I Quit the Professor’s Secret Love

For eighteen whole months, I knew the passcode to Professor Asher Vance's apartment. He had never changed it. That is, until the day Vivian Ashford transferred into our class.

At seven in the morning, I stood barefoot in the kitchen, expertly grabbing the familiar mug from the second shelf and pouring coffee. The bathroom door opened. Asher walked out, his tie draped loosely around his neck.

"Help me out," he said, walking over and naturally dipping his head.

I reached up to tie a Windsor knot for him, breathing in the faint scent of nicotine lingering on his skin. This was how every morning played out over the last eighteen months whenever I stayed the night. In this stark, minimalist apartment, I had slowly filled every corner with my belongings.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

"I'm skipping the afternoon lecture. Want to grab dinner together after your class?" I asked, looking up at him.

His fingers paused on his cufflink for a fraction of a second.

"Not today," he replied, his gaze shifting toward the entryway. "The department has a special arrangement. Head straight back to the dorms after class."

I didn't think much of it. As the youngest associate professor in the business school, he was always buried in endless meetings.

At two in the afternoon, I took my usual seat in the front row by the window of the lecture hall. For three consecutive semesters, this had been my undisputed territory.

As the bell rang, Asher pushed the door open and walked in. Someone was following close behind him.

"Let me introduce someone. This is Vivian Ashford, who just transferred into our program today," Asher said, standing behind the podium. His voice was perfectly level.

Whispers immediately rippled through the lecture hall. Transferring into an Ivy League midway through the semester—it didn't take a genius to figure out the massive weight her last name carried.

Vivian stood by the podium, a flawless smile playing on her lips. Eventually, her gaze landed with pinpoint accuracy right on my face.

I instinctively looked up, searching for Asher's eyes. According to our unspoken routine, whenever he stood at the podium, he would always feign a casual glance at the front row—a tiny, secret privilege reserved just for me.

But he didn't look at me.

For the next forty-five minutes, his gaze swept over the boys dozing off in the back row, lingered on the whiteboard, but never once drifted toward the front row by the window. It was as if he was trying desperately to pretend that the seat was completely empty.

After class, I stiffly shoved my notebook into my bag, ready to leave.

The sharp clack-clack of high heels marched directly toward me. A wrist adorned with a luxury watch reached past me, pressing firmly against the edge of my desk.

"You must be Elara, right?"

I looked up, meeting Vivian's eyes. She was smiling, but there wasn't a trace of warmth behind it.

"I am. Can I help you?" I tightened my grip on the strap of my backpack.

"Nothing much, just wanted to introduce myself. Asher mentioned you."

She called him Asher.

In the entire business school, even the most senior dean would politely refer to him as Professor Vance when passing him in the hallway. Yet, this new transfer student was casually tossing around the name I only ever dared to whisper carefully in the dark.

"He said out of all the students he sponsors, you're the smartest. And the one who best understands her place."

Her place. Those were the exact words he had whispered into my ear just last night, caught somewhere between a tease and a secret, as he pinned me against the sofa.

My head snapped toward the podium.

Asher hadn't left yet. He was still standing there, organizing his lecture notes. He had definitely heard the conversation. But he didn't turn around. He was silently acquiescing.

Ignoring her outstretched hand, I grabbed my backpack and practically fled the classroom.

That night, I didn't go back to the dorm.

Driven by some twisted impulse, I rode the subway for three stops and went back to Asher's apartment. I kept making excuses to myself, claiming I was just picking up a forgotten syllabus. I needed to ask him face-to-face who this Vivian woman was, and why she had the privilege to call him by his first name.

At nine o'clock, I stood in front of that familiar door. Just as I had done countless times over the past eighteen months, I punched in the four digits.

0-9-1-2. My birthday.

A red light flashed across the keypad. [Incorrect Passcode]

I froze. My finger hovered in the air, assuming I had just miskeyed a number. I pressed them again.

Beep—beep—beep! [Incorrect Passcode]

At that exact moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a text from Asher.

I changed the passcode. Don't come over tonight. We'll talk in my office tomorrow.

I stared at those words, my throat suddenly tight and suffocating.

From that night on, my birthday could no longer open his door.

He had changed the passcode. And he hadn't told me.