Chapter 18: Lying With Precision

Maximilian bent toward her, as if drawn by instinct, as if she pulled him into a trance.

As if this…this… was what love felt like.

And then Catherine saw it.

That smile. The one. The same one he had worn while standing by the window of her bath chambers, just after he had promised to marry her.

The same smile he wore just before he vanished… Just before he ruined her reputation… Just before he killed his mother… Just before she was forced into marriage with a man twice her age… Just before her life collapsed.

Just before her ruin, orchestrated by… him.

Her reaction was immediate, like cold water thrown straight into her veins.

Her heart stopped pounding. The butterflies vanished. The heat drained from her skin. The softness in her face disappeared. Her eyes went cold.

Maximilian felt it at once.

Moments ago, her gaze was warm; gold threaded softly through green, edges blurred, human. Reachable, as though his words had truly touched her.

Now…

The green sharpened, bright and merciless. The gold receded. Her gaze turned piercing, direct, cutting, like a blade drawn without warning.

He swallowed, a sharp, involuntary sound, and stepped back.

Catherine noticed his eyes change too.

The blue dulled, bruised at the edges, like a sky after a storm, before the sun dared return. His pupils stayed wide, letting the violet show more clearly, more intimately. It gave him a tired look. Older. Exposed.

Is he pretending to be sad? she wondered coldly.

“Unforgettable?” she asked lightly. Too lightly.

“Was it me trying to stab you while I was out of my mind that left such an impression?” Her head tilted, curiosity sharpened into cruelty. “Or was it me, helpless on the floor… Did that awaken something primal in you? Made you imprint?”

Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile.

“Tell me, Professor,” she said coolly. “How exactly did I impress you?”

There was no reason to be civil. Not when he was reaching for the same weapon he had used before—love. Not when she recognized the arc of his words, the familiar curve of manipulation disguised as devotion.

She would not fall for it a second time.

Maximilian turned away without answering, walking back to his chair. His back hid his expression, but the silence he left behind was heavy, strained, deliberate, and almost punishing.

Catherine clenched her fists at her sides.

I will not trust you, she told herself fiercely. I know what you are and what you’re planning.

And this time… she would not lose.

She expected it then… the familiar red to return to his eyes, the crack in his composure, the fury he could never quite bury. But when he sat and finally looked at her again, he was calm.

Terribly calm.

A faint smile touched his lips, controlled and precise. “You impressed me by being unimpressed, Catherine Elizabeth Preston,” he said quietly.

Her full name landed like a hand at her throat.

“There is something in you,” he continued, his gaze glistening with something dangerously sincere, “that pulls me. Something I cannot name or describe.” His head tilted slightly. “Perhaps… I do know you from another life.”

Her brows twitched with anger.

How could he say it like that so evenly, so earnestly… as if every word were true?

And worse…

Is he agreeing he remembers the past?

Her fingers trembled as they slipped into her purse.

Maybe I should end it, a voice whispered darkly. End him. End this.

But before her fingers could curl around cold metal, her phone vibrated.

Alexander.

Her heart skipped.

Did Roxanna inform him already?

She knew her brother. If he discovered she was roaming freely, and worse, speaking to the man she had nearly killed while he was still untangling the legal aftermath, he would lock her away without hesitation.

And Catherine Preston was never a princess meant for towers.

“I have paperwork from the symposium to finish,” she said into the phone briskly. “I’ll return home immediately after.”

Silence answered her.

Then… Alexander sighed.

“Are you at Meridon University?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied smoothly. “That’s where the symposium was.”

She chose each word carefully. Lying to one of the best lawyers in the country required precision.

“You don’t happen to be in the History department, do you?”

Her jaw clenched.

Damn him. Damn that uncanny instinct of his, some internal sensor that activated whenever she crossed a line she wasn’t supposed to.

“No,” she said lightly. “What’s in the History department? You know I hate those humanities nerds.”

Her eyes flicked to Maximilian.

He was watching her now, amused, unmistakably so. A playful smile curved his lips as he shook his head, as if he’d caught her red-handed.

She scoffed and walked toward the door.

“Is there something I shouldn’t see in the History department?” she asked innocently. She knew exactly how Alexander’s mind worked. Curiosity was her weakness, and he knew it. If he lied, then that meant the danger Alexander perceived was not that big.

“Nothing,” Alexander said quickly. Too quickly. “Just avoid it. Whitmore, the man you tried to stab, works there. It’s best you don’t cross paths with him until everything is settled.”

Ah.

He’s being honest. He’s serious.

“Okay,” Catherine replied sweetly, like a well-behaved daughter. “I’ll call you once I get home.”

She ended the call.

The moment the line went dead, the smile slid off her face.

She turned back toward Maximilian Whitmore, toward the past she refused to let devour her again.

I won’t fall for it, she swore silently. No matter how convincing you are.

Just as Catherine reached for the door, someone else entered.

Another professor.

She stalled mid-step.

The man was wearing… a suit that looked like it had been tailored from the university couch. Not merely similar, but identical. The same tired tweed texture. The same muted academic despair. His face was painted in vertical streaks of brown and gold, unmistakably inspired by the spines of very old books. Even his hair had been tinted, as if he were attempting advanced-level camouflage.

Catherine’s gaze slid slowly to the couch…Then to the bookshelves…Then back to him.

Ah…! He has dressed to blend in.

Why, however, was a separate question… one she did not want answered.

Her brows twisted. This is why I avoid humanities.

“Oh—hi, pulchra domina,” the professor chirped, extending his hand with theatrical enthusiasm. “You’re in a closed room with my Whitmore. May I know who you are?”

Catherine’s smile, already strained by the encounter, finally gave up.

My Whitmore?

That single possessive did more damage than the paint.

A soft, utterly unladylike scoff escaped her. She straightened, composure snapping back into place like a guillotine blade.

“Patientia mea hic finem habuit,” Catherine said calmly.

[My patience has ended here.]

She didn’t shake his hand. She didn’t look back at Maximilian. She didn’t remain long enough to investigate why this man had dressed himself in what appeared to be a tasteful amalgamation of couch upholstery and first-edition book spines, nor why the administration had collectively agreed that this was normal, acceptable, or intellectually defensible.

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