Master Class: A Billionaire Romance

by Linnea May

  I’ve yet to be convinced that writing academic papers and scholarly, peer-reviewed books that are so out of touch with everyday reality have equal merit.

  My mother thinks they do, and so do my father and sister. They dwell on theories and intellectual games that seldom if ever touch the world and people they write about. To me, that’s just odd.

  Yet I’m about to embark down the same road.

  I sigh and look down at my ring again, turning it around on my finger, just as I always do when I’m lost deeply in thought.

  In his introductory lecture, Mr. Portland focused on everything that went wrong in his life. Failure. I’m not familiar with failure. I’ve always been good at what I do. But I wear this ring to remind me that I lack the passion for it.

  I never failed, because I never tried.

  His words hit a spot deep inside me. It’s more than just that I don’t respect him as a teacher that what he said agitated me. With just a few words and that piercing look, he opened a door I thought I had closed years ago. I’ve had this ring since junior high school, and I’ve worn it almost every single day since then, but my thoughts hardly ever travel back to its original meaning anymore.

  Until now. Thanks to him.

  I’m not superstitious, but the way he looked at me was unsettling on so many levels. It was as if he stripped me naked with just his eyes – and not even in a sexual sense. The intimacy is there, but it’s not lust.

  Not just lust.

  I feel my cheeks and ears burning up again.

  Fuck, he’s getting to me.

  I want to know more about him. I want to know who he is, I want to understand him. I want to understand why he unravels me the way he does. Why is he making me so fucking angry - and so confused?

  He’ll continue to talk about himself throughout the semester, but I feel like whatever he is going to tell us won’t be enough for me.

  I pull my legs up, hugging my knees as I pull them close to my chest, as if the action could calm my racing heart down. I feel feverish, dizzy.

  “Idiot,” I hiss to myself.

  I’m one of them. Blushing and swooning as my thoughts can’t seem to let go of this man. This arrogant bastard. Why did he have to look at me like that? Is that what he does with so-called ‘challenges’ like me? He said he liked me, “students like me.” What does that even mean?

  I let out a groan of frustration and roll over on my side, curling up on my bed, my thoughts continuing to linger around Mr. Portland – Mr. Awesome.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JACKSON

  The faculty lounge is not my favorite place to be, but Professor Clark asked me to show up here at least once a week for the informal staff meeting. He’s the person who invited me to lecture in the first place, and he’s also the one who made sure that I’d be allowed as much freedom as possible when it comes to the content of my class.

  His request had been a surprise, and after I got over my initial confusion at being asked to lecture among all the options that existed, I actually found myself flattered.

  A school that never wanted me as a student now wants me as a teacher. Oh, the irony of it.

  “I’m not an educator,” I told him. “I have no idea how to teach, let alone what to teach a bunch of entitled brats such as the ones going to this school.”

  To my surprise, he wasn’t offended by my words, but laughed.

  “That is exactly why I think you’d be a refreshing change in our noble halls,” he said. “Our students could use a little insight into the real world, especially from a man like yourself, a man of action, a man of results.”

  It worked. His compliments made me realize that this would be a good platform for me to see whether it really was that simple. If the division between academics and the real world was really as sharp as I always felt it was. I want to see how these students react to my teaching, how they react to the idea of doing something different than the norm. For most of them, their path has been laid out early on. Maybe even before they started school. You don’t end up as a graduate student in an Ivy League school without a long-term plan.

  But what happens if someone shows up and messes with your head? Is there a possibility for me to change something? A student’s life, maybe. A career, or even an entire idea about life and education.

  I have little hope that will be the case, but at least they’ll be forced to listen to me for an entire semester.

  If she doesn’t decide to drop out of my class after our first encounter this week, little Miss Harlington will be one of them.

  I can’t let her get into my head too much, but it’s hard to keep her out of it. She poses a challenge, a dilemma, and she speaks to a desire deep within me. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure to act on it.

  I open the door to the faculty lounge, my eyebrows knitted deep in thought. It’s still early and the meeting won’t start for another twenty minutes, but there is already a handful of teaching staff in the room.

  I lift my chin in greeting, and my gesture is met by the eyes of about half the teachers present. Most of them are the stereotypical college professors, drinking coffee by the gallon and lamenting their profession.

  I sit down in the far back of the room, putting some distance between me and a group of three others, two younger female lecturers and a professor whose name I’ve forgotten.

  “So the rumors are true?” I hear one of the two younger staff members ask, as I open up my tablet to answer a few work e-mails. After all, being a guest lecturer for one semester doesn’t mean that I can completely ignore my business.

  “As nasty as it sounds, yes,” the other woman says.

  “I’m having trouble believing this,” the professor interjects.

  He leans forward, as do the two women, making the whole group look like three little rodents sharing a carrot.

  “No man in his right mind would risk his career for something like this,” he whispers, but not softly enough to escape my ears.

  The women shake their heads.

