Emilia's POV

The club was too loud, too bright, and too rich for me.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled above the heads of men in expensive suits and women in dresses that looked like they belonged in magazines. My black uniform dress felt cheap, too cheap compared to theirs, and the tray in my hand was heavier with each table I passed.

I know, I hated this occupation. This job that made me look like, damn.

But my rent didn't care, it never cared. Even my brother's medicine and medical fee didn't care at all. Life itself didn't care either.

“Table seven,” my manager hissed, shoving a glass of scotch onto my tray. “He’s a VIP, so don't mess things up. Make sure you don't, Emilia.”

I nodded, even though my stomach tightened because I knew VIP tables were always the trouble. Men who would think money could give them the right look at you, touch you, and own you. And this made me hate them the most.

But still, I lifted the tray and made my way across the crowded room, through the haze of perfume, cigars, and greed.

Table seven sat in the corner, away from the noise, and hidden in the shadows. There, a man sat there alone.

I froze. I was shocked too because he wasn't like others. And while the room was filled with drunken laughter and loud voices, he was silent and different. His suit was darker, sharper, and well tailored. His posture on the other hand was straight. And he didn't even look at the stage, at all where women were dancing. He was just still, just alone by himself in the shadows.

And then he lifted his eyes to me.

They were cold grey eyes, sharp, cutting, like they could exactly see right through me… I thought.

My steps faltered and my pulse skipped a bit. But I didn't know why, just that something about him felt dangerous, too dangerous than I could imagine.

I forced myself to move forward, keeping my expression polite not to cause any scene like my manager had said. “Your drink, sir.”

His gaze didn't even move as I set the glass on the table. It was unsettling, the way he watched me—like he was pulling me apart piece by piece, peeling back layers I didn't even show myself.

“Emilia,” he said. His voice was low, calm, and controlled.

My stomach dropped the moment I heard him call my name, and my throat went dry. “How do you—”

“Your name tag.” He said and his lips curved slightly, almost mocking.

I felt heat all over my face that moment. I glanced down, of course. The stupid tag pinned to my chest on my dress.

“Oh,” I muttered, feeling foolish.

He lifted the glass, sipping slowly, like he had all the timing in the world. His eyes never left mine though as he drank from the glass.

“So you enjoy working here?” He asked.

I blinked, because no one has ever for once asked me that question. Not even in a place like this. Here, people come for drinks, deals, and for sins. Not for conversations about if I like, ever like working here.

“It pays the bills,” I said carefully, hoping not to cause a mess.

“That's not what I asked.”

The way he spoke—it wasn't curiosity, I thought. It was an interrogation. I guessed.

I hesitated, my throat felt tight. “No,” I finally admitted. “But sometimes you don't get to choose. Life does.” I said, trying not to lock eyes with him.

Something flickered in his eyes and for a second, he looked almost… human of all the people I've met here. It felt like my answer touched something inside him. But it was gone in an instant, replaced with that same icy control.

“You don't belong here,” he said.

The words hit me like a slap, I swear, I could admit it.

Before I could answer him, a burst of laughter exploded from the next table beside us. A man brushed past me roughly, almost knocking the tray from my hand.

I grasped the glass tilting and at that moment, I felt humiliated.

The stranger’s hand shot out, steadying the tray before it spilled.

His fingers brushed mine—just for a second.

And then, heat shot my arm like fire.

I jerked back, heart racing. “Thank you.”

“You should be more careful, Okay!” he said softly, his voice cutting through the noise around us. “There are wolves around here.”

I swallowed hard. “And what are you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, dark and unreadable. “Something worse than you can imagine.”

I stared at him, not sure if he was teasing me… or was it a warning.

“Emilia!” Another server called.

I broke the stare, forcing myself to breathe. I felt trapped, I couldn't mess up things now. “I should—”

Before I could finish, he slid something onto the tray. A folded note, and it was tucked beneath the empty glass he drank from.

“Take it,” he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it left no room for refusal.

I nodded quickly, clutching the tray to my chest, and hurried away. From him, from the wolves, from humiliation, from causing a mess.

