Page 51 of See Me After Class

"Get out," I barked. "Now."

Her eyes widened and she hopped off the desk. She took a second to fix her outfit and left without looking back.

I should have been wallowing in misery, yet strangely, I wasn't. There was a perplexing aberration in the air. Leon. He'd shown interest in Dessie. But on the way to the office, when he saw Dessie, he literally bolted. He was either embarrassed or angry.

That never happened. Women did that around Leon, not the other way around.

It wasn't that he considered women to be predictable fools. Rather, Leon was a tactician in the art of seduction, going at each one with surgical precision. His skill lay in crafting a persona perfectly tailored to each woman's desires. Whether it was embodying the quintessential no-strings-attached partner or morphing into the ideal, commitment-ready suitor, he executed each role with finesse. But here lay the conundrum. I was convinced that Leon had deployed his full arsenal of charm on Dessie, yet he hadn't emerged victorious.

How then, against all odds, had I managed to succeed where he had not? Unless she was playing me because she wanted something. The biggest question was… what?

I shook my head, a swift, dismissive motion to clear the cobwebs of confusion. Time was slipping through my fingers. I was teetering dangerously close to being late for class. With a sense of urgency, I gathered the necessary materials, papers rustling in my haste, and stepped briskly out of my office. I was so lost in my unease that I almost butted headfirst into the Head of Medicine and my best friend.

"Watch it, Vik," John said crossly. "What is it with everyone today? Just five minutes ago, I saw an intern turn into an accidental ice skater, sliding a good mile across the floor before crash-landing at my feet. And now, you're about to bury me in anatomy papers." He noticed the notes on the vagus nerve and smiled wanly. "You look tired."

"I'm late, John." My voice was a mix of apology and exasperation as I shuffled the papers once more, tucking them under my arm. "It's nothing, really. Just this new hire." I paused, licking my lower lip briefly. "Something feels off about her, but I'm probably reading too much into it." I attempted a dismissive shrug, but it was unconvincing.

John's response was immediate, his eyebrows knitting together in a sharp furrow, a visual cue of his shifting thoughts. "The new hire? Are you talking about Desdemona Davenport?"

I nodded, surprised at the obvious reaction the name elicited in him. His forehead creased. the corners of his mouth turned downward, forming a deep, unmistakable scowl. "Has she… been up to something inappropriate?"

Now, I was capable of a lot of things, but I could never lie to John. So I didn't gratify his question with a response.

His jaw tensed, and every feature of his face contorted in a mounting display of discontent. "This will not do. We have to catch her at her own game."

What wouldn't do? What game?

I stared at him. "What are you talking about, John?"

John sighed. "Come to the office after class. Bring Leon with you."

19

Dessie

After Dr. Magnusson dismissed me from office—just when I wasthisclose to having him right where I needed him to be—I decided to clear my head with a cup of coffee. I didn't feel like my usual black coffee would do the trick. Indulgences weren't my thing unless they were tempered with impulsiveness, which had happened when I purchased the Lamborghini. But it was already evening, I was cold, and my system needed a reset that involved lots of cream, an avalanche of sugar, and a shot of espresso so it would, legally, still be a coffee. Oswald would have been proud.

There was only one person in the world who could make me this drink, so I left the institute and meandered down to Ms. Wainwright's cottage. I mentally prepared myself that she might not be at home, but as luck would have it, I spotted her from the distance, sitting by the window on an armchair, her eyes closed in repose. She looked exhausted. I, for one, empathized.

Her slumber was a light one, because as soon as my feet crunched on a heap of rusty autumn leaves, her eyelids flutteredopen. She looked sideways and her gaze fell on my face. The expression on them stumped me slightly—she looked… almostafraid?But why? I shook my head. I was imagining things, or the darkening evening light was playing tricks on my mind.

The expression passed almost as soon as it had formed, to be replaced by something lighter. She raised her palm and waved at me, mouthing, "Hello."

I waved back and walked down the flagstone pathway leading to her cottage. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the land. Each individual stone came alive with the glow of mature honey. The irregular shapes, worn smooth, felt comforting beneath my shoes. The gentle hum of chirping crickets filled the silence. Streaks of orange, pink, and purple had danced across the canvas of twilight overhead. Stars had begun to peek through the deepening blue.

Ms. Wainwright opened the front door, wearing a relaxed smile on her face. She gave me a once-over and her expression turned to one of disapproval. "My dear, are you desperate to catch a cold?"

"Hmm?" I looked down absentmindedly at what I was wearing. I had chosen a sleek, raven bodycon dress that, albeit hugging, was sparse for the bite in the air. The thin, clingy material offered little by way of insulation. Somehow, I hadn't paid heed to the cold at all. But now, as Ms. Wainwright's eyes narrowed, I suddenly became aware of a prickling chill sweeping over me.

"Come on inside," she said kindly, "and I'll fix you something warm."

She clucked as she took my freezing hands and led me straight to her kitchen. I breathed in the familiarity of the cozy warmth of her home, especially the inviting aroma of something meaty simmering away in a pot. Something about Ms. Wainwright was deeply nourishing at the moment. Perhapsit was that we had both gone through a deep loss, monumentally so, and were both picking up the pieces left behind in its wake.

I let my face relax as I adjusted to the bright solitude around me. Her kitchen was a delightful hodgepodge of colors and textures. The walls were painted a cheerful buttery yellow. Exposed wooden beams, aged to a perfect patina, added a rustic touch, complementing the mismatched cabinetry painted in soft pastels, mint green, sky blue, and lavender hues.

Copper pots and pans hung from a wrought iron rack above the central island, their surfaces gleaming softly in the light streaming through the lace-curtained windows. The countertops were a patchwork of polished wood and marble. Every corner of the room was full, from the vintage floral teacups arranged on open shelves to the quirky collection of salt and pepper shakers that lined the windowsill. In the middle of this charming chaos stood an old-fashioned stove, where a large, cast-iron pot bubbled with the stew.

I sniffed the air appreciatively and moved toward the pot. "Is that your beef stew?"

---