  “Oh, men would,” one of them insists. The blonde woman has a disproportionately big head on top of a skinny body, making her look like a lollipop.

  “Having a cute little student swooning all over them - isn’t that every professor’s dream?” she asks. The other woman nods enthusiastically, while the older professor is now the one huffing with disgust.

  “A man in his right mind, I said,” he repeats. “I’m not talking about the idiots who lose track of what matters just because they’re chasing some skirt. I always thought Professor Dawson was one of the former.”

  “Well, clearly he’s not,” the blonde argues.

  She looks over her shoulder then, and our eyes meet before I can turn away and act as if I wasn’t listening in on their conversation. Her eyes widen in apprehension, and she looks as if I just caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Mr. Portland,” she says, blushing and nodding toward me. She knows my name, but I have no idea who she is.

  They all turn around to look at me, the other woman displaying a similar expression on her face as the first, while the professor harbors an absentminded gaze.

  “I’m sorry if we were disturbing you,” the blonde says.

  “Not a problem at all,” I say, waving her off. “I wasn’t aware that the teaching staff at such a renowned school is just as prone to gossip as people at any other workplace.”

  All three of them lower their eyes for a moment, and the professor is the first to recover from my remark.

  “Gossiping is only human,” he states. “And after all, we’re all humans.”

  Humanities. I guess that’s where it’s taught that even disrespectful behavior is nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all human, after all.

  “Besides,” the blonde adds. “This concerns matters of principal.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, um,” she stutters, fixing her blouse nervously. “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Lilia Esqu
in, Sociology.”

  The others straighten in their seats and nod. Time for pleasantries, I see.

  “Robert Warwick, Sociology, as well,” the older guy says.

  Not surprisingly, the third one in the bunch, Mindy, also outs herself as a lecturer in Sociology.

  “Portland,” I introduce myself. “But you already seem to know that.”

  The blonde lets out a girlish giggle and nods. “Well, it’s not like your face and name aren’t well recognized around the world.”

  I nod, but don’t say anything. The distance between them and me is a little too large to hold a proper conversation, but instead of letting it go after our little round of introductions, they seem to decide in unison to move over to my area. They seat themselves in the armchairs surrounding the small coffee table in front of me. They encircle me as if I had invited them over to listen to my tale, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

  “The thing is,” Lilia Esquin continues, leaning forward to include me in their gossip session. “We were talking about a colleague in another department. I’m not going to say who, but-”

  “You already mentioned his name,” I point out, looking at Professor Warwick. “Professor Dawson, wasn’t it?”

  He snorts. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “He’s not working at the university anymore,” Mindy interjects, as if I showed any sign of interest in finding out who this guy was.

  “They let him go because he…,” Lilia whispers, leaning in even closer, too close for comfort. “He slept with one of his students.”

  Her eyes are wide, and she’s nodding, inviting me to join in her indignation.

  “Was it consensual?” I ask, unimpressed.

  The expression on her face changes, giving way to confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Was it consensual?” I repeat. “Did the student and professor both agree to have sex - or did he rape her?”

  The three of them exchange looks as if they were silently asking each other what I was talking about.

  “I’m assuming it was a her?” I clarify, if only to mess with their heads a little more.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Lilia retorts. “But what do you mean, consensual? Why would that matter?”

  Now I’m the one who widens his eyes with shock.

  “It doesn’t matter to you?” I ask. “It doesn’t matter to you whether we’re talking about rape or sex between two consenting adults?”

  “It was a student!” Professor Warwick throws in. “It’s just wrong. Period.”

  I glance around the little circle of tattletales. It’s unsettling how little these people can think outside their strictly black-and-white, rule-designed box.

  “It even says so in our contracts,” Lilia adds, trying to prove the point. “Intimate relationships with students are forbidden.”

  Forbidden. I like that word.

  I lean back in my seat, completely unimpressed. “My contract doesn’t include anything like that.”

  Professor Warwick clears his throat, and the two women exchange a knowing look. Neither of them comes close to being my type, but I’m not an idiot. Lilia is sitting closest to me, her skinny knees pointing in my direction, and her eyes have that nervous flutter every time she looks at me. I know that look.

  “Still, it’s just not done,” Professor Warwick comments. “Contract or not, relations like that are nothing but trouble.”

  He glares at me, wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes as if he’s trying to warn me. That jealous bastard. His receding hairline, the wrinkles scattered around his used-up face, and the giant beer belly don’t speak of the dignified, strong man he could be had he taken care of himself over the past few decades. Even if there was no such regulation in his contract, there’s hardly a student who’d willingly share a bed with him. Except if they wanted to fuck for grades. I’m sure this happens a lot more than these people would like to admit. Fancy elite school or not, people still enjoy taking advantage of their respective position. It’s only human, after all.

  Professor Warwick knows I could have them all, if I wanted to.