Back at the counter, with my hands shaking, I slipped the note open… my heart was racing and I could hear my heartbeat.

I opened the paper, and saw it. It was written just in a line, bold, with clean Strokes.

You don't belong here.

My chest tightened once more, and my hand trembled.

He didn't know me, yes. He couldn't know me. And yet, somehow, it felt like he did. Like he could see the desperation I kept hidden, the debt crushing me, the secrets I tried so hard to bury.

“Emilia!” My manager snapped from across the bar. “Stop daydreaming and wasting time, there are other people to serve. Stop messing around and get back out there.”

I shoved the note into my pocket, my fingers still trembling.

The rest of the night dragged on as usual. I smiled while serving and pretended to be okay. But my eyes kept drifting back to that corner in the shadows.

The man was already gone, his seat was empty. And it felt like he had never been there at all. But I could still feel his gaze on me.

I touched the note in my pocket, my heart still beating fast.

You don't belong here.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe he was right. I was not sure, I kept… just kept wondering.

But one thing I knew for sure—whoever he was, he wasn't just another customer. And this wasn't over. Not yet!

Emilia's POV

The next day came quickly as expected, the morning sun spilled through the tall glass windows of Kingston University's lecture hall and painted the room in soft gold.

Students shuffled in with tired faces, clutching coffee cups, chattering, dropping their bags, and claiming their usual seats.

I kept my head down, clutching my notebook tight against my chest as if it could shield my heart from the storm inside. I hadn't slept much, not after the event of yesterday night. My thoughts kept drifting and relaying the event from the night before—the stranger in the corner, and alone in the shadows of the bar, his commanding presence, the way his eyes had lingered on mine like he already owned a part of me. Or perhaps, he knew me before.

I shook my head quickly, I couldn't be daydreaming again, not about some stranger who felt like he knew me.

Don't think about him.

It was nothing. It was just another night with another stranger.

I got into the lecture hall, slid into the second row, and sat in the corner by the aisle. That was my favorite spot to sit because it was safe, hidden, or at least I hoped so. I flipped my notebook open before me on the desk, and pretended to write what came to my mind.

Though, my hands trembled slightly as I held the pen.

My best friend, Clara Morin, leaned in from the seat behind me. “You look like death warmed over. Did you even sleep?” Clara whispered, staring at me.

I forced a laugh. “Rough night again. Couldn't shut my brain off.”

“Brain or heart?” Clara teased. “You've been distracted for days, Emilia. You've been acting somehow awkward, is everything okay?”

Before I could answer her, the chatter in the lecture hall stilled. A silence rippled through the hall as footsteps echoed from the doorway. It was the new professor and he looked familiar.

I looked up—and froze instantly.

Adrian Blackwell.

The air left my lungs for a seconds. And for a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. But no—the man was real, the stranger from the last night who had told me he was worse than a wolf, the one who had sat close, who had looked at me as if I was temptation myself, who had tucked a paper in the glass cup. The one who had avoided the glass cup from falling down, was now standing at the front of the room in a crisp black suit.

My professor.

My lips parted in shock, and my eyes widened in disbelief. The world tilted for a moment, and my I gripped my pen tighter to steady myself.

“Good morning.” His voice was smooth, and steady, the same voice that had whispered against my ear only hours ago. “I'm Professor Blackwell. I'll be teaching European Literature this semester.”

Students murmured in excitement. A few girls giggled, nudging each other at how attractive he was. But I couldn't hear them. All I heard was the pounding of my own heartbeat.

Clara leaned toward me again, wide-eyed. “Oh my God, he's hot.”

My throat was dry, so dry I was beginning to thirst for water. “Yeah,” I croaked. Hot. Dangerous. Forbidden.

Adrian’s gaze swept across the lecture hall, they were calm, unreadable, until they landed on me.

I felt it instantly—the pull, sharp and undebatable. His grey eyes locked onto mine as if no one else ever existed. Recognition flared immediately and we both locked eyes. A flicker of something dangerous flashed across his expression. Then, in a blink, it was gone, masked under a professional calm..

