Chapter 8 The name Iris
ADRIAN
I step into the study room ten minutes late, the door creaking as I pushed it open. She is already there, sitting at the center table with her books spread out like she was prepping for a thesis defense.
“VIP tutoring, huh?” I toss my bag on the chair and flash a smirk. “Didn’t know I rated this kind of service.”
Iris doesn’t even look up. “You’re late.”
“I’m charming. It balances out.”
She glances at me then, her expression dry. “Charm doesn’t decode Caravaggio."
“Shame.” I pull out the chair opposite her and drop into it, kicking my legs up on the table. “So, how does this work? You lecture me, I pretend to listen, and we both pretend this isn’t weird?”
She pushes my legs off the table with one firm shove. “We start with your last test paper. You got a twenty-three. Out of a hundred.”
“Ouch.” I wince dramatically. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve gotten twenty-two.”
She shoots me a glare. “You didn’t even attempt three of the questions.”
“I figured leaving them blank gave me a certain mysterious edge.”
“Mysteriously stupid.”
I can’t help the grin that tugged at my lips. She is fiery. Most girls blush or giggle when I talk. Not her. She corrects me without missing a beat, flipping through pages like she owns the syllabus. My eyes drift for a second to her scarf. Thick, wrapped too tight for the weather.
“You know it’s not winter, right?” I nod at her neck. “What’s with the scarf? Are you hiding hickeys?”
She doesn’t flinch. “I like scarves.”
Fair enough.
“Alright, professor,” I lean forward, fingers steeple. “Enlighten me.”
“Try not to blink too much,” she says, flipping the textbook around to face me. “Your attention span is already shorter than a TikTok.”
I laugh, actually laugh. “Careful, Iris. I might start enjoying this.”
She doesn’t answer, just launches into a breakdown of Baroque vs. Rococo art styles, her voice steady and firm. She talks about symbolism, movement, chiaroscuro, and how the drama of each brushstroke reflected society’s psyche at the time.
And for once, I listen. Because for all her quiet looks and cautious energy… Iris isn’t just smart. She is magnetic.
I lean back in the chair, stretching like I’m bored, but my eyes stay on her.
Iris stops mid-sentence, something about chiaroscuro, and jots down references with the sharp focus of someone who actually cares. Her handwriting is precise. Bold. Like her.
“So,” I say, casually, “what’s your deal with Darian?”
She doesn’t look up. “What?”
“You know…” I twirl a pencil between my fingers. “You’re clearly trying to get close to him. Just wondering if it’s for power, or the title, or…” I grin, “what’s under all that brooding.”
Her hand freezes. “Not everything’s about power.”
“Oh?” I raise a brow, letting the pencil clatter to the desk. “Then what is it about?”
She finally lifts her head. Her stare hits harder than I expect. “Maybe I want answers. Maybe I just want the truth. Or maybe,” she says, rising to grab another book, “you should learn to stay in your lane.”
I chuckle. “Feisty.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Is that your default word for every girl who doesn’t melt for you?”
“Ouch,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you always this mean to guys trying to make conversation?”
“Are you always this annoying to girls helping you not fail?”
That shuts me up for a second.
I study her. Really study her. “You didn’t deny it, though.”
“Deny what?”
“That you want Darian.”
She doesn’t respond. But the silence that follows says more than words. The air thickens. She’s stiff, alert, but not afraid. I feel something buzzing beneath the surface, just out of reach.
“You’re not like the others,” I murmur.
“I’m not trying to be.”
For a moment, we just look at each other.
And I hate how curious I am.
My phone buzzes against the table. I glance down. One look at the name and I know I’ve got to go.
“Duty calls,” I mutter, shoving my notebook into my bag. “Try not to miss me too much, professor.”
Iris doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. Instead, her hand shoots out and catches my arm. It's not hard or dramatic, just a soft, deliberate grip that halts me more than any command could.
“Adrian,” she says, voice lower, almost urgent. “Please talk to him.”
Her fingers are still wrapped around my arm. She doesn’t realize it, I think. Or maybe she does, and just doesn’t care right now.
I look down at her hand, then at her. “Darian?”
She nods. “You said you would help. I’m holding you to that.”
There’s something in her eyes that stops me for a second. It’s not desperation. Not even obsession. It's something quieter. Steadier. She wants to see him, not for power or attention, but for something else she can’t even name.
I lift a brow. “Are you always this intense about your tutoring deals?”
She lets go of my arm like she just realized she was holding it. “Just… don’t forget.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “I won’t.”
She watches me as I turn, and I can feel her eyes on my back the whole way out the door. I don’t know what she thinks Darian can give her. But the way she looked at me just now...
Yeah. I’ll talk to him.
The house is quiet when I get back, too quiet. The evening sunlight spills through the tall windows as I make my way down the hall toward Darian’s study. The door’s cracked open, as always. He never fully closes it.
I don’t knock. I never do.
The second I step inside, he doesn’t even look up from the documents spread across his desk.
“What do you want, Adrian?” His voice is calm. Clipped. As usual.
I shut the door behind me and lean against it. “You know a girl named Iris?”
That gets his attention. His pen stops mid-sentence.
He still doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything.
I cross my arms. “Thought so.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
He finally lifts his head, eyes meeting mine, cold and unreadable.
“What about her?” he asks.