{Amy's Perspective}
As I kicked idiot out of the class, I turned back to the students, my steps measured and deliberate. I squared my shoulders and adjusted my glasses, determined to regain control of the situation.
"Now that the distraction has been dealt with, let's continue," I said coldly, my tone clipped.
I exhaled softly, shifting my attention back to the class. "As I was saying, my name is Amy Anderson, and I will be your professor for Business Strategy this semester."
The lecture flowed on without any glitches. I was going through the material so clearly, making concepts understandable while pointing at slides and charts.
"Business strategy is not all about theory. It's all about vision, planning, and flexibility," I continued to explain steadily. "A good strategist does not just react; they anticipate and innovate."
To the students, I probably seemed sharp and composed, a figure of professionalism. But inside?
Billy Scott. Those two words were a storm in my head.
He's not leaving my head, like he owned the place.
The moment he shouted "Angel" in front of everyone, time had stopped for me. His voice was exactly as I remembered it from that night.
The night that idiot kissed me. On the brink of death, no less.
I clenched my jaw, trying to push the memory away. I should have known then and there he was nothing but a playboy. Who kisses a stranger and asks for a promise of marriage when they're dying?
But… why was that kiss the only thing playing on repeat in my mind?
I shook my head slightly, trying to keep myself grounded in the present. He's probably not even outside. He's probably already moved on to causing chaos somewhere else, I told myself.
Finally, the session ended. Relief flooded through me as I wrapped up the lecture.
"Thank you for your attention," I said, shutting my laptop with a quiet snap and gathering my belongings. "See you next session."
I stood at the lectern, letting the students file out, keeping my head down, turning my eyes away from their curious glances.
I do not want to hear their whispers or see their sarcastic grins.
Once the room was generally bare, I stepped into the hallway clutching my bag to myself. My heart beat a little faster as I went along, praying that idiot wasn't waiting for me.
But of course, fate wasn't that kind.
"Running away again, Angel? Or should I say… Professor Amy Anderson?"
I was frozen in place, my heart sinking. Slowly, I turned around. Reluctantly.
There he was.
Billy leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his grin equal parts smug and teasing. The dim hallway light caught the mischievous spark in his eyes, the same maddening glint he'd had two years ago.
"What… why are you still here?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I could help.
He shrugged lazily, his body unbothered, yet there was an intentness about his gaze I couldn't let slide. "I have my reasons," he said, his as he walks toward me, his steps slow and deliberate.
That easy confidence, paired with those piercing blue eyes, sent an unsteady flutter through my chest.
My shoulders squared; I refused to let him see how flustered I felt. "Are you still here because you got mad for kicked out of my class?" I snapped more sharply than I intended.
He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "Hmm," he mused, his tone light and teasing. "Not exactly. Though, I have to admit, getting kicked out of a class for the first time ever was… kind of fun." He flashed a boyish smirk.
"Fun?" I repeated incredulously, my irritation flaring. "You should take this seriously. This isn't a playground, Billy Scott."
His smile broadened as if he enjoyed the frustration. "I'll take it seriously when you stop pretending you don't know me," he said, his voice dropping just enough to make the space between us feel smaller. "How do you even know my name, Angel? I didn't remember giving you my name correctly.
I blinked. "Someone said something about you before class," I mumbled, turning my head to the side to get away from the intensity of his gaze. I remembered Miss Charlotte telling me he was bright but playboy. I wasn't going to mention that.
This idiot chuckled low. "So you know my name, but you're saying you don't remember me?" His voice was softer now, laced with something more than amusement—something teasing but intimate, like a secret only we shared.
I froze. The words hung in the air, and I could feel the weight of the students' eyes on us. A small crowd had formed in the hallway, their whispers and curious glances setting my nerves on edge.
"Enough," I said, turning fully to face him. "Fine. Yes, I remember. I remember everything. I remember pulling you out of the death on January 10th last year. You were barely conscious, bleeding to death, and I saved you, and that's it."
The hallway fell silent, except for a few audible gasps. I could feel the stares intensify as my words echoed in the stillness. My cheeks burned with frustration.
His expression shifted as he processed my words. "January 10th," he repeated, his voice quiet. Then, just like that, the smirk returned, brighter than ever. "You even remember the exact date. If you remember that, Angel, then you must remember the promise you made to me."
That night flashed in my mind like a jumbled reel: the snow, the dim streetlights, the sharp smell of cigarettes. He murmured something I couldn't quite push out of my mind.
