Chapter 1

As a senior at Columbia University, I lived my life as an invisible ghost.

To me, Professor Julian Thorne was a heartless "god"―a man who never touched women.

During countless late nights spent working on my graduation project, I poured my forbidden cravings into my tablet, sketching the hard muscles beneath his white shirt and those hands that seemed to control the world.

Until the lecture presentation the next day, where I accidentally tapped "AirPlay" on my iPad…

The entire student body and faculty saw the ruthless professor in an embarrassing and highly suggestive pose―a scene straight from my private sketches.

Just when I thought my college career was over, he cornered me in the private lounge after the lecture.

"Ms. Vance," his deep voice brushed against my ear, "instead of these fictional lines, don’t you want to try… some real-life sampling?"

1.

The campus in New York always carried a cold, expensive, woody scent―exactly like the scent on Professor Julian Thorne.

As a senior in Columbia University's architecture department, I was like a transparent ghost in this ivory tower of glass and steel. And Professor Julian Thorne was the youngest god at the top of that tower―born into the elite Thorne family, the youngest Pritzker Prize winner in history, stoic and cold. In his four years at the school, no woman had ever been seen by his side.

For three consecutive nights, I had worked until my eyes were bloodshot for the first draft of my graduation design. At three in the morning in the studio, the only sound was the low hum of the humidifier.

"Fck structural mechanics, and fck Julian," I muttered, tossing my Apple Pencil aside.

Driven by extreme exhaustion and a long-repressed crush, my brain began to conjure dangerous hallucinations. I possessedly opened my private canvas on Procreate.

It was my secret forbidden zone, filled with dark fantasies about Julian.

I started to draw him.

In my sketches, Julian stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the classroom, the top three buttons of his usually pristine white shirt undone. I carefully traced the veins bulging on his arms from exertion and those slender fingers that usually pointed at blueprints but now looked full of predatory intent.

At the bottom of the canvas, as if possessed by a demon, I scribbled a line of messy, suggestive intent:

"I wonder how much pressure those hands would apply if they were pressed firmly against the small of my back?"

After finishing, I felt a shiver of rebellious pleasure. Exhausted beyond measure, I didn't even exit the app before falling asleep facedown on the screen.

Nine o'clock the next morning. Lecture Hall One.

The school's top architectural elite and New York’s real estate moguls were all in attendance. The atmosphere was stifling.

Julian sat front and center in the first row. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, his collar crisp without a single wrinkle. His eyes, cold as scalpels, scanned every presenter.

"Ms. Elara Vance, it’s your turn." His voice was low and resonant, sending a ripple through the silent hall.

I took a deep breath, trying to hide my dark circles, and walked onto the stage with my iPad.

"Everyone, regarding the visual presentation for the New York New Library..." I began, attempting to connect my iPad to the 80-inch giant LED screen.

The signal seemed to lag. Reflexively, I swiped across the screen to refresh the connection.

Suddenly, the screen let out a sharp "ding"―AirPlay connected instantly.

But it wasn't the library rendering I had stayed up all night for that appeared.

It was my private sketch from last night―the one full of sexual hints, forbidden cravings, and wild desire.

On the giant screen, the "half-naked Julian" looked lifelike. The words at the bottom about "the small of my back" and the "pressure" were agonizingly clear on the 80-inch display.

Time seemed to freeze. The lecture hall became a massive tomb, so silent I could hear the blood thundering in my temples.

My advisor, the white-haired department head, almost dropped his glasses. Other dignitaries had various expressions―some muffled laughs, some looked away in embarrassment.

But Julian didn't look away.

He stared straight at the "imagined version of himself." Under the white glow of the projector, his flawless face turned dark and unreadable.

"Ms. Vance," he spoke slowly, his voice terrifyingly low, "is this the... result of your hard work last night?"

My hands shook as I disconnected the device, tears stinging my eyes. "I’m sorry, Professor Thorne. That was... an accident."

"An accident?" He stood up slowly, his suit perfectly unruffled. "I don't think so."

"Meeting adjourned," he barked. "Elara Vance, my office. Now."

As I walked out, the whispers followed me like a tide: "Look at that little illustrator. She actually tried to thirst-trap the professor in front of the whole school." "She’s done for. The Thorne family won't allow this scandal; she’ll be expelled."

I bit my lip and walked toward the heavy mahogany door.

Inside the office, Julian stood with his back to me, overlooking the campus.

"Close the door."

I obeyed, my palms soaking with cold sweat.

He turned around, pinning me into the corner behind the door step by step. He placed one hand beside my ear―the exact hand I had drawn last night, full of tension.

"Ms. Vance, you seem to have many... unsatisfied imaginations regarding my hands?"

His breath brushed my nose, smelling of cedarwood and expensive tobacco.

"Professor, it was just a sketch to relieve stress. I swear I meant no harm..."

"No harm?" He let out a dark chuckle. His other hand actually gripped the small of my back.

The pressure was immense. His thumb grazed my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

"Instead of those fictional lines, don't you want to try... some real-life sampling?"

I looked up in shock, meeting his deep dark eyes, which were now burning with a hidden, dangerous fire.

He wasn't firing me. He was dragging me into a much more dangerous trap.