But I have seen it, yes. My stomach dropped because I knew he remembered the girl who didn't belong from last night.

“Let's begin.” His tone was cool, distant, as though nothing had happened between us. As though he hadn't leaned close last night, his lips were just inches from mine.

He turned to the white board, writing his name in bold strokes: Professor Adrian Blackwell.

I tried to look away, not to get distracted but my eyes betrayed me. I studied the curve of his shoulders, the way his suit hugged his frame, and the quiet authority in his movements. I hated myself for noticing that, all about him.

My pen scratched uselessly against the paper before me. My notes were just a mess of meaningless lines.

He lectured about Romanticism, quoting poets with precision, but I barely heard him, because every word he spoke carried an undertone I could still feel from the night before, as if the air between us was charged with a secret no one else could see.

At one point, Clara nudged me. “Are you even listening? You look carried away!”

I whispered back, “I'm trying to.”

“You're staring.”

My cheeks flushed. “No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are,” Clara giggled. “You never stare at professors. What's with you today?”

I quickly bent my head, pretending to write again. “Nothing. I'm just tired.”

But my body betrayed me. Every time Adrian's voice dipped lower, I shivered. And every time he glanced in my direction, my stomach tightened.

Halfway through the lecture, Adrian asked the class a question. “Who can tell me what Lord Byron meant when he said, She walks in beauty, like the night…?

Suddenly, a few hands shot up. And just then, I heard my name.

“Emilia.”

My head snapped up. He had called on me. Of all people, he had chosen me. His gaze was still steady, unreadable, but the way he said my name—low, deliberate—made my pulse race.

I swallowed hard instantly. “Um… I think he was comparing her to the night sky. Dark, mysterious, beautiful in a way that feels untouchable.”

Adrian's lips curved slightly, almost like a secret smile. “Good.”

My chest tightened because the approval in his tone shouldn't mean so much, but it did.

Clara grinned at me. “Show-off,” she whispered playfully.

I forced a weak smile. But inside, panic brewed. Why did he call on me? Why is he looking at me like that in the first place? Does he want me to remember? Or is he trying to warn me to forget? All that happened yesterday night at the bar.

The lecture dragged on. I counted every minute, willing it to end. Willing the lecture could be over. My notebook was filled with scribbles I couldn't even read.

Finally, Adrian closed his book. “That's enough for today. I'll see you all in the next class. Be punctual!”

Chairs scraped. Students packed up their belongings. Laughter and chatter filled the room again. Clara slung her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, let's grab coffee.”

“You go ahead,” I said quickly. “I'll catch up.”

Clara frowned. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

Once Clara left, I took my time, pretending to gather my things slowly. My heart raced as I felt Adrian's presence still at the front of the lecture hall.

I then looked up once more—and froze.

As if I knew it, my instincts didn't lie. He was watching me.

The lecture hall was nearly empty, but his grey icy eyes were still locked on mine. There was no smile, no expression but just intensity.

My throat went dry. I stood quickly, clutching my books to my chest. My steps echoed as I walked down the aisle, trying not to stumble under his gaze again.

As I passed him, his voice stopped me.

“Emilia.”

My breath caught. I turned slowly to face him. “Yes, Professor.?”

His jaw tightened slightly at the word Professor. His grey eyes flickered immediately, dark and unreadable. For a second, I thought he might say something dangerous.

But to my surprise, he didn't. Instead, he leaned back against the desk, folding his arms. “Be careful walking home, okay. The city can be… unpredictable.”

My heart thudded. “O-okay. I will, professor.”

I turned to leave, my hands trembling. But just as I reached the door, I felt it again—his grey eyes on my back, it was heavy, burning, as though invisible threads tied us together.

And in that moment, I knew this was only the beginning of something I couldn't stop processing and imagining.

Because no matter how much I wanted to run, I couldn't escape him. Not when he's now my professor, not when my wide green eyes and his grey ice eyes spoke the truth our mouth couldn't say. Not when every glance felt like a vow.

