Chapter87 – Lawrence
He lay down, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The clock read 4:00 a.m.
He had only slept four hours, but now he couldn’t close his eyes. Not with the dream still pulsing through his veins.
The next morning, Clarissa didn’t have any classes, but she got up early anyway to have breakfast.
As she stepped into the dining area, she saw Atticus already sitting at the table, calmly eating.“Atticus, good morning,” she said out of habit.
He glanced up, a calm smile on his lips. “Good morning.”
Clarissa prepared a bowl of porridge for Clementine, and another for him. “You’re not feeling sick, are you?”
Atticus looked at her, his voice smooth. “No. Thanks to my sister.”
There was something layered beneath the words, something she didn’t catch. Clarissa just glared at him. “You better not sneak drinks behind my back again.”
“I know I was wrong, sister,” he said obediently, like a good little brother.
Their exchange left Clementine blinking in confusion. “Drinking? Clarissa, did you drink last night? Should I make you some hangover soup?”
Clarissa waved her off. “No, it was Atticus. He had a bit. But he’s fine now.”
Clementine sighed in relief. “Alright then.”
After breakfast, Clarissa went back to her room for a quick nap. Atticus shouldered his bag and headed to school.
She had only been asleep for half an hour when her phone rang. “Hello?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Clarissa! Clarissa, please go take my class for me!”
It was Daphne—her friend from the university club. They weren’t in the same major, but they were close and often hung out together.
Clarissa groaned. “I’m not in your department. How am I supposed to take your class?”
“They won’t know! Just sign in and sit through it. That’s all!”
“And where the hell are you?”
“I was with my boyfriend last night… I overslept and it’ll take me over two hours to get there.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Just skip. You won’t lose credits.”
“I’ve skipped too many times already! Please, Clarissa, pretty please? I’ll treat you to dinner! I’ll buy you something cute!”
Under the relentless pleading, Clarissa finally gave in with a sigh. “Fine. Teaching building and room number.”
“Building 8, Room 708. It starts at 9:45. You’re the best!”
She glanced at the clock. It was already nine.
“Shit,” she muttered, jumping out of bed and throwing on a hoodie and jeans.
She made it to the classroom with five minutes to spare, slipping into a seat in the farthest corner.
Even without makeup, Clarissa’s stunning face drew more than a few curious glances.
Embarrassed, she slouched low in her seat, pulled her hood up, and slipped on a mask she found in her coat pocket.
Sometimes, she couldn’t help but stare at her reflection, wondering how the original owner’s face kept getting more beautiful. Her features had a surreal glow lately—so flawless it almost felt unnatural.
Was this... normal?
Sure, being beautiful had its perks. But sometimes it brought trouble she really didn’t need.
With the hood and mask in place, the stares faded. She rested her head on the desk and dozed off, letting the warmth of sleep pull her away.
At that moment—
"Now, I’m going to choose a student to help me with the next experiment."
"Daphne."
The man standing at the podium called the name once, then again. By the third time, Clarissa finally blinked awake, still in a daze.
Daphne…
Suddenly realizing it was her, she stood up in a hurry.
“I—I'm here!” she stammered, rubbing her eyes and trying to focus. But the teacher wasn’t the elderly professor with a receding hairline and threadbare cardigan she was used to.
No—this man was young. Very young. And disarmingly handsome.
He had a face sculpted like it belonged in a Renaissance gallery—tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He wore a silver-gray suit tailored to perfection, paired with a high-collared, off-white jacquard shirt that hugged his frame softly, like silk draped over marble. His trousers, made from Egyptian long-staple cotton, were crisp and clean despite lacking creases, the fabric stretching smoothly over muscular thighs like carved columns.
He wore gold-rimmed glasses that lent him an air of intellectual refinement. His eyes, warm and smiling, gave away no arrogance, and though his lips were thin, his slight smirk—paired with the gentle slope of his brows—kept him from feeling unapproachable.
Clarissa—wrapped in a thick scarf, mask, and oversized hoodie—suddenly felt absurdly out of place.
The man, unfazed, looked straight at her and spoke in a smooth, velvety voice. “You don’t need to wear a mask and a hat in the classroom, Miss.”
Clarissa froze, then blurted instinctively, “I—I have a cold. I didn’t want to infect anyone…”
“Is that so?” He nodded with a gentle smile. “Then, sit and rest. I’ll pick someone else.”
His voice was so soothing she almost forgot how mortified she was. Clarissa lowered her head, mumbled a soft “thank you,” and quickly sat down.
She didn’t dare fall asleep again. Instead, she pulled out her phone under the desk and shot an urgent message to Daphne—the woman who, in her words, had “zero humanity when it came to throwing friends under the bus.”
As soon as class ended, Clarissa bolted from the lecture hall like she was escaping a fire.
Her stomach growled in protest. She hadn’t eaten all day, and last night had been a long one. After nursing Atticus through his drunken haze, she’d cleaned the kitchen, ran a load of laundry, and scrubbed the floor because of the soup spill. By the time she finally got into bed, it was almost three in the morning.
Clarissa yawned as she walked into the cafeteria, grabbed a tray, and piled it high with food. She poured herself a cup of strong coffee and headed toward the seating area—but as she turned the corner, mid-yawn, she didn’t see the person coming around the same side.
Crash!
“Ah!” She stopped just in time, but the coffee splashed forward, spilling over someone’s front.
Her heart stopped.
“Oh no—I'm so sorry!” she gasped, placing her tray down and reaching for tissues in a panic. But it was too late. The dark stain had already spread across the soft, silver-gray fabric of the man's suit.
“I’ll help clean it! Let me—”
“Daphne?”
The voice. Low. Smooth. Disarmingly calm.
Clarissa looked up—and her hat slipped off. Her eyes met his. It was him. The professor from earlier. Lawrence.
Now up close, he looked even more stunning—his face impossibly refined, with an air of gentle arrogance and wild charm that seemed to hum beneath the surface. The glasses, the tailored suit, the relaxed but poised demeanor… it made her heart lurch in the worst possible way.
“You... Professor?” she croaked, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.
Lawrence looked her up and down slowly, clearly amused. The corners of his lips curved. “Still sick?” he asked, his voice teasing.
The girl standing before him had flawless skin and delicate features. Her lips were full and naturally rosy, a soft pink that drew attention even without lipstick. The only imperfection was the faint smudge of a dark circle under her eyes.
Clarissa flushed under his gaze, caught off guard by his calm, perceptive words.
“I’m sorry, Professor. I really do have a cold, so I…” she trailed off.
Lawrence gave a slow, knowing smile. “Your name isn’t Daphne, is it?” It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.