The Professor [ NOW ON GALATEA]

POV: Sarah

I was nervous. Not the kind of fluttery nervousness that comes with meeting fans at a book signing—no, this was worse. This was a sharp, clawing anxiety that gnawed at the edges of my mind. I wasn’t just heading to any book signing. I was going back to my high school.

The place where it all began.

It wasn’t like I was some shy wallflower anymore. My career as an erotic novelist had catapulted me to a level of fame I never expected. My books were devoured worldwide, often with whispered discussions about how intense they were. And now, a decade after graduation, I was being showcased as one of the “successful alumni” at a reunion event. My agent, Sandra, thought it was a brilliant idea to schedule a book signing on the same day.

Sandra was more than just my agent—she was my best friend and the manager of my chaotic life. Short, curvy, and loud, with fiery red hair to match her personality, she was the reason I could churn out book after book while drinking my body weight in coffee. She also had a knack for forcing me out of my comfort zone, like today.

“Are you sure this dress was a good idea?” I asked as I stepped off the helicopter, tugging nervously at the hem of the tight red midi dress Sandra had picked for me. It hugged my curves in a way that felt almost indecent, with a neckline so deep I could practically see my own heartbeat.

Sandra stepped out behind me, her heels clicking with confidence. She shot me a sharp look, the kind that told me I had no choice in this matter. “Would you rather show up in that gray sweatpants set with the holes in the knees?”

I glared at her. “Those are comfortable.”

“Sarah, this dress is perfect. You’re just freaking out because it’s not a sweatshirt. It’s one night. Tomorrow, you can go back to hiding behind your laptop and writing about intense sex that you don’t actually have anymore.”

“Hey!”

She smirked unapologetically. “Am I wrong?”

I sighed, conceding the point. “Maybe.”

“That’s my girl,” Sandra said, sliding on her sunglasses and striding toward the waiting limo as if she owned the place.

We climbed inside, and I immediately frowned. “A limo? Really?”

Sandra shrugged and reached for the glass of champagne waiting for us. “Blame your old principal. Apparently, this is how they’re treating their star guest.”

“It’s 3 PM,” I pointed out as she took a sip.

“Time is an illusion,” she shot back, waving the glass dramatically.

The drive wasn’t long—only about thirty minutes—but as we pulled up to the old mansion that housed my high school, a flood of memories hit me.

The building looked almost exactly the same. The stone porch and brick facade with dark wooden beams brought back the weight of late nights studying and the sharp pangs of unspoken crushes. The surrounding campus, however, had grown. A massive Olympic-sized pool now stood where there used to be a dusty field, along with sleek dormitories and sparkling courts.

I stepped out of the car, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, it felt like time had rewound, like I was seventeen again, carrying books too big for my arms and dreaming of a life far beyond these walls.

Sandra grabbed the bags and joined me, but before I could say a word, a familiar voice boomed across the courtyard.

“The wonderful and talented Sarah Levik!”

I turned toward the sound, and my heart soared as I saw Principal Chad Stanfort. He looked older now, his once-brown hair completely gray, but his warm smile and sparkling green eyes were just as I remembered.

“Principal Stanfort!” I called, letting him envelop me in a warm, fatherly hug. He still smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and mint, a combination that instantly brought me back to late afternoons spent in his office discussing poetry competitions and essay prizes.

“I’m so proud of you, Sarah,” he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. “I always knew you’d do something amazing with that sharp mind of yours.”

I smiled, feeling a rare blush creep up my neck. “Thank you. It’s so good to be back.”

“And who is this lovely young lady?” he asked, his gaze shifting to Sandra.

“This is my agent, Sandra,” I said, stepping aside.

Sandra gave a polite smile, which quickly turned into something more flustered as Principal Stanfort took her hand and kissed it gently. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, his old-fashioned charm in full effect.

Sandra let out a barely audible sigh, her cheeks tinged pink. I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, tucking the moment away to tease her about later.

As we walked through the familiar halls, the memories hit harder, almost too much. Laughter echoed faintly in my ears, mingling with the sharp sting of teenage insecurities I thought I’d long buried.

And then, like the sharp intake of a breath, I felt it—the weight of a memory I couldn’t ignore. A face flashed in my mind, vivid and clear. A face I hadn’t seen in years.

William.

I froze mid-step, my heart pounding harder than it had in years.

“Sarah?” Sandra asked, touching my arm.

But I couldn’t speak.

Because deep down, I knew.

I was going to see him again.

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour before the party starts. We still have time,” Principal Stanfort said, gesturing for us to follow. He carried our bags toward the teachers’ lounge, his enthusiasm palpable as he pointed out the changes and updates to the school. It was clear he was proud of this place, showing each room and addition like it was his own home.

In many ways, it was. Not only was he the principal, but he was also a partner in the school franchise. His late wife, who had been the co-principal here, passed away three years ago, leaving him to carry the weight of it all on his own.

After leaving our bags in the teachers’ lounge, we made our way to the main hall. It was stunning—vaulted ceilings, glass walls, and natural light flooding the space. A stage stood at one end, and small round tables dotted the room, laden with trays of food and drinks. Waiters adjusted the final touches, while familiar faces—former teachers and staff—moved about.

“Sarah!”

The voice was unmistakable. I turned and was met with a wide smile and outstretched arms from Mrs. Cassandra Smith, my old math teacher. She hadn’t changed a bit—still petite, with her signature curly hair, colorful outfits, and those oversized glasses that made her look perpetually curious.

“Mrs. Cassandra!” I said, hugging her warmly. “It’s so good to see you!”

I introduced her to Sandra, and we chatted briefly before wandering over to one of the food stations. I grabbed a canapé, my eyes darting around the room as memories from my teenage years washed over me. My fingers brushed against my dress instinctively, as though I were still the gawky girl with baggy sweaters and thick-rimmed glasses that once roamed these halls.

“How does it feel to be back in the glory years?” Sandra’s teasing voice pulled me from my thoughts.

“Glory years? Hardly!” I laughed, shaking my head. “I was the school nerd, remember?”

Sandra frowned, looking me up and down with exaggerated disbelief. “You seem pretty successful to me. How did this”—she gestured at me dramatically—“not attract attention?”

“My success was with the teachers, not the students,” I replied, shrugging as I bit into the tart. “And this”—I waved a hand over my curves—“didn’t exist fifteen years ago.”

Sandra burst into laughter, and I gave a playful shake of my hips, earning another round of chuckles from her.

But the laughter froze in my chest the moment I saw him.

He entered the hall with the same quiet confidence I remembered, his presence commanding attention without effort. My pulse thundered in my ears as adrenaline surged through me, locking my knees and stealing my breath.

It was him.

William Stanfort.

The years had only made him more striking. His tall frame, those broad shoulders, the soft curl of his brown hair—it was all etched into my memory. His narrow green eyes carried that same intensity, his strong jawline lending him an air of quiet authority. But his smile… his smile was what undid me. It was still the most perfect, disarming smile I’d ever seen.

Every emotion I thought I’d buried came rushing back with the force of a tidal wave. My heart pounded, my stomach churned, and my hands trembled against the tart I was holding.

“Wait... is that him?” Sandra’s voice jolted me, her eyes darting between me and William, wide with recognition.

“No. Who?” I stammered, my attempt to deflect so weak I cringed inwardly.

Sandra smirked knowingly. “It is him. You described him perfectly—he looks like he just walked off the pages of your book.”

“Stop, Sandra,” I hissed, panic rising in my chest. “Don’t ruin this—”

But before I could finish, he looked at me.

Our eyes locked.

The room disappeared.

I felt my lips curve into a smile, one I couldn’t suppress even as my cheeks burned. His gaze lingered, and then he smiled back—a smile so genuine, so warm, it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

And then he started walking toward me.

He moved with purpose, his focus unbroken, as though no one else in the room existed. My heart felt like it might burst. My breath hitched, and I tried to steady myself, but the ground beneath me seemed to shift with every step he took.

“Sarah,” he said, his voice like a whisper from a dream, so much richer and deeper than I remembered.

My pulse roared in my ears as he stopped in front of me, his smile softening.

It was strange, standing here now, years later, trying to keep my face calm while my mind spiraled. William had been my high school literature teacher—my first teacher who saw me, really saw me. I was seventeen, invisible to the world and to myself, until he brought books to life in a way no one else could.

He wasn’t like the older, balding professors you’d expect; he was young, barely six or seven years older than us. Fresh out of college, still carrying that quiet enthusiasm of someone who believed words could change the world. Maybe it was because he was the son of the principal and stepped right into the role that his age didn’t matter, but to me, he was untouchable.

The kind of untouchable that ignites an unshakable longing. From day one, I was lost. I buried it, of course—shoved it deep where no one could see. My love for him became the reason I devoured books, the reason I dared to pick up a pen.

Years later, when my career as an author was just beginning, I let that buried passion bleed onto pages no one would ever read. I wrote a book about a student who fell hopelessly in love with her teacher—her inspiration, her downfall, her everything. I changed the names, the setting, tweaked the story to make it unrecognizable, but it was mine. My secret. I never published it. I couldn’t.

The only person who’d ever read it was Sandra, and even she knew better than to bring it up. That book was proof of the feelings I’d sworn I’d buried, but seeing William now, hearing him say my name with that same warmth that had once unraveled me… I knew the truth. I’d never buried it deep enough.