I send her a message.You’ll be on your knees tomorrow morning, begging for mercy.
The only thing more satisfying than seeing her flee would be watching her reaction when she realizes she’s fucked in more ways than just my retribution.
“Professor Segul?” a female voice breaks me out of my reverie.
I glance down from the podium to find a dark-haired young woman standing in front of me, flanked by two clones. They’re either related to or obsessed with their leader.
My eyes narrow. I’m sure this trio was flirting with my target with lollipops.
“Yes?”
“I found today’s lecture inspiring.”
It takes an effort not to roll my eyes at the obvious attempt at flirtation. Every member of faculty, no matter how decrepit and old, faces the nuisance of a provocative student. Sometimes they sidle up to the teaching staff for easy grades, other times they just want something forbidden, but I find those explanations overly generous.
Girls like this one are little sociopaths in the making. They just want to see how much they can bend some poor bastard to his will.
“Indeed?” I glance away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her glance from one little friend to the other, who both nod their encouragement. So, they have a game plan.
Turning off the overhead projector, I pull the memory stick from the computer and pick up my notes. By now, the lecture hall is almost empty, save for a few stragglers too engrossed behind their computer screens to notice the end of class.
This conversation is over. I slip my folder beneath my arm and turn toward the door.
“Marius—”
“Professor,” I hiss without casting her another glance.
“Sorry,” she says with a giggle. “Professor Segul.”
I step out of the door and into the hallway, which is still littered with students. One would think a man already involved in one illicit relationship with a student wouldn’t be so skittish about allowing another to flirt, but I’ve met enough of this young woman’s type to know not to give her attention.
She jogs to keep up with my long strides, and I hear the other two chattering from behind.
“I have a few questions about the internal rate of return thingie you mentioned,” she blurts.
At the semblance of a genuine question, my steps falter. I turn to her with my brows raised. “What is it?”
“How does it work?”
“Chapter twenty-six of Gregg, Washer, and Thornbush,” I say.
She blinks. “What?”
“Read that one and the chapters before and after it for context.” I nod for emphasis. “If you’re still struggling, write down your understanding of the concept and send it to me via email.”
“Why can’t I just visit you in your office?”
I wag a finger. “Because I want to read your definition sentence by sentence to correct any misunderstandings of the internal rate of return.”
My gaze sweeps to the other two, who stand behind her with their mouths agape.
“This can be a learning experience for all the Finance and Accountancy studies students,” I meet each of their shocked brown eyes and force myself not to smirk. “And you’ve quite rightly pointed out that IRR is a tricky concept. Once you’ve completed your précis with the help of your friends, I want you to present it to the class.”
“That’s not what I asked for—”
“Your name?” I tilt my head.