"Your punctuation is inconsistent throughout," Victor says, his red pen bleeding across my essay like he's performing surgery on something already dead. "And this transition makes no logical sense."
That feels like a stage set for psychological warfare, and I'm both director and lead actress in this fucked-up production.
Through the archway, Liv and her friends are setting up for girls' night in the living room—close enough that I can hear every detail of their conversation.
Their laughter punctuates Victor's criticisms like a metronomic reminder that I'm playing with fire.
"Maybe if you actually looked at me while explaining, I'd understand better," I say, watching him massacre another paragraph.
Victor sits across from me like he's auditioning for Mount Rushmore, all granite jaw and professorial distance. His red pen murders my essay with the same careful attention to detail that probably drove Clara away.
Is that why you fuck your students? To even the score?
"Looking at your paper is sufficient," he responds, voice clipped like he's rationing words. "This argument about state sovereignty contradicts itself by line three."
Here's the thing about men who try this hard not to look: they've already looked. They've memorized every curve, every shadow, every possibility.
They just think their performance of disinterest retroactively erases the sin.
I slip my right foot from its flat—slow, deliberate, like I'm just getting comfortable. My toes find his ankle under the table, an accident that isn't.
He doesn't even pause.
He's good at this. The unbothered professor act. But I don't buy it for a second.
My foot travels higher, tracing the muscle of his calf through expensive wool. Nothing. His pen keeps moving, murdering my thesis with surgical precision.
I know he looked at those photos. There's no world where a man receives a folder full of naked photos and doesn't look. Doesn't save them somewhere his wife won't find. Doesn't pull them up late at night when the house goes quiet and his hand finds its way beneath the sheets.
I arch my foot along his inner thigh, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. Still nothing.
The man's got the self-control of a monk who's never heard of temptation.
I know he's seen every inch of me—the curve of my waist, the shadows between my thighs.
Victor's seen it all. And he kept them. I know he did.
"Your understanding of Machiavelli is juvenile at best," he continues, but there—a tiny catch in his voice when I press higher.
So this whole performance? The stern professor who can't be bothered to glance up from his notes? It's a mask. A carefully constructed lie he tells himself so he can sleep at night.
Tonight, I'm going to rip it off.
I press the sole of my foot directly against the front of his trousers and—
Oh. Oh.
Professor Larsen is rock hard. Like, admirably, almost comically hard. The kind of hard that suggests he's been fighting this since I walked in.
There you are, you hypocrite. All that judgment, all that 'pathetic attempt' bullshit, and you're sitting here throbbing for me.
I start a rhythm that would make a stripper blush. Slow, deliberate, with just enough pressure to scramble his higher brain functions.
One sharp inhale—that's all he gives me. A barely-there roll of his hips before he locks down tighter than federal prison.
"Dad, we're ordering sushi," Liv's voice floats from the kitchen. "Do you want your usual?"
Bright and friendly and completely oblivious that I'm currently giving her father a foot job under their mahogany dining table.
"Of course," Victor answers, and his voice is so steady. Oscar-worthy.
I almost admire him.
I increase the pressure, wondering if I can make him come in his proper professor pants while his daughter debates what movie to watch with her friends.
The thought sends this dark thrill through me that probably means I need therapy. But therapy's expensive and making older men question their life choices is free.
The dining room door flies open.
Victor's chair slides back exactly one inch, dislodging my foot like I'm contaminated.
Liv bounces in, still damp from practice, her navy team swimsuit visible under an unzipped hoodie, chlorine scent mixing with the tension in the room. Her wet blonde hair drips tiny puddles onto the hardwood.
"How's the torture session going, Elisa?"
"Your father's being very helpful," I say, forcing sunshine into my voice while guilt does gymnastics in my stomach.
This girl brought me home, made me feel wanted. Then what the hell am I doing?
"He's good at that." Liv's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Maybe too good sometimes."
She drifts back to her friends, and I slide my foot back into position.
Yes, the want always wins.
This time, Victor's hand drops below the table, catching my ankle in a grip that could bruise.
"Stop," he says, so quiet it's barely more than a breath.
"Make me," I whisper back, pressing harder.
His grip tightens, and for a moment I think he might actually break something. Then Jess appears in the doorway like she's been summoned by the patron saint of cockblocking.
That smile. I know it intimately.
My mother's boyfriend's wife wore the same one when she "dropped by" our apartment. Pretending not to know about the affair, marking territory with poisoned sweetness.
Women who smile like that know exactly where the bodies are buried because they dug the graves themselves.
"Elisa, we need to wrap this up," she says, and her tone brooks no argument. "The girls want to start the movie, and honestly, you've monopolized enough of Professor Larsen's Friday night."
There's something territorial in the way she positions herself, like she's protecting something that belongs to Liv only, or maybe protecting Liv from something she senses but can't name.
"But we're not finished," I protest.
"It's fine," Victor says quickly, already standing. "We can continue next week."
Jess walks me to the door with the determination of a border collie herding sheep. Her smile is bright and false as costume jewelry.
"Liv's going to ask why I left so suddenly," I say when we reach the door.
"Don't worry about it," Jess replies, and there's steel beneath the sugar. "I'll handle Liv. You just..." She pauses, seeming to weigh her words. "You just know your place."
The door closes with the finality of a coffin lid.
I stand on the porch, fury and frustration burning my throat. The sound of laughter erupts from inside, girlish and free, a reminder that I'm on the outside of something I'll never quite belong to.
But here's the thing about kingdoms built on lies—they're only as strong as their weakest wall. And I just found Victor's.