I shook my head fast, trying to shake off the memory. "Promise?" I blurted out, my voice stammering. "There was no promise. You passed out right after lighting your cigarette."
He took another step closer, and I automatically backed away until my shoulders almost touched the wall. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, his tone a quiet challenge. "I even took token for that promise from you."
My heart was racing with word token.
Was he talking about the kiss?
Fuck! Why I am still thinking about that damn kiss again.
"There was no promise," I said, but my voice betrayed me, faltering just enough for him to notice.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, warm and teasing. "You're lying, Angel. I can see it in your eyes." His closeness was overwhelming, the faint scent of cologne mingling with something uniquely his, making my thoughts spin.
"I'm not lying!" I burst out, though the heat rising in my cheeks probably said otherwise. My gaze darted around, desperate to avoid his.
"There was no promise." I added.
But his smirk became almost predatory, that look of a cornered beast. "Then let me help you remember by returning your token."
Before I could say anything, his hand reached up, his palm curved around my cheek in a surprising gentleness. He stroked my skin with his thumb, and I froze, unable to tear my gaze from those infuriating, captivating eyes.
And then his lips were on mine.
The kiss was not harsh, nor was it rushed; it was soft and deliberate, as if he was giving me the chance to pull away. But I didn't.
I hated myself for it.
His lips were warm, firm, and the way they moved against mine sent a jolt through me that I couldn't define. It wasn't desire, at least not all of it. It was something deeper, something that made my chest tighten and my pulse quicken.
I wanted to push him away. My mind screamed at me to end this, break the connection, but my body betrayed me. I felt rooted in place, unable to resist the strange pull of him.
The faint scent of his cologne—cedarwood and something fresh—wrapped around me, blending with the warmth of his touch. My heart was racing, pounding in my ears like a drum, drowning out every logical thought.
My head was all a jumble, trying to make sense of it—anger mixed with confusion, and something else I didn't want to name.
When he finally let go of me, I was breathless, my lips tingling from the intensity of it all. My chest rose and fell as I tried to steady my breathing, my thoughts a chaotic mess.
His piercing blue eyes held mine, softer now, though a flicker of that familiar smugness remained. His thumb grazed my cheek one last time, almost like a whisper, before his hand dropped back to his side.
"Still no memories, Angel?" His voice was low, intimate, the teasing edge tempered by something gentler.
I couldn't find my voice, couldn't form a coherent thought. My lips still tingled from the kiss, and the space between us felt charged, like a storm waiting to break.
Billy took a half step back, allowing me only just enough space to breathe, but not enough to get away from the magnetic pull of his presence. His eyes dropped to my lips, and when they returned to mine, something in his face was unguarded.
Amy Anderson, what just happened?
I stared at him, my thoughts spiraling into chaos. He kissed me. Again.
I got kissed. Again?! And by him? By an rumoured playboy?!
A streak of my lipstick clung to his mouth. He noticed it, of course, and his lips curved into a faint smile—not the usual smirk, but something softer, more knowing. "You're blushing, Professor," he said.
Anger surged through me, hot and unrelenting. My vision blurred with the force of it, and before I could think, my hand shot out.
The sharp crack of the slap shook through the hall, silencing the whispers. His head moved slightly from impact, his cheek reddening there where my palm had connected. For a second, I thought that I had wiped the smirk off his face.
But then, to my utter frustration, his lips quirked back into that infuriating grin. He rubbed his cheek with an exaggerated wince. "Ah, that stings," he said, his tone laced with mock pain. "But I think it was worth it."
My fury spiked, my hand rising again before I could stop myself. This time, I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face for good.
But just before it reached Billy's self-satisfied, arrogant face, my wrist halted-in midair.
I froze, startled, my eyes leaping to the hand that had caught mine. It wasn't Billy's.
"My, my," a smooth, velvety voice broke through the tension, laced with amusement, "your delicate hand might sting if you slap that idiot again, Miss.
I turned and found myself facing a man whom I dimly remembered—the one who had been sitting with Billy in the cafeteria. His silver-grey hair reflected the light as if it was spun from silk.
His grip was firm, too firm. I tried to pull my arm back, but his hold remained unyielding, like iron, though his expression stayed gentle, almost playful.
"Let go," I growled, my voice low. I didn't want to attract any more attention than I already had from the crowd gathering around us.
Billy's hand shot out, restricting the man's actions by gripping his wrist. His teasing grin was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was an icy stare that seemed almost unrecognizable.
"You are hurting her, Caleb," he said, voice low but warning enough.
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Hehe.
You guys know how much research I done for this chapter?
Pure hell!