Chapter 68 Patrick
Patrick
I watch it happen, as if it’s unfolding in slow motion.
Lottie steps forward, her grip still firm around my hand, and raises her other hand to knock—three sharp, confident raps against the door.
The sound echoes louder than it should.
Or maybe that’s just my nerves.
There’s a brief pause, just long enough for my pulse to spike—
Then a curt voice from inside.
“Come in.”
Lottie doesn’t hesitate.
She reaches for the handle, twists it, and pushes the door open in one smooth motion, guiding us both inside like she’s done this a hundred times before.
Like she belongs here.
As if she isn’t intimidated at all.
I wish I felt even half as steady as she looks.
We step into the room side by side.
It’s larger than I expected—sterile, formal, the kind of place designed to make you feel small. A long desk stretches across the front of the room, and seated behind it are four people.
Three sit clustered in the center.
One sits slightly apart, at the far end.
All of them are watching us.
Assessing.
Judging.
My stomach tightens.
There’s only one chair positioned in front of the desk.
One.
Centered.
Deliberate.
They expected me alone.
Of course they did.
We walk forward together, our footsteps sounding too loud against the floor.
I can feel it—the shift in the room.
They didn’t expect this.
Didn’t expect her to walk in with me.
Didn’t expect her to stand beside me.
Didn’t expect her to stay.
Subtle reactions ripple across their faces—raised brows, exchanged glances, a tightening around the eyes.
Lottie ignores all of it.
She guides me into the chair, her hand steady on my arm as I sit, grounding me before she steps just slightly behind and beside me—close enough that our shoulders brush, close enough that her presence is unmistakable.
Her hand never leaves mine.
Even now.
Even here.
The silence stretches.
Then the man seated in the center leans forward slightly.
“What is the meaning of this?”
His tone is controlled, but there’s an edge to it.
“You do realize you were brought in here for conduct with a student unbecoming of a professor,” he continues, his gaze flicking briefly toward Lottie before returning to me. “Yet you bring said student in here with you?”
A beat.
“Again, I ask—what is the meaning of this?”
My throat tightens.
I glance up at Lottie, unsure for just a moment—
But she’s already looking at me.
She smiles.
Soft. Reassuring.
And squeezes my hand.
It steadies me instantly.
She turns back to the panel, posture straight, expression composed.
“If I would be allowed to speak?” she asks.
Her voice is calm.
Respectful.
But firm.
The room goes quiet again.
The panel exchanges another round of glances, leaning slightly toward one another as they murmur under their breath. It’s subtle, but I can tell—they’re reassessing.
Recalculating.
After a moment, they settle.
The man in the center nods once.
“Let me start with introductions,” he says, his tone shifting into something more formal.
“I’m Dean Louis.”
He gestures to the man on his right.
“This is the faculty affairs manager, Mr. Jeffries.”
Then to the woman on his left.
“Miss Bundt, from human resources.”
Finally, he motions toward the man seated at the far end.
“And that is Mr. Jacobs, a school-provided legal representative—should you require one.”
His gaze sharpens as it returns to Lottie.
“Introduce yourself,” he says, voice measured.
“Then you can speak.”
I tighten my grip on her hand slightly.
This is it.
Lottie doesn’t hesitate.
Her voice rings out clear, steady—strong enough to fill the room without strain.
“My name is Charlotte Logan. I’m a junior. Professor Hale is my neuroscience teacher.”
She pauses just long enough to draw their full attention before continuing.
“However, we didn’t go into this with the intention of sneaking around. We fought our attraction—fought the pull we felt toward each other—for three long months.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around mine.
I can feel it.
Feel the memory behind her words.
“But eventually,” she says, her tone firming, “it wasn’t up to us anymore. Fate decided we belonged together, and we could no longer fight it.”
The room feels smaller somehow.
More focused.
“So we gave in,” she continues. “But that was fairly recent, and it didn’t affect our academic relationship. Professor Hale—”
She pauses.
Then corrects herself.
“—Patrick… is my fated mate.”
The words land like a dropped weight.
There’s a collective gasp from the panel—sharp, unfiltered, impossible to miss.
Then silence.
Heavy.
Thick.
It only lasts a few seconds before it fractures.
“What do you—”
“How can that—”
“What makes you—”
They all start speaking at once, voices overlapping, confusion and disbelief bleeding through their carefully maintained professionalism.
Then, just as quickly, it stops.
They look at each other.
Assessing.
Recalibrating.
One by one, they nod.
Dean Louis leans forward slightly, steepling his fingers.
“How can you be so sure?” he asks.
His tone is measured now.
Careful.
Lottie doesn’t falter.
A small smile touches her lips—not cocky, not dismissive. Certain.
“I couldn’t resist him any longer,” she says simply. “It felt like… two opposing forces snapping into place. Like magnets finally aligning.”
Her thumb brushes lightly against my hand.
“He is my omega.”
Dean Louis raises a brow, clearly unconvinced.
“Is that all?” he asks.
Lottie shakes her head.
“No,” she replies. “There were multiple indicators. The physical response when we touched—like an electrical current. The fact that I could scent him even through suppressants. The intensity of my reaction to him compared to anyone else.”
She speaks calmly, like she’s presenting facts.
Not feelings.
Facts.
I’ve been listening the entire time, my heart still hammering against my ribs—but now I lean forward slightly, finding my voice.
“I consulted a former professor of mine,” I add, my tone steadier than I feel. “Her specialty is pheromonal biology and behavioral response.”
Their attention shifts to me immediately.
I press on.
“After I described everything we experienced—every reaction, every symptom—she confirmed that our case aligns with documented patterns associated with fated mates.”
I swallow once, then continue.
“They’re rare. But not unheard of. There are studies—case reports—that detail the same physiological and behavioral responses we’ve experienced.”
The room goes quiet again.
But this time—
It feels different.
Less disbelief.
More consideration.
Like we’ve shifted from accusation to… evaluation.
They turn toward one another again, their voices dropping into a low murmur as they confer. It’s quieter this time—less chaotic, more deliberate—but I can still feel the weight of their scrutiny hanging in the air.
I glance at Lottie.
Her hand tightens around mine, a subtle squeeze that grounds me instantly. When I look up, she’s already watching me, that same steady, affectionate smile softening her features.
It does something to me.
Cuts through the tension.
I can’t help but return it, even if only for a second.
Then we both turn our attention back to the panel just as Dean Louis straightens in his chair.
His expression has shifted.
Less confusion.
More skepticism.
“How are we to know,” he begins, voice measured but edged, “that you aren’t using this… claim of being fated mates as a convenient excuse to justify unprofessional conduct?”
The words land heavier than anything else he’s said so far.
I feel it immediately—
The shift beside me.
A low, almost imperceptible growl stirs from Lottie’s chest, more instinct than intent. The sound is quiet, but in the stillness of the room, it might as well be thunder.
My heart stutters.
I turn my head quickly, catching her gaze.
Her eyes have sharpened, something fierce flickering beneath the surface—protective, territorial, ready to push back.
I shake my head just slightly.
A silent plea.
Not like this.
We can’t afford that right now.
Emotion will be seen as instability.
Instinct will be seen as lack of control.
And right now, we need control more than anything.
Her gaze holds mine for a beat longer.
Then I see it—the shift.
The tension eases.
The fire pulls back just enough.
She exhales slowly through her nose, the growl fading before it can become anything more.
Her grip on my hand remains firm, but steadier now.
Grounded.
I turn back toward the panel, forcing my shoulders to relax, even as my pulse continues to pound.
This is the part that matters.
This is where we either hold the line—
Or lose everything.