Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“It has every bearing on why my sister has chosen you as the subject of her research.”
That stops me cold. “What?”
“Annie’s thesis.” He taps the folder again. “It’s about you, Jayne. About the psychology of women who present one face to the world while secretly craving something entirely different. And you’re her primary case study.”
“That’s impossible.” I shake my head, refusing to accept what he’s saying. “Annie doesn’t know anything about what I read. I’ve never discussed personal matters with her.”
“She doesn’t need to know what you read to observe how you react to certain stimuli.” His smile is knowing, almost predatory. “To notice how your breathing changes when authority figures enter your space. How you respond to direct commands versus requests. How your pupils dilate when someone challenges your carefully constructed control.”
I feel simultaneously exposed and misunderstood, seen and misjudged. “You’re making assumptions based on—”
“Evidence, Dr. Stuart. The same evidence my sister has been collecting all semester.” He finally pushes the folder toward me. “Read it. Then tell me I’m wrong.”
My hands aren’t quite steady as I open the folder. Inside is what appears to be a detailed research journal, meticulously organized with dates, observations, and analyses. And there, on the first page, is my name.
Subject A: Dr. Jayne Stuart, 29, Psychology Professor
“This is—” I can’t even find words for what this is. Invasive? Unethical? Mortifying beyond belief?
“Thorough,” Patrizio supplies. “My sister takes her research very seriously.”
I flip through pages of observations—how I respond to different types of students, how my body language changes when department heads enter my classroom, how I maintain eye contact (or don’t) with different authority figures. It’s all presented with clinical detachment, but the underlying conclusion is unmistakable:
Dr. Jayne Stuart presents herself as confident and in control while subconsciously seeking opportunities to surrender that control to the right authority figure.
“This is a violation of privacy,” I manage, closing the folder before I can read any more. “She can’t just...observe me without consent.”
“She’s a psychology student,” Patrizio counters. “Isn’t observation part of the curriculum?”
“Not like this. Not without—” I stop, suddenly realizing something. “Wait. How did you get this? Did Annie give you her research notes?”
“Let’s just say I have a vested interest in understanding what my sister is studying.”
Uh huh.
The way he says these words with a shrug of his all-too-broad shoulders speaks volumes, and I cross my arms over my chest. “She doesn’t know that you went through her things, does she?” The irony of me challenging him on privacy violations isn’t lost on me, but indignation is easier than embarrassment.
“I protect what’s mine, Dr. Stuart.” The simple statement contains layers of meaning I’m not ready to unpack. “Including my sister.”
“From what? From me? I’ve done nothing to influence—”
“I never said you were a negative influence.” His interruption is smooth, almost gentle. “Only that you’ve become the focus of her study.”
I’m missing something here. Some piece of the puzzle that would make his interest in this situation make sense.
“Why do you care?” I ask finally. “What does it matter to you if Annie is studying my...behavioral patterns?” I can’t bring myself to say “submission fantasies” out loud, even though that’s clearly what her research is actually about.
“Because I find myself...intrigued by her conclusions.” His gaze holds mine, intense and unwavering. “And I wanted to verify them for myself.”
The implication hangs in the air between us, impossible to ignore but equally impossible to acknowledge.
“Mr. Steele—”
“You can keep calling me that if you like, darling.” The endearment slides off his tongue like silk. “But we both know it’s just another way of trying to maintain distance that isn’t really there.”
“There is distance,” I insist, clinging to professional boundaries like a lifeline. “I’m your sister’s professor. This entire conversation is inappropriate.”
“And yet you haven’t asked me to leave.” The observation is soft but devastating in its accuracy. “You haven’t reported my behavior to your department head. Haven’t threatened to contact campus security.”
He’s right. I haven’t done any of the things a truly offended professor would do if confronted with this situation. Instead, I’ve engaged. Responded. Allowed the conversation to continue far beyond what would be considered appropriate.
Just like the heroines in all those books he now knows I read.
“I’d like my Kindle back,” I say finally, because it feels like the only safe territory in this conversation.
“Would you?” His smile suggests he finds my request amusing. “Even knowing that I’ve seen your highlights? Your bookmarks? All those passages about powerful men and the women who surrender to them?”
My face burns. “It’s private property.”
“So is my sister’s research journal.” He nods toward the folder. “And yet here we are.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” He leans forward slightly, and the movement shouldn’t be threatening but somehow it makes my pulse race. “Or is it just that you’re more comfortable observing others than being observed yourself?”