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Chapter 18

The door to my office slams shut with enough force to rattle the shelves behind me.

I jolt, startled. My hand flies to my glasses, adjusting them instinctively, as if clear vision will help me make sense of the storm about to descend.

Harry.

He crosses the room with quick, furious steps, planting both palms flat on my desk like he's trying to keep himself from exploding.

"What was that?" he demands, voice low and sharp—deadly calm in a way that makes my stomach knot.

Before I can form words, he barrels on.

"Why did you have to shoot down all her suggestions, Ashley? Every single one."

It takes me a beat to process. He's talking about Rebecca Phillips—his partner for the assignment—who had just left my office minutes ago, cheeks slightly pink and smile a little forced.

"I—what do you mean I shot—" I start, still piecing together the thread he's yanking on, but he cuts me off.

"I mean, you rejected every single idea she brought to the table, Ashley." His tone sharpens around my name, slicing it in half.

I blink. Did I? I fumble through my mental replay of the meeting. I didn't... dismiss her ideas, not entirely. I just redirected. I... critiqued. I was constructive. Wasn't I?

"She kept circling back to postnatal depression," I say finally, trying to defend myself. "I merely pointed out that the topic is meant to be broader, and—"

"You literally said," he interrupts, mocking my voice with clipped precision, "'Whether you do a highly focused or general research paper, you'll learn something useful.' Highly. Focused. Ashley."

He pronounces each syllable with the kind of theatrical enunciation that would earn applause on stage. It burns.

"I'd say postnatal depression qualifies, wouldn't you?" he adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I inhale deeply, squaring my shoulders. "I simply suggested you two consider exploring other areas—"

"You told her she was missing the point," he snaps, pacing now, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Three times. When she was spot on."

His hands fly in the air again, exasperated.

"Becca was just—"

"Becca?" I echo, my brow lifting involuntarily. Why does hearing him say her name like that make my spine stiffen?

"Yeah, Becca. Problem with that, Ash?" He tosses the nickname at me like a dart, and I feel the sting.

"I think I don't like your tone, Mr. Styles," I say, the title landing like a slap between us.

"And I think you're being a tad unfair, Mrs. Cameron," he shoots back, mocking the formality, his jaw tight.

He pauses, then tilts his head, voice suddenly more measured, but no less cutting.

"Is Becca making you uncomfortable?"

I stare at him, stunned. "Of course not! Why would she?"

He gives a short, bitter laugh. "Just asking. Out of curiosity." He takes a step closer to the door, then spins back. "By the way—Postnatal Depression will be our topic. It fits the assignment perfectly. And I expect you'll treat us with the fairness I know you're capable of. Professor."

I blink. "I don't follow."

"Oh, you do." He gestures vaguely around the room. "And while we're at it? I've got a suggestion for next year's topics."