Page 7 of In Control

“No,” I tell him, stepping to the side and reaching for the door handle. “I thinkyouare going to rememberme.”

2

Sophia

The lecture hallis packed and stuffy, and although some people wear eager expressions on their faces, most of the faculty look irritated. We’ve been dragged into the lecture theatre by a three-line party whip. The Physics department’s newest member of staff is here to deliver a summary of his work. We aren’t allowed to miss it.

I slump down on a seat at the end of a middle row. I’m in the irritated camp. This is the third year of my PhD. I'm so close to finishing I can almost taste it, and being dragged from my work has me royally pissed off.

Especially to hear yet another elderly man drone on for an hour about areas of physics I have no interest in.

Yes, I know I should care. As a scientist, I should be excited and enthusiastic about all fields and new areas of research. But three years of study have ground me down. I’ve gone from enthusiastic to cynical and snarky. In fact, I don’t know what I’m going to do when I finish this PhD.

I nod at my supervisor sitting in the front row and wave to a couple of my friends who nabbed seats in the back row; somewhere they can play on their phones undetected. Lucky bastards.

I cross my arms over my chest and sink low in my seat, stifling a yawn. I was out last night at a bar, and though I didn’t drink too much, I still stumbled to bed in the early hours of the morning.

I’m sleepy and as the lecture hall lights dim and a round of polite applause echoes around the cavernous space, I wonder how I’m going to stay awake.

The applause dies down, but there’s no sign of the professor. He’s probably some doddery old fool, transferred from one of the other universities to wile away the last few years of his career in the prestigious surroundings of Crestmore University. He’s probably forgotten he has to do this gig.

I slide my phone from my pocket and flick through my messages. There are two from this guy I’ve been trying to ditch for the last couple of weeks. Another from a man who works in the lab next door who seems to be ignoring my very obvious hints that I’m not interested. There’s one from Rosie, my best friend, asking me round for dinner, and the last one is from my mother, reminding me about some do at the weekend.

I’m replying to Rosie, when the microphone echoes as it’s switched on and I hear someone clear their throat and ruffle their papers.

I yawn again, wondering what turgid hell we’re about to be subjected to.

And then the man speaks.

His voice is deep, like a growl. A growl dipped in honey.

It can’t be!

But my body knows. My body knows it is, every muscle and tendon freezing.

I swallow and drag my eyes upwards, my gaze falling across the people sitting in the rows in front of me and down to the man illuminated at the lectern below.

Tall, large, well-built, with mesmerising eyes.

It’s him. The alpha from the ballet.

It’s been two weeks since that night and I haven’t stopped thinking about him.

I’d strolled out of that room in the theatre, expecting him to catch my arm and demand my number. He hadn’t and so I’d kept walking. As I sauntered across the dim foyer in my wrinkled dress, reeking of his scent and his seed, I thought he was playing another of his games. He’d let me get so far and then he’d hunt me down.

He’d insist on seeing me again.

But he didn’t and as my feet carried me further and further away, I understood. This was a one time only thing. I am a beta. Of no interest to him.

That hasn’t stopped me thinking about him. Fuck, dreaming about him.

I’d considered tracking him down. But that’s not my style. Besides, what did I even know about the man? I didn’t even have his name.

Now I do though.

Professor Cole.

His slides flick on behind his head, bathing him in a blue-tinged light and he talks through his work with that self-assured confidence and dominance he’d displayed at the theatre. He stands with his feet hip-width apart, facing the audience of professors and students face on. He betrays not an inkling of nerves, although he doesn’t smile. His face is serious, all business.

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