Chapter 3 A Lesson in Temptation

When someone tells you to meet them in the library, you expect something dull-a tutoring session, a lecture, a forced group project where no one does their share. It's the kind of meeting that blends into the background of everyday life.

But when it's him, when it's Cristiano Wright leaving a cryptic note, the stakes feel entirely different.

It's fine. Totally fine.

I'm just going to meet him, listen to yet another speech about unlocking my potential, and leave with an obscene amount of homework. That's all.

Then why am I sweating like I'm about to be sentenced for a crime I didn't commit?

The library looms ahead, its grand wooden doors exuding an eerie stillness. I push one open, stepping inside. The scent of aged paper and polished mahogany fills my lungs-rich, familiar, and oddly suffocating. Dust dances in the golden shafts of sunlight filtering through the arched windows, making the entire space feel like some sacred cathedral of knowledge.

And then-

His voice slices through the silence.

"You're late."

I nearly jump out of my skin. My heart lurches.

I whirl around, and there he is.

Sitting at the far end of a long wooden table, bathed in afternoon light, Cristiano Wright watches me with that ever-calm, ever-unreadable gaze. A fortress of books surrounds him, thick volumes stacked like barriers between us.

I swear, he moves like a ghost-one second, the room is empty; the next, he's just there, poised like a figure from an oil painting, all tailored elegance and quiet authority.

"I'm only two minutes late," I mutter, holding up my phone like some pathetic defense.

"Late is late."

He adjusts his glasses, a single, almost imperceptible movement, but it shifts something in the air.

"Sit."

Bossy.

I roll my eyes but drop into the chair across from him, tossing my bag onto the table. My arms fold. My pride braces itself. Here we go again.

But then I really see him.

The details.

The way his crisp white shirt clings to his broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit. The way his navy-blue tie sits neatly against his chest, subtle yet undeniably refined. The veins on his hands, the flex of his fingers as he adjusts his cufflinks, the sharp angles of his jaw clean-shaven and precise.

The way he looks down at the books before him-measured, calculating, like he's dissecting something sacred. The soft light catches in his dark, slightly wavy hair, turning it almost golden at the edges, making him look...

...weirdly poetic.

I blink.

Oh my god.

What the hell am I thinking?

I do not find Mr. Wright attractive.

No.

Nope.

Not in this lifetime.

And yet, my heart betrays me with a single, traitorous flutter.

The realization sends heat surging to my face. My stomach twists. I look down immediately, burying my gaze in the open book before me, as if The Foundations of Literary Analysis might suddenly become the most fascinating text in human history.

But it's too late.

"You're staring," he says, his voice low and knowing.

I jolt. Shit.

"I'm not staring." My voice is clipped, defensive. I keep my eyes fixed on the table, anywhere but him.

I hear the faintest chuckle. Barely there. A ghost of amusement.

I hate that it does something to me.

I hate him for being so effortlessly composed while I sit here, crumbling internally like a badly constructed sandcastle.

"So," I blurt, eager to change the subject. "What's with the stack of ancient tomes? Planning to bury me under an avalanche of literature?"

Mr. Wright exhales, flipping open a book. "Partially."

"Great. Academic homicide. Just what I needed today."

"You need to start taking your studies seriously, Alina." His tone is calm, but firm. Like he's carving the words into stone.

I scowl. "I do take them seriously."

"Do you?"

"Yes!" I flail a hand dramatically. "You don't know how long it took me to come up with my 'stubborn plum blossom' theory."

He gives me a look. That look.

The one that says, Don't test me.

The one that sends a jolt through my chest.

"Alina."

My name rolls off his tongue in a way that makes something tighten in my stomach.

"Excuses don't replace effort," he says.

His voice is calm, but something about it strips me raw.

I look away, biting the inside of my cheek.

"I hope you brought snacks, because if you expect me to read all this, we're going to be here until the apocalypse."

He reaches for a book, handing it to me. "You're not reading them all. Just this."

I glance at the cover. The Poetics of Resilience.

I raise an eyebrow. "Resilience, huh? Is this your subtle way of telling me to quit whining?"

"Interpret it however you want."

His lips twitch. A half-smirk. Not quite a smile.

I hate that I notice.

For a while, we settle into an odd rhythm-him reading, me skimming the book and pretending to care. I peek at him over the pages, watching the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his fingers trace the edges of the paper.

I shouldn't be looking.

But I do.

And the worst part? He knows.

"Why do you hide behind sarcasm?"

His voice is quiet, but it shatters the silence between us.

I freeze. My pulse stutters.

"What?"

He leans forward slightly, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine with unnerving precision. "Your humor. Is it a defense mechanism?"

My throat goes dry.

"Wow." I force a laugh. "Did you learn that in 'How to Psychoanalyze Teenagers 101'?"

"I'm serious."

The softness in his voice disarms me.

"You have more to say than you let on, Alina," he murmurs. "Why do you bury it?"

His words dig into something fragile inside me. Something I don't like acknowledging.

"Maybe because no one listens," I mutter before I can stop myself.

Silence.

His gaze doesn't waver.

"I'm listening."

The air leaves my lungs.

It's not just the words. It's the way he says them.

Like he means them.

Like he actually sees me.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

I swallow hard, breaking the eye contact. "Well, that's creepy."

His lips twitch again. "Honesty isn't creepy."

"Is this a library or a therapy office?" I grumble, stuffing my book into my bag. "Thanks for the wisdom, Dr. Phil, but I've got to go."

He doesn't stop me.

But as I reach the door, his voice follows.

"Alina."

I pause.

"Don't underestimate yourself."

I don't turn around. I can't.

Something in my chest tightens-something raw, something dangerous, something I don't have the courage to name.

I step outside, inhaling the crisp air.

My heart is still pounding.

I don't know what the hell just happened.

But I do know one thing.

Cristiano Wright is a problem.

And I don't know how to solve him.