Chapter 3

Before Keira could even begin to rein in the tempest tearing through her chest, the voice behind her struck like an electric shock.

She spun around on pure instinct, her cheeks still blazing crimson with raw fury, the wet traces of fresh tears catching the cold fluorescent glare of the hallway.

The man standing three paces away stole whatever breath she had left.

He was tall—commanding in a way that had nothing to do with mere height. His features were sculpted with such aristocratic precision that the word *handsome* felt utterly inadequate. Keira had spent years steeped in literature and art, but in that suspended second, the only word her mind could summon was breathtaking.

Yet there was nothing gentle in his beauty. His face was carved from cold granite, shadowed by an effortless, haughty arrogance that seemed bred into his bones. His dark, deep-set eyes pinned her with an icy scrutiny—a quiet, suffocating gravity that made the vast corridor feel suddenly starved of air.

She didn't know him. She had never seen this man in her life.

Was he actually speaking to her?

Keira swallowed hard, pulling herself together through the haze of shock. Her brows knitted in bewilderment as she lifted a trembling finger, pointing cautiously at her own chest.

"Were... were you speaking to me?" Her voice sounded thin, caught between defensiveness and sheer confusion. "I don't think I know who you are."

Augustin tilted his head, a dark eyebrow arching by a fraction.

Of course she didn't know him—he had never laid eyes on her either. But the moment he had stepped out of the elevator onto the patient floor, the name Camren Durham had echoed down the corridor in that impassioned, furious shout. Combined with the university badge clipped to her canvas tote and the raw desperation in her voice, it wasn't difficult to deduce who she was.

This was the substitute instructor his nephew had upended an entire lecture hall for.

His sharp, razor-edged gaze swept slowly over her—taking in the disheveled sky-blue sweater, the salt-stained winter boots, and the defiant flush painting her neck. When he finally spoke, his baritone was impeccably measured, smooth as polished slate, yet wrapped in a distinct, aristocratic chill:"I am Camren’s uncle, Augustin Durham. My apologies. I didn't mean to intrude on your telephone call."

Camren's uncle.

The words detonated in Keira's mind like a cannon blast.

A wave of icy sweat broke across her palms. The color rushed from her face, leaving her completely rigid, before surging back with tenfold heat.

Augustin Durham. The patriarch of the family. The man who held Camren’s trust and future in the palm of his hand.

She had just screamed at the top of her lungs that she was in love with her twenty-one-year-old student—and the boy's billionaire uncle had been standing right behind her, absorbing every catastrophic word.

"Camren's... uncle?" Keira choked out, her voice cracking as sheer mortification took the wheel. "M-Mr. Durham? No—please, that was a complete misunderstanding! I was... I was on the phone with my boy—my ex, Alexandre, and I was just speaking out of temper! It was a private matter, completely personal! I swear to you, I don't actually have feelings for Camren. It was purely said in anger—truly, it’s just a misunderstanding!"

Augustin didn't interrupt. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable beneath the low winter light.

At thirty-seven, he was thoroughly accustomed to people calculating their every syllable around him—polishing their agendas or feigning composure. He couldn't remember the last time someone had stood in front of him completely undone by genuine mortification.

Her defense was messy, hurried, and entirely unvarnished. The sudden flush creeping up her neck, the breathless rush of words, the fierce panic in her eyes—there was no artifice in any of it. She genuinely wished the floor would swallow her whole.

The rigid coldness in his stance subtly eased. He slid both hands into his trouser pockets, the oppressive weight of his presence pulling back just enough for the corridor to breathe again.

When he spoke, the edge in his baritone had softened into something dry, measured, and unhurried:"And what should I call you?"

Keira swallowed against the knot in her throat.

Her pulse was still racing, but years of academic training and professional decorum stepped in on pure instinct. She lowered her hands, drew her shoulders straight, and inclined her head with crisp, formal composure."Good afternoon, Mr. Durham. I'm Camren’s substitute instructor. Keira Henson."

"Keira Henson?"

At that precise moment, the late-afternoon winter sun angled through the tall glass facade behind her, catching the sharp planes of Augustin’s face in pale, liquid amber. For a fleeting heartbeat, the sunlight seemed to soften the dark, impenetrable depths of his gaze.

He repeated her name slowly, the syllables rolling over his lips in a low, contemplative murmur.

Whether it was the resonant timbre of his baritone or that inexplicable, velvet warmth threading through his otherwise cold voice, Keira couldn't tell—but hearing her name fall from this stranger’s lips sent a strange, electric tremor straight down her spine.

Then, through the quiet hum of the corridor, Augustin tilted his head, his dark eyes fixing upon hers with unhurried gravity:

"Tell me, Ms. Henson... how old are you?"

To ask a woman her age upon a first introduction was undeniably forward, bordering on improper.