As I decided to push the door open, Adrian's voice followed me again, this time, it was low and quiet but meant only for ears—

“We shouldn't have met last night.”

My breath caught, and I froze in the doorway. And just then, the door shut behind me, leaving the words echoing in my mind.

__________________________________

Emilia's POV

The word replayed in my head as I left the lecture hall.

We shouldn't have met last night.

His voice was low, final, almost like a warning. But why? Why would he say that all of a sudden? Why did it feel like he meant something bigger than what happened last night at the bar, in the corner of the shadows.

I barely slept that night because my brain was a mess of questions with no answers. I needed the truth about what happened and why would he say such.

The following morning, I got up as usual, dressed to school. The campus was buzzing as expected. Students laughed, gossipped, walked around with phones in their hands. But when I walked into the hallway toward my next lecture, the air shifted.

People turned their gaze towards me. Some begin to whisper, and some smirked in mockery. I begin to feel confused, did I do something wrong, have I committed an offense... I was feeling embarrassed.

But at first, I thought I was imagining things until I heard it.

"She looks just like him"

"My instincts were right, they both had this facial resemblance..."

"Don't say that out loud."

"Come on, everyone can see it, or can't you see."

"Yes, I also figured it out."

My stomach dropped, and I slowed my steps, still clutching my books tighter to my chest as if it could shield me.

Two girls by the lockers leaned close together, and their voices weren't exactly quiet.

"I'm telling you, it's true and it has been confirmed." One said.

"Shut up, shut that nonsense... You don't even know a thing," the other giggled.

"Yes, of course. Everyone knows now that she's his daughter. That's why he looked at her like that yesterday."

My chest went cold. I needed an explanation of everything that's going on. I can't even think, can't process anything. My brain was just a mess relaying what happened at the bar the other night, the shock yesterday and another rumor today.

I finally stopped walking, my feet felt glued to the floor after hearing that word.

Daughter?

My hands shook as I gripped my books tighter.

The girl noticed me standing there, and her eyes widened, as she pressed a hand over her mouth. "Oh my God, she heard us all."

The other girl whispered, "Run."

They both darted off, laughing nervously as they disappeared around the corner.

I stood frozen, my whole body was hot and cold at the same time.

His daughter?

Why would they even say that? Why would anyone—

A voice cut through my thoughts. It was Clara, my best friend. "Emilia, you okay?"

She came jogging up, her hair bouncing in its ponytail. She frowned at me. "What's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost."

I swallowed hard. " Nothing much, I'm fine."

She tilted her head. "You don't look fine."

"I said I'm fine." I brushed past her quickly. "Come on, we'll be late for class."

But I knew I wasn't fine.

Not even close, not after everything.

By the time we reached the lecture hall, the whispers had already spread like wildfire.

I slide into my usual seat, trying to ignore the eyes on me. But that didn't help, I could still feel it—their stares, their smirks.

Clara leaned in, whispering. "Okay, spill the beans. What's going on, why are people starring?"

I shook my head quickly. "I don't know either, but don't ask."

Before she could even proceed to say more, the chatter in the room slowly died down and then, footsteps.

It was him, Adrian Blackwell. My professor, the stranger I had served the night at the bar before.

He walked into the room, tall, calm as usual. He was putting on a sharp suit, and his grey eyes were unreadable.

The moment he stepped in, silence swept through the class like a wave. He set his notes on the desk and scanned the room with those piercing grey eyes.

And then... As I'd processed it. They landed on me. It was only a second, but it felt like forever.

My breath hitched and his gaze was steady, and unreadable. Then, he looked away, like nothing happened at all.

"Open your books," he said, his voice calm. "Today, we continue our discussion on Byron."

Chairs shifted, pages flipped and everyone obeyed. But my hands were stiff, my notebook sat blank in front of me and all I could hear was the whisper from earlier.

She's his daughter.

The lecture went on. He spoke about poetry, about beauty, about darkness and light. His voice was calm, steady and deep.

