Misconduct: A forbidden obsession

Name: Misconduct: A forbidden obsession
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Loliaaa

Fantasy | Ongoing

5.0

Comment(s)

View

Chapters

"You opened the door for me once. Don't pretend you won't do it again." Dr. Ava Merrill swore she'd never lose control again. Not after the scandal. Not after the girl who disappeared. But then he shows up. Landon Reed, her student. Too smart. Too calm. Too interested in everything she's trying to bury. He knows her past. He quotes her secrets. And every time she tells him no, his eyes say "you will." This isn't just forbidden. It's an obsession. And someone's watching her unravel.

R18+ Suspense Secret relationship Scheming Age gap Age gap Divorce

Chapter 4 The Envelope

05-31 18:44

Chapter 1 The Glass Office

Ava's POV

The first thing I notice about the office is the glass.

It stretches from floor to ceiling-panels so clean they reflect everything behind me: my posture, too upright; my coat, too expensive for someone pretending not to bleed prestige; the box I'm carrying, too light to contain anything real. The hallway behind me is still, and I can see my own eyes watching me through the glass as I unlock the door to the life I'm supposed to begin.

The key sticks. Of course it does. Briarhall's always been old-money pretending to be modern. Ivy grown over rot.

I force the key harder, feel the give, and step into the space.

It smells faintly like lemon-scented cleaner and something metallic beneath it-ink, maybe. Dust. Regret.

My new office is narrow but long, with a wall of gray bookshelves and a desk that looks like it was dragged in during some Nixon-era renovation. There's one chair across from mine. I appreciate the message: One-on-ones aren't meant to be comfortable.

The windows are sealed shut. A storm hisses against the glass.

I close the door behind me.

I set the box down on the desk and open it, layer by layer. One framed photograph. A copy of Winnicott's The Maturational Processes. A red leather notebook I haven't written in since... No. Not yet. A white ceramic mug with a hairline crack at the lip. My laptop, still wrapped in bubble wrap from the move.

Each item feels like it belongs to someone else.

This isn't a fresh start. It's a rerun in a new location.

A soft knock at the open door. I turn.

A woman stands there-early fifties, polite smile lacquered over indifference.

"Dr. Merrill?" she asks. "I'm Deborah. Department secretary."

She holds out an envelope. My office key. Why I'm just getting it now is a question I won't ask.

"You're in 2C," she says. "Most of the psychology faculty are upstairs, but... this was the room that became available."

She doesn't explain why. I don't ask.

I take the envelope. Her fingers graze mine just a second too long. Not warm. Not kind. Curious.

"Thank you," I say, quiet.

She studies me. "You'll want to keep your door locked."

I smile like I'm amused. "I'm not here to make enemies."

"No," she says. "But the ghosts tend to knock whether you invite them or not."

She leaves before I can respond.

I drop into the desk chair. It creaks-like everything else here. I lean back and stare at the ceiling for a moment. Let the silence stretch.

I want this to work.

I don't need admiration. Or friends. Or trust.

Just space.

Just time.

Just... stillness.

There's a drawer in the desk that doesn't open.

I try it once, twice. Locked.

Not unusual. But still-something about it irritates me. The control of it. The secrecy. As if someone decided which parts of this space I was allowed to access, and which parts were off-limits. I'll have to ask Deborah for the key. Or pick it myself.

I take the last item from the box: a silver pen with a name engraved on the barrel. Mine. A gift from the board chair of my last university. Before he resigned. Before I did.

I run my thumb over the inscription like it might disappear.

Outside, the wind kicks up. The rain turns harder, angled. The trees bow in a synchronized tremor.

I check the time.

First lecture's in twenty minutes.

I rise, straighten my coat, and catch my reflection once more in the glass wall before I step out.

I hate the way I look when I'm pretending to be calm.