Chapter 8: The Disciplinary Committee Summons
Serena's POV
Tristan reached for me again.
I let him come. He shoved me back against the leather sofa, his full weight pinning me down.
"Mr. Sterling," I said, tilting my head up to meet his eyes—bloodshot now, glazed with want—"I think you've made a mistake." I let the pause stretch, then hooked two fingers into his collar and pulled him slowly toward me. "But since you paid a hundred thousand dollars… I suppose I should make it worth your while."
He lunged.
His hands seized my waist and his mouth crashed down on mine—not a kiss, a punishment. He forced my lips apart, his tongue pushing deep, thick with whiskey, sweeping through me like he was trying to consume something. Claim it.
"You think you're still above everyone?" His eyes had gone red at the rims, his knee driving hard between my thighs, grinding me into the cushions. "You're broke. Three million in debt. I bought an hour of you for a hundred grand—I'll do whatever the hell I want."
I let out a low sound against his mouth. My hands found his back and pulled.
His breathing went ragged instantly.
He yanked my shoulder straps down. Shoved the fabric aside. Exposed me.
I lay still and watched his face—that twisted, frantic expression—with perfect calm.
"Why aren't you fighting back?" he rasped, fingers rough as he tore my bra open and freed my breasts entirely. "You had so much to say downstairs. Go on. Keep talking."
He dropped his head and bit down on my nipple.
I exhaled sharply. His teeth worked at the stiffening peak—grazing, teasing, then sucking hard—while his other hand palmed my breast and squeezed until the pressure left marks. The wet sounds he made were obscene, unrestrained.
"Tristan…" I slid my hands into his hair and pressed the back of his head down, pulling him closer.
He sucked harder. Deeper. Like a man starving.
"Do you enjoy this?" I looked down at him—his face buried against my chest, his breath ragged and hot—and let my voice go soft and sweet. "Because honestly, Mr. Sterling… your technique is a little rough around the edges."
He lifted his head. His lips were wet. His eyes were burning.
"Serena." The word came out slurred, half a curse. "You're a goddamn witch."
He pressed the full length of himself against me. Through his trousers I could feel exactly how far gone he was—thick, scorching, insistent—rocking against the inside of my thigh in a slow, deliberate grind.
"You little—" He bit the words off, fumbling with his belt. "I'm going to absolutely wreck you tonight."
He got the zipper down. Let himself out, hard and flushed and past patience. His fingers caught the edge of my underwear—
Ding.
The clock on the wall struck once, clean and bright.
"One hour," I said pleasantly. "I'm afraid I don't do overtime, Mr. Sterling."
Tristan froze.
I watched the disbelief move across his face, and smiled.
Then I sat up, pressed one hand flat against his chest, and pushed.
He was too stunned to resist.
I stood, smoothed what was left of my dress, and retrieved the folded stack of bills he'd shoved into my underwear earlier. I tucked them neatly into the inner pocket of my clutch.
Then I reached back in and pulled out a single crumpled note.
One dollar. The opening bid he'd thrown at me downstairs to humiliate me in front of the room.
I walked back to him—still sitting there, belt hanging open, chest heaving—and tucked the bill into the gap of his unbuttoned shirt. I patted his chest twice, lightly.
"A tip," I said, looking down at him from above. "You were better-behaved than I expected tonight. Do remember to zip up before you leave, Mr. Sterling."
I turned and opened the door.
Asher was in the hallway, held back by two security guards, a fresh bruise darkening the corner of his eye.
The moment he saw me—dress askew, collar pulled loose—he wrenched free and crossed the distance in three strides, scanning me head to toe, gaze snagging on my throat, my collarbone, the marks.
I met his stare evenly. "I'm fine. Let's go."
We made it as far as the ground-floor lobby before my phone began vibrating without stopping.
I unlocked the screen.
Blackwood University's anonymous forum had been lit up for the past several minutes.
[BREAKING: $100K/hour — Is Transfer Student Serena Running a High-End Escort Service Out of the VIP Suite?]
The attached photo showed my back as I walked into the second-floor private room. The second shot showed Tristan stepping in behind me and pulling the door shut.
Below the headline, a line in bold red:
[UPDATE: The Disciplinary Committee will convene at 9 AM tomorrow. If misconduct is confirmed, Serena faces immediate expulsion.]
At Blackwood—a university that prided itself on old money and older values—an accusation like this wasn't gossip. It was a guillotine.
The summons arrived by email before my alarm went off.
I walked into the dean's office to find Chloe already seated, her eyes faintly pink, her expression arranged into something carefully, painstakingly sorrowful.
Beside the chair she occupied, two documents sat on the table.
The first was the disciplinary file.
The second was my dormitory application—the one I'd submitted last night. I didn't want to go back to the Kincaid estate. I didn't want the servant's room, the endless rotation of Julian and Chloe and the household staff watching my every move. If this application got denied, I'd have no choice.
"I'm just worried about Serena," Chloe was saying, her fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. "She's been under so much financial pressure lately—"
"Serena." She turned to look at me, eyes soft with manufactured concern. "If you needed money, you could have asked the family. You didn't have to… do this to yourself."
The man across the table was Professor Elias.
"Miss Serena," he said, his tone measured and flat, "are you prepared to acknowledge that last evening, inside a private suite at the auction venue, you exchanged personal services for payment of one hundred thousand dollars—conduct materially damaging to this institution's reputation?"
When I said nothing, he added, "Given that this matter involves student privacy, it would be appropriate for non-essential parties to step out."
Chloe blinked. "Professor, I only came because I'm concerned about—"
"Miss Chloe." He cut her off, not unkindly. "The university will handle this from here. You may wait outside."
She hesitated. Shot me one last look before she left—something in it that might have passed for pity, if you didn't know her.
The door clicked shut.
Professor Elias slid three photographs across the desk.
The first: me walking out of the suite, dress disheveled.
The second: Tristan above me on the sofa, belt undone, his weight pressing me into the cushions.
The third, shot from a different angle and somehow worse: the moment he'd pushed the bills into my skirt, captured in crisp, unambiguous detail.
Elias looked up.
"Miss Serena," he said.
"Is there anything you'd like to explain?"