But every time I heard him say a word, my chest tightened. I could still feel people staring and watching me. I was starting to feel embarrassed once more.

Clara nudged me. "What's wrong with you today?" She whispered.

"Nothing," I muttered.

"You're lying."

"Clara, please." My voice cracked.

She stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. I won't push."

But the look in her eyes told me she wouldn't let go, not yet. Not after I owe her an explanation.

Halfway through the class, something happens that makes it worse.

Adrian asked a question, his eyes swept the room again. And then, just like yesterday. He called my name again.

"Emilia."

The sound of my name on his lips made my heart stop. The whole class then turned to look at me. I could feel their curiosity, their smirks.

But I swallowed hard, forcing my voice out. "I'm... yes. I think... Byron meant that beauty is not just about looks. It's about the soul. About innocence and mystery."

The class was silent. Then, Adrian gave a slow nod. "Correct."

His voice was calm, and professional. But the way he looked at me—steady, lingering—made the whispers rise again.

"She really is his favorite."

"Or something more."

My cheeks burned. I wanted to scream at them to shut up, but I couldn't.

When the lecture ended, I tried to escape quickly. But Clara followed me out, tucking my arm. "Okay, I've had enough. Now, can you explain to me what's going on between you and professor Blackwell?"

I froze, hoping she could only believe. "Nothing."

"Emilia, people are talking. I keep hearing things. Crazy things."

"Like what?" I asked, my voice shaking.

She hesitated, biting her lips. "Like... that he might be your father."

The word slammed into me like a blow.

I stopped walking. "What?"

"That's what people are saying," Clara said quickly. "I don't believe it, okay? But... I mean... Do you know who your father is?"

Her words are deep. My throat tightened, as I looked away, blinking fast. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Emilia—"

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" My voice was sharper than I meant.

Clara stepped back, hurt flashing in her eyes. "Okay, fine."

I stormed ahead, leaving her behind. But inside, I was breaking. I was really breaking, I wish she could understand. I wish I could wake up from this mess.

That evening, I couldn't take it anymore. I sat on my dorm bed, staring at my phone. My mother's number was on the screen.

I called, and she answered after a few rings. "Emi. How are you, sweetheart?"

Her voice was warm and familiar. I closed my eyes, my throat tight. "Mum... I need to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Who is my father?"

Silence.

"Emi..." She said softly.

"Don't 'Emi' me, mum" I whispered, my hands trembling. "I need to know please. Just tell me."

Her breathing was shaky. "He doesn't matter who he is. What matters is you're here, you're safe, you're mine."

"That's not an answer, mum!" My voice cracked. " Why won't you tell me? I'm your daughter and I need to know, I have all the right to."

"Because some truths are better left buried, dear," she said quickly.

Tears stung my eyes. "Do I... do I look exactly like him?"

Her smile was louder than words. But I ended the call before she could say anything. And then, I broke.

The next day came faster, and it was worse than ever.

When I walked into the lecture hall, the board had words scrawled across it in big letters:

Daddy's Girl.

Then laughter filled the room the moment I entered. My heart sank, and I grabbed the eraser, scrubbing furiously, with my hands shaking.

Someone snickered behind me. "Careful, you will make Daddy mad."

The room erupted in quiet laughter again. And then, I spun around angrily. "Shut up!"

The laughter grew, and then there was silence. Followed by footsteps.

Adrian entered the lecture hall and his grey eyes went straight to me, then to the board, where smudges still lingered. But his expression didn't change.

But I could admit that I saw the flicker. And the tension in his jaw.

"Sit down," he said, his voice low.

The class went totally silent as I sat down at my usual place, my chest heavy and my heart still racing.

The lecture began but the whispers didn't stop. But they were quieter this time. Crueler, I guess.

"Incest."

The word reached my ears again, sharp, cutting, and unbearable. My whole body went cold. And I clenched my fist under the desk, fighting the urge to scream.

And then, I looked up slowly to find Adrian's grey eyes on me. This time, they were steady and heavy. As if he knew, as if the truth was about to break