Forbidden Chemistry

Mr. Blackwood

The world blurred past Lucian Blackwood as he drove through the school gates, the sleek hum of his black sedan slicing through the early morning quiet. His car, polished to a mirror finish, was as much a statement as the man who drove it—elegant, refined, and untouchable. The glossy black body of the car reflected the soft light of the rising sun, like a raven gliding across the earth.

He parked in his usual spot, near the entrance, where students would inevitably glance as he arrived. It was a routine. His life was one finely orchestrated routine, as precise as the chemical equations he scrawled across his classroom board. Lucian was a man who thrived on structure, control, and above all, perfection. And just like everything else about him, his appearance was immaculate.

Stepping out of the car, he tugged at the cuff of his shirt—dark, crisp, tailored to fit every curve of his broad shoulders. His tie was a subtle silk, knotted with meticulous precision, hanging just loose enough to suggest effortless style without breaking the boundary of professionalism. His dark brown hair, swept back elegantly, was always in place, every strand in its rightful position, like a chessboard in which every piece was where it belonged.

He adjusted the strap of his leather bag over his shoulder, holding it in his right hand with ease, exuding a quiet authority as he walked across the parking lot and toward the main building. As he approached, a ripple of movement caught his attention. The usual morning crowd—students lounging, gossiping, and hurrying to class—seemed to pause, eyes lingering on him. It was the same every day.

They noticed him. They always noticed him.

Lucian could feel their stares, but he never acknowledged them. He didn't have to. His mere presence commanded attention, like gravity pulling planets into orbit. Some of the girls turned pink, giggling into their hands, while a few of the younger teachers tried to hide their quickened glances. He was the kind of man people couldn't ignore. Not because he wanted them to notice him, but because perfection was impossible to overlook.

And perfection was what Lucian expected. Not just from himself but from everyone around him.

He strode down the halls with the kind of grace that came from confidence, moving past lockers and classrooms with an air of quiet intensity. The cacophony of school life—lockers slamming, students whispering, footsteps echoing—faded as he passed, replaced by hushed awe. It was like this every day. The weight of their admiration and attention pressing in, yet it never stirred him. He was a statue, carved from marble, impervious to the distractions of the world around him.

Lucian didn't care for the endless flurry of teenage crushes that surrounded him. He wasn't here for that. The whispered confessions of students in the back row, the lingering glances of colleagues—it was all meaningless. He was here for a purpose: to do his job, teach chemistry, and leave. Everything else was noise. And Lucian Blackwood never allowed himself to be distracted by noise.

As he reached the door to the teachers' lounge, he pushed it open with the same controlled precision that marked everything he did. The room was quiet but not empty. Inside, the usual suspects were gathered—Miss Dolores, who taught English with a motherly warmth, and Mr. Rajkumar, the no-nonsense math teacher. They sat at one of the small tables, papers spread between them, discussing something with the enthusiasm only teachers could muster this early in the morning.

Lucian let his bag drop gently onto the table in the corner of the room, seating himself with a quiet exhale, barely noticing the soft thud of the leather against the wood. His mind was already elsewhere, drifting into the day's lessons, the stack of papers that needed grading, the endless task of ensuring everything around him ran with the same precision as the chemical bonds he taught his students.

That's when he heard it.

"Astrid aced again," Miss Dolores remarked, her voice bright with pride.

Lucian's fingers froze mid-motion as he opened his laptop. His jaw clenched, the mention of her name pulling him back into the moment. He didn't even have to look up to picture the knowing smile on Miss Dolores's face, or the approving nod from Mr. Rajkumar.

"Of course she did," Mr. Rajkumar said. "That girl is brilliant. She's got a gift."

Lucian scoffed quietly under his breath, barely containing the bitter chuckle that threatened to escape. Brilliant? Perhaps in some areas. But in his class? She was just another student who couldn't meet his standards.

The know-it-all kid. That's what Lucian thought of Astrid Monroe, every time her name surfaced. She was Crestwood's golden girl, the top of every class, the pride of the school. But in chemistry, she struggled. And it irked him more than it should have. It wasn't just that she wasn't good at his subject—no, that would have been tolerable. It was the way she acted as if she was too good for it. As if she didn't need his class, didn't need him.

"Astrid could've had a perfect score if only she understood chemistry better," Mr. Rajkumar added thoughtfully.

Lucian's fingers twitched, the memory of last year flooding back. He remembered the way she had sat in the back of his class, arms folded across her chest, that sharp mind of hers locked away behind an unyielding wall of disinterest. She never struggled with anything else—math, physics, literature. But when it came to chemistry, it was like watching a fish flail out of water.

And the worst part? She didn't even hide it.

Lucian leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the recollection of that day. The day she had crossed a line no student had ever dared to cross before.

"I just don't get it," she had said, her tone challenging as she stood in the middle of his classroom, arms folded over her chest. "None of this makes sense. Maybe if you explained it better, we'd actually understand."

Lucian had felt the blow like a slap. No student had ever questioned his teaching like that—certainly not in front of the entire class. It wasn't just her words; it was the defiance in her eyes, the sharpness in her voice, the way she had looked at him as if daring him to prove her wrong.

His response had been swift and cutting, a precise retaliation aimed to wound. He had picked apart her question, turning it into a lecture for the entire class, making sure everyone knew exactly where she had gone wrong. His voice had been cold, detached, as he dissected her mistake with clinical precision.

But he had underestimated her. Astrid hadn't flinched under the spotlight. She had stood there, jaw set, her eyes fixed on him, unyielding. And then, after that day, she had dropped his class. It was a quiet rebellion, but it had stung all the same.

"She's taking Miss Freya's chemistry class now," Miss Dolores said, interrupting his thoughts. "But honestly, Freya's more about handing out PDF readings than actual teaching."

Mr. Rajkumar gave a knowing nod, his expression grim. "Yes, Freya's methods are... well, let's just say they leave a lot to be desired. But that doesn't seem to bother Astrid, does it? As long as she can read her way through, she'll manage."

Lucian's grip on the edge of his desk tightened as he listened. The familiar prickle of annoyance crept up his spine. That was Astrid's way, wasn't it? Skating through life with her books, her high scores, and her refusal to engage with anything that didn't fit her narrow vision of the world. Chemistry wasn't something she could solve with a formula, and that was the problem. She didn't have control over it, and it drove her mad.

But there was something deeper—something that Lucian didn't want to admit, not to himself, not to anyone. It wasn't just Astrid's defiance that bothered him. It was her intelligence. She was brilliant, yes, but in a way that was raw and untamed. It wasn't the polished kind of intelligence he respected—the kind he nurtured in his classroom. No, Astrid's mind was wild, sharp as a blade but reckless, unrefined. And it grated against Lucian strode down the hall, his polished shoes tapping against the linoleum floor in a rhythmic, confident cadence. The students parted as he passed, their hushed whispers trailing in his wake. He didn't have to look to know that they were watching him, some admiring, others intimidated. His presence commanded attention—an undeniable fact that he had long since accepted.

But today, the usual sense of control, of mastery over his environment, felt somewhat hollow. His thoughts were still tangled in the conversation he had overheard in the teachers' lounge. Astrid Monroe. Her name echoed in his mind.