  Thing is, I only want one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JACKSON

  She is sitting in the exact same seat she sat in during my first lecture. Third row, slightly to the left from where I’m standing. Miss Harlington looks at me with expectant eyes. No smile, no smitten beam on her face like the ones on the majority of the other girls in the class. She has her brown hair tied up in a loose bun, little wispy strands falling away at the sides, framing her delicate face. Her hands are placed on top of each other on the table in front of her, and she’s wearing a white blouse that matches her fair complexion. A perfectly good girl.

  Irresistible.

  The auditorium is filled to the brim. Approximately two hundred students have their eyes locked on me, waiting for me to start class. Unlike last time, I brought a dark leather satchel with me today. I place it in front of me on the table in a wide gesture before facing the auditorium again.

  Today, I don’t have a big introductory speech prepared. I have something in mind that is loosely based on what I talked about last time, but a few questions are mixed in to lead the discussion further. Or so I hope. I have never taught before, so I’ll learn as I go along.

  I didn’t give them any homework, so there’s nothing to logically start out the class with, but I need to mention a few housekeeping items before beginning.

  “Good morning,” I say, letting my gaze peruses through the auditorium. I avoid looking to my left for longer than necessary, fearing that my line of sight could get locked on Miss Harlington for a second or two too long.

  “There are a few things that I need to announce with regard to how I intend to conduct this class,” I resume. “First of all, I will not be grading you and there will be no final exam.”

  Murmurs of relief echo through the crowd.

  “However, you will pass – or fail - this class based on attendance,” I add, adopting a stern look as I catch the eyes of individual students here and there. “And as Miss Harlington was nice enough to point out, I failed to take attendance last time.”

  I quickly nod in her direction, capturing her horrified look for just a second before I turn back to the class. Displeased whispers are hushing through the rows left and right, mixed with glances in her direction.

  I don’t want to single her out, but her attitude from last time cannot go unpunished.

  “So, from now, every time we meet, I will circulate this attendance list. You shall sign your name to prove that you’ve attended class and listened to my wise words from beginning to end.” I hold up the attendance sheet in the air.

  “Another thing that came up during my conversation with Miss Harlington is that some of you might need to be graded for this class in order to graduate,” I continue on as I walk to the front row to hand off the attendance list. “As I’ve said before, there’s not going to be a final exam, but if you’re interested in writing an essay to receive a grade, you can turn it in to my teaching assistant.”

  I turn back to the front of the auditorium and return to my place in the spotlight. The murmur that fills the hall confirms the students’ discontent with my proposition.

  Oh, then I bet they’re going to love the next one.

  “Also,” I add, “even though I don’t feel qualified to evaluate your work, I would hate it if my words were to go unheeded in this class, so we will have random quizzes. Unannounced, and whenever I feel they make sense. I won’t grade them - but it’d be nice if you don’t give me reason to doubt your caliber as excellent students.”

  An unhappy moan spreads across the lecture hall. I turn my gaze to Miss Harlington. She doesn’t participate in the surrounding chatter, but fixates on me with a look that is hard to read. She may hate me for mentioning her name. I pretty much blamed her for that stupid attendance list and linked her to the idea of having unannounced quizzes.

  She has every reason to hat
e me. I revel in the way she’s looking at me now. She has to learn there are consequences for her behavior, and this is just the beginning.

  She doesn’t raise her hand once during class. Every time my eyes land on her, I see her taking notes as if her life depends on it. Her shoulders are stiff and pulled up to her ears every time our eyes meet.

  Such a good girl.

  As my lecture comes to an end, I leave the students with a small homework assignment. I never intended to give out homework, but little Miss Harlington inspired me to live up to the expectations she and the other students have of their teachers.

  Just like last time, a bunch of students come up to me after class, bombarding me with silly questions and remarks. All of them are girls, and some come in groups of two, walking arm in arm, as if they were supporting each other. The second-hand embarrassment I feel is almost unbearable.

  I cut them short and get out of the auditorium as quickly as possible. This time, Lana Harlington was not among those who stayed behind. I can’t say I expected her to confront me directly, but a part of me was hoping she’d approach me like she did last time.

  I make my way across campus, blinded by the late summer sun as I try to check my e-mails on my phone. The bright sunlight is making it close to impossible to read anything on the screen and it annoys the hell out of me. I hate being away from my responsibilities for too long, especially during a time like this, when one of my projects is about to be acquired by a bigger company. It’s a small and rather young business, and seeing the interest expressed by big players in the industry has really stretched my confidence.

  “Was that really necessary?” I hear a voice say coming from my left.

  I stop and look up from my phone. My eyes are having trouble adjusting in the sun for a few moments, but I see her silhouette right away.

  Miss Harlington is standing a few feet away from me in the shadow of a massive tree next to the brick sidewalk. Her right hand is resting on the tree as if she was seeking support, while her other is holding a black satchel in front of her. She is wearing dark blue jeans, a white blouse, and black ballerina flats.