," I whisper, but there's no heat in it. "Now you know how it feels."
We're kissing before either of us decides to. It's nothing like our careful seductions or calculated office hours. This is angry and messy and tastes like everything we're destroying by wanting it.
His hands tangle in my hair while mine clutch at his shirt, probably wrinkling it beyond academic respectability.
I bite his bottom lip because fuck him for making me want this, for making me need this, for making everything else feel like a pale imitation of what happens when we collide.
"This doesn't change anything," I gasp when we break apart for oxygen.
"I know," he agrees, then kisses me again anyway.
His hand's just sliding under my skirt when the door opens.
"Oh shit, sorry Professor!"
We spring apart like guilty teenagers, but it's too late.
Jess stands in the doorway, phone raised.
"Don't mind me," she says, already backing out. "Just looking for the bathroom."
The door closes with a click that sounds like a coffin nail being hammered home by someone who really enjoys their job.
"Fuck," Victor breathes, running his hands through his hair until it stands up like he's been electrocuted by his own stupidity.
"Great," I say, straightening my skirt with shaking hands. "The entire campus will know by tomorrow."
"Jess won't—" he starts, but even he can't finish that lie with conviction.
"Oh, but she will."
I squeeze past him toward the door, needing to escape this closet.
"She's known for a while and already threatened me. This just gave her the proof she was waiting for."
"Threatened you? When?"
"Does it matter? The damage is done." I pause with my hand on the handle. "Congratulations, Professor. We just gave Jess the power to burn it all down."
***
Thursday arrives with all the inevitability of a terminal diagnosis. I'm walking to Chen's class when Jess materializes beside me like she's been summoned by the patron saint of blackmail.
"We need to talk," she says pleasantly, like we're discussing weekend plans instead of my impending destruction.
"Do we though?"
"Oh, we really do."
She steers me toward an empty classroom with the confidence of someone holding all the cards plus a few extra decks up their sleeve.
"See, I have this fascinating photo series. Very artistic. Professor and student, passion in a supply closet, terrible lighting but excellent composition."
She shows me her phone.
The photo's perfectly clear—Victor pushing me against the wall between cleaning supplies, my leg hiked up, his hand disappearing under my skirt.
We look like a health code violation with tenure.
"I have proof now," she says simply. "Stay away from Liv or I make this public."
"You'd hurt her like that?"
"To save her from worse hurt later? Yes, in a heartbeat."
"Liv's our friend—"
"No, Liv's your victim." Jess puts her phone away. "You have two choices. Distance yourself gradually—busy schedule, different interests, whatever excuse works. Or this photo goes to the administration, the student paper, and Liv herself. Your call."
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I'm protecting my friend from someone who's fucking her father while pretending to be her sister." Her smile could freeze hell twice before breakfast. "So yes, I'm enjoying it immensely."
She leaves me standing there, the noose tightening from every direction—Kilian's possession, Victor's abandonment, Jess's threats, and Liv's trust all braiding together into a rope just strong enough to hang myself with.
My phone buzzes. Victor: We need to talk.
I delete it without responding. We're past talking.