Cruel Desire

11.

11.

(Belle's POV)

The classroom, a microcosm of order and discipline, felt like a world away from the liberating expanse of the riverside. Here, within these academic confines, the air was thick with the scent of old books and the faint echo of lessons long past. I sat, a solitary figure at my desk, my fingers absentmindedly tracing the wood's grain, each line a silent testament to the unspoken words and uncharted territories between us.

Vivienne's entrance was as punctual as the clock's chime, her aura filling the room with an unspoken authority. She was the very picture of poise, yet beneath her controlled exterior, I could detect the faintest signs of a tempest brewing—a slight narrowing of her eyes, the almost imperceptible white-knuckled grip on her chalk.

"Good afternoon," she greeted, her voice a steady timbre that belied the subtle quiver hidden within. The class's response was a disjointed chorus, a reflection of our collective disarray.

Lavinia's arrival disrupted the room's fragile equilibrium, her tardiness a deliberate act of defiance. She glided to her seat beside me, her shoulder brushing mine in a silent conspiracy. "Miss me?" she murmured, her voice a siren's call that only I could hear.

Vivienne's gaze, sharp as a falcon's, cut through the distance, scrutinizing us with an intensity that felt almost tangible. The air grew dense, laden with unvoiced questions and the weight of her stare. With a throat-clearing that commanded attention, she sought to reclaim the room's focus, yet her gaze lingered on us, a shadow of disapproval etched upon her features.

As the lesson commenced, Lavinia's hand stealthily found mine, her touch a spark that set my pulse racing. Her whispered directive, "Play along," was both a challenge and a lifeline. I cast her a questioning glance, only to be met with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Vivienne's lecture faltered, her chalk halting mid-stroke as she caught the undercurrent of our silent dialogue. The playful, almost provocative energy emanating from Lavinia seemed to strike a chord within her, igniting a palpable sense of displeasure. "Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Miss Hearst?" she inquired, her tone icy, a stark departure from the warmth she typically reserved for me.

The classroom buzzed with a charged silence, the air crackling with the electricity of unspoken conflict. Vivienne, our enigmatic mentor, stood sentinel at the front, her piercing gaze locked in a silent standoff with Lavinia and me. Lavinia, undaunted, continued her subtle provocations, her fingers drawing invisible patterns on my skin.

"Miss Hearst," Vivienne intoned once more, her voice resonating in the stillness. "If you have something to say, I suggest you speak now."

Lavinia's smile remained unbroken, her reply a masterclass in feigned innocence. "Just discussing the lesson, Professor," she said, her voice dripping with a sweetness that failed to mask the mischief in her eyes.

Vivienne's expression hardened, yet she refrained from further comment, turning back to her teaching with a renewed focus. The lesson progressed, but the undercurrent of tension persisted, an invisible thread woven through the fabric of her words and the rhythmic scratch of chalk on the board.

As the class dispersed, Vivienne's gaze held us in place, a storm of emotions playing across her eyes. "Miss Belle, Miss Hearst," she called, her voice a blend of command and curiosity. "A word, please."

Approaching her desk, I was acutely aware of the game Lavinia had orchestrated—a game designed to stir the green-eyed monster within Vivienne. And it had worked, flawlessly.