I Belong To My Three Forbidden Masters

Chapter 52: Chapter 52

Lysander’s pov

The walk across campus felt like running a gauntlet with my skin pulled raw.

Every few feet, people giggled and kept shut whenever I pass. A group of girls clustered by the library steps leaned into a tight circle, whispering behind manicured hands before breaking into quiet, mocking laughter. Two guys near the quad fountain glanced down at a glowing phone screen, looked up directly at me, and snickered, making no effort to hide it.

Gideon said he took it down, I kept repeating to myself like a mantra, over and over until the words lost all meaning. My thumb nervously traced the frayed seam of my denim jacket pocket, my knuckles locked tight and white. He swore it was gone.

So why did it feel like every single pair of eyes on this campus had already seen every frame of it?

The worst part wasn’t even the stares; it was the powerlessness. Every whisper felt like a slap, every quiet laugh a blade twisting in my stomach. I kept my head down, staring at the wet gravel of the path, counting my footsteps just to keep from hyperventilating. One, two, three, four. Just get to the lecture hall. Get inside. Put your back against the wall.

By the time I pushed open the heavy double doors into the lecture hall, the silence hit me like a physical wall.

I stepped over the threshold, the low, background hum of pre-class chatter instantly shifted pitch. Heads snapped toward the doorway in unison. A rippling wave of hushed commentary cascaded up the tiered desks, accompanied by the frantic, subtle tapping of fingers on phone screens held under tables.

My heart hammered against my ribs, hard and irregular, rattling in my chest. Burning heat flooded up my neck, scorching my ears and making my eyes sting. I kept my gaze locked onto the scuffed hardwood floorboards and practically darted for the back row, sliding into the dark corner desk farthest from the podium and the main aisle.

I pulled my hood low over my face, shrinking into the bulky jacket, praying for the building to collapse or the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I pulled my notebook out of my bag, opening it to a blank page just to have something to stare at, but the white paper blurred beneath my eyes.

He lied to me, the thought echoed in the back of my mind, cold and terrifying. Or he failed.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Professor Drake walked in.

The room went dead silent, but not on its own, Drake commanded the space the second he crossed the threshold. Tall, immaculate, and draped in his dark, tailored coat, he possessed an aura that naturally crushed any unnecessary noise. He set his leather briefcase onto the dark wood podium with a dull, heavy thud, his sharp, dark gaze sweeping deliberately across the restless room.

"That will be enough," he said.

His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut through the lingering whispers.

The snickering vanished instantly. A few people near the front row hastily shoved their phones into their bags, straightening up in their seats.

"You are in a university lecture hall, not a playground," Drake said, his tone dry, dangerous, and completely unimpressed. He unbuttoned his coat, leaning his forearms lightly against the podium as he fixed the class with a look that could strip paint. "If your attention is so thoroughly consumed by childish nonsense that you cannot focus on today’s material, feel free to step out now and forfeit your attendance for the rest of the term."

Total, suffocating silence fell over the room. Nobody moved. Nobody dared to breathe loudly.

From my dark corner in the back row, I let out a slow, trembling breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Relief washed through me, cool and sweet, easing the agonizing knot in my chest. He was shutting it down. He was protecting the room, protecting me from the circus.

When Drake picked up a piece of chalk and turned toward the blackboard, his eyes scanned the room one last time. For a fraction of a second, his dark gaze collided with mine.

I caught his eye and silently mouthed, Thank you.

Drake’s eyes locked onto mine and a brutal, unyielding coldness flickered across his face.

Without a word, without a single crack in his stoic expression, he turned his back on me and began writing the day’s lecture outline on the board, the chalk scratching sharply against the slate.

For the next ninety minutes, the lecture was pure, protracted torture.

It quickly became clear that Drake’s quiet intervention wasn’t a gesture of comfort; it was a wall he was building between himself and the mess I’d brought into his building. Every time I gathered the courage to raise my hand to answer a question on the reading, desperate to feel normal, desperate to prove I was still a student here, Drake’s eyes brushed right past me. He called on anyone and everyone except me.

It was as if I had been scrubbed from the register entirely. I sat there in the back, hand hovering in the air before slowly dropping back to my lap, the embarrassment burning fresh all over again.

When class was finally dismissed, the rush of students leaving was swift. I waited in my seat, pretending to carefully pack away my pens and notebook, watching as the crowd filed out into the hallway. The hushed chatter picked right back up the second they crossed the threshold into the corridor, their voices drifting back inside in muffled bursts.

My stomach was twisted in knots as I finally zipped my bag, slung it over one shoulder, and walked down the terraced steps toward his podium. The room felt immense and hollow, the sound of my own sneakers echoing against the floor.

"Professor Drake?" My voice sounded small, thin, and fragile in the high-ceilinged room.

Drake didn’t look up right away. When he finally raised his head, there was no familiar warmth in his dark eyes. No hidden understanding. Just a flat, exhaustion-laden stare that made me feel entirely transparent.

"About earlier... I just wanted to say thank you," I stammered, rubbing the back of my neck. "For getting the class under control. I know things were... out of hand."

"Don’t thank me, Lysander," Drake said, his voice flat and razor-thin.

The coldness in his tone made me step back half an inch.

"I restored order so I could teach my syllabus," he continued, resting his hands flat on the podium as he leaned forward slightly, holding me in his suffocating line of sight. "Not to shield you from the consequences of your own indiscretions."

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath clean out of my lungs. "I—what? Drake, Gideon said he took care of—"

"I do not care who ’took care’ of what," he interrupted sharply, his voice dropping an octave into something chillingly absolute. "You are here to pursue an education, Lysander. You are here to focus on your work. Yet my lecture hall was turned into a circus today because you couldn’t keep your personal affairs off the internet."

"It wasn’t my fault!" I stammered, heat rushing back to my face in a violent wave of shame and frustration. "The video was leaked. I didn’t want any of this—"

"Intentions rarely matter when the end result is a loud, vulgar distraction," Drake said coldly. He straightened up, reaching down to grab the handle of his briefcase. "I expected far better judgment from you. I don’t tolerate high school drama in my department, and I certainly do not play savior for students who bring it to my doorstep."

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