Chapter 15: Have We Met Before?

Catherine saw the girl hurry out of Maximilian’s office, practically fleeing. She stopped for a moment and looked at Catherine before she ran away covering her face. Catherine couldn’t help the faint, amused tilt of her lips.

He hasn’t changed.

In the past, too, she had mistaken his dismissal of fragile, sweetly seductive women as restraint. As loyalty. She had believed, foolishly, that because he did not look at them or accept their advances, it meant he had already chosen her. That the decreed engagement between them had settled something in his heart.

He had proved her wrong.

Not gently. Not quietly.

He had twisted the knife with exquisite precision and left it lodged there, bleeding her slowly for the rest of her life.

She pushed the door open without knocking.

Maximilian didn’t startle.

He looked up slowly from his papers, the movement deliberate, controlled, like armor sliding into place. His breathing remained even. The glasses on his nose didn’t soften the sharpness of his gaze; they merely disguised it.

When he realized it was her, however, his eyes changed.

“Catherine,” he said evenly, then corrected himself, his voice softening to a warm baritone, a contrast from how deep it was with the other girl. “Miss Catherine Preston.”

He removed his glasses and stood, posture immaculate, every inch the gentleman he had been trained to be in the presence of a lady.

The door closed behind Catherine.

“Dr. Whitmore,” Catherine replied. Her lips, painted a restrained rosy pink, curled faintly as she took him in.

Was this really the same man she had seen the last time?

That Maximilian had been drenched in blood and rain, armor dented, fury carved into his face like scripture. He smelled of iron and death, of battlefields that never truly released their dead.

This one wore tweed. A sweater. A crisp shirt beneath.

And his office…God… It smelled sweet. it smelled of old books and cigars. Warm. Civilized. Human.

How could this be the same man?

But she did not come here to marvel.

She had changed too. Softer on the surface. Polished. Presentable. Yet her soul still bore scars no one could see. Beneath her faint smile lived a heart made wary by betrayal.

And behind his courteous stillness, she sensed the same hunting instinct. Leashed, not gone.

“I just saw your little admirer leave,” she said lightly. “Looks like you crushed her hopes.” She smiled.

Her hand tightened on the handle of her bag. Inside it, nestled among papers and proof, rested a gun.

One bullet, she thought, between his eyes will end it all—freedom, at last.

The Borzoi lifted its head at the sound of her voice.

Unlike with the girl whom it had treated as air, the dog rose fully to its feet now. Tall. Alert. Watching her with unnerving focus.

Catherine arched a brow. “Oh? I’m honored.”

Dogs, those perceptive little traitors. Did you read my mind?

And really… who’s allowed to take a hunting hound into a faculty office?

Ah. Whitmore. He must be that Whitmore!

Maximilian’s mouth tightened. “He’s being polite.”

“No,” Catherine replied, stepping closer. “He’s sizing me up.”

The Borzoi, bred to hunt wolves, stood before her, posture tall and alert, its unease unmistakable. Not fear. Defense. The kind that preceded a decision. She knew dogs well enough to understand what this moment was: a balance point. It could tip either way.

And still, she moved.

In another life, she had learned that hesitation cost more than courage ever did. If you waited for safety, you lost what mattered long before you ever reached it. So Catherine did what she had always done—she walked straight into danger for what she deemed worth protecting.

Still, she wasn’t foolish.

Maximilian would never leave a dog unleashed if it were truly a threat. He was careful that way. Calculated. And the breed he had chosen… she recognized it instantly. The same one he favored in another life.

Heh. Still the same.

She extended her hand.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle shift in Maximilian’s posture: the tension, brief and restrained, like a man bracing for variables he could no longer predict.

The Borzoi sniffed her palm.

Not dismissive. Not wary.

Catherine met its pale gaze without flinching.

Maximilian coughed sharply.

At once, the dog stepped forward and rested its long snout against her hand. Not submission. Recognition. The kind granted sparingly.

Catherine bent just enough to murmur, her voice meant only for the dog, teasing and light.

“You have better taste than your owner.”

She felt it then, the truth beneath the moment. That cough had been a signal. As always, Maximilian was still the predator, the ruler, the one whose authority was obeyed without question.

Of course, his dog listened to him.

She gave the Borzoi a brief pat. It returned to its place and lay down with aristocratic elegance, decision made.

“Miss Preston—” Maximilian began.

“Dr. Preston, Professor,” Catherine corrected smoothly, turning her full attention to him now. Her smile was measured, her posture composed, the gentleness deliberate.

This was familiar ground. A dance of assessment. She knew, without a doubt, that he already had her history memorized. In this life, Google had made it effortless. In the last, he had done the same with parchment and spies. She had watched him pretend ignorance while knowing his opponent down to the curve of their fingerprints.

Heh.

“Oh?” Maximilian’s brow lifted as he wore his glasses. “You look rather young for a doctoral holder.”

There it was.

Catherine scoffed inwardly, keeping her expression serene. Classic Maximilian… to begin with a slight, end with admiration. A psychological maneuver meant to disarm, to charm, to tilt the balance in his favor.

Catherine scoffed inwardly, careful not to let it reach her face. She could tell him she held two doctorates. He would nod, acting surprised, then comment something about how impressive

it was and how smart she was. Coming from a Whitmore, from a man perched exactly where he was in the academic hierarchy, the praise would land like a benediction. People waited their whole lives to be validated by men like him.

There had to be a psychological term for it… to begin with a polite insult, end with generous approval, and watch the other person lean forward, hungry for more, totally charmed.

As if I’d fall for it.

“And you look old,” she said instead.

It slipped out light, almost careless.

Truthfully, she couldn’t place his age anymore. In another life, he had been three years older than her. They had grown up side by side; she knew him all his life, until adulthood. The last time she had seen him, he’d been thirty-nine—battle-worn, bloodied, terrifying.

This version of him wore tweed and was a tenured professor. Looked refined. Not the irritating boy she knew, and definitely not the bloodthirsty warlord he was.

She said it anyway. Not because it was accurate, but because it knocked him off balance.

There it was… The faint tremor at the corner of his lips. The fleeting sharpness in his gaze before he masked it. A crack; it was small, but unmistakable.

Yes. She loved seeing him like this. Momentarily shaken. Off balance.

It wasn’t a killing blow, of course. Maximilian recovered quickly, his eyes dropping to his right hand, the one still wrapped in a bandage. The hand she had injured.

Catherine’s lips curved.

Ah. So when charm failed, he retreated into guilt-tripping. Predictable.

Yet her gaze lingered on his hand, and something didn’t sit right.

Why his palm?

He was a trained warrior. Even unarmed, he could have deflected the blade a dozen different ways. Wrist, forearm, elbow…anything but that. Anything but flesh offered willingly.

So, why did he stop it with his palm?

The answer curled darkly in her mind.

To garner Sympathy.

Catherine’s mouth twitched, unimpressed.

Heh.

She perched herself on the edge of the table, close enough that her knee brushed the corner of his papers, close enough that he had to look up at her. She leaned forward just slightly, elbows behind her for balance, chin tilted down. The pose was intentional… calculated.

If he was hiding something, pressure would draw it out.

“Professor Whitmore,” she murmured, eyes locked on his, “have we met before… perhaps in another life?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep