The CEO's Amnesiac Lover

Aurora’s POV

Nudity.

It isn’t something I thought I would be doing in all twenty-two years of my life. But then again, I do not know what I said I would be doing.

It is all a blur—a memory that has decided to stay away from me.

My feet halt in front of the class, built like a dome—circular and imposing. I know I do not belong here, with my cheap tweed jacket and my shoes that are in dire need of replacement. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm me.

Instead, I want to run.

I need to run.

“You can do this,” his soft voice echoes behind me, with a hand on my shoulder. “Aurora…”

“What if they don’t like me?” I whisper, my eyes still staring at the closed door. “What if they…”

“They aren’t bound to like you.” His words cut through the walls I have built around myself—the one that keeps me in the cave of my mind. “It is a class, Aurora. There are all sorts of students in there. You either do this, or… I can get you an alternative. I think you should…”

“No!” I shake my head insistently. “I can do this. Jayden needs this.”

Swallowing, my hands wrap around the handle of the door, and I push it open. I feel him behind me, following with every step I take.

The room stretches in front of me, with art supplies lining the shelves on the wall, stacks of easels to one corner, chairs arranged in a circular motion occupied by students who barely notice my presence… and then, the one that has me halting again.

My spot.

It is in the center of the room, the sun spilling down in all its glory, its golden hues bouncing off the brown stool. Professor Alaric moves from behind me, pulling himself to the edge of the room.

The chatter dies down, and a dozen eyes dart in his direction.

“Good morning, class,” Professor Alaric starts, his voice booming through the small room at Veridian University—the home of only the children of the elites. “I heard the board directed us to start something for your class since you all snoop around those art bars to do it already.”

A light chuckle travels through the room. I feel a pair of eyes in my direction.

“Don’t look,” I whisper to myself. Professor Alaric said the best way to get on with it is not to maintain eye contact with any of the students. Yet, I find myself turning towards him—towards where the sun basks in from the windows, leaving golden flecks on his dark, tousled hair.

He doesn’t stop staring, even when our eyes meet.

The rest of Professor Alaric’s speech fades into oblivion, as well as every inch of the room. My lips part slightly, and for some weird reason, I feel my heart pinch. It sends a sharp pain throughout my body, and strangely, I feel the need to cry.

He leans forward, his fingers grazing his easel.

Those eyes…

“Miss Moreau?”

“What?” My head jerks at once towards Professor Alaric, who is staring at me with worry etched in his features. A light chuckle spreads through the room, and my cheeks sting with red patches.

“Don’t blame the model, Professor,” someone whistles. “You can’t expect her not to drool in a place like this. I mean, take a look at…”

“You don’t have to be rude to the model, Miss Jackson.”

My eyes find hers. She is pretty, with flawless skin. And even if her hair is put out of her face in a messy bun, she still looks like she strolled out of a magazine. Looking away from her abruptly, my insufficiency reaches out to me like a disease.