Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') (2 page)

J
ackson Portland places
himself behind the desk at the front of the lecture hall and looks at us expectantly. He is standing with his feet apart, his hands buried in his suit pant pockets, and his shoulders are pulled back, emphasizing his tall stature while he confidently scans the crowd in front of him. His strong jaw line gives him a very masculine appearance, while his facial features are soft in comparison, giving him a younger look. He is nearing the age of thirty, but with his current facial expression, even and relaxed, one could easily mistake him for a student.

His black hair is gelled to the side, partly covering his forehead on the left. I never read anything about his nationality, but his light brown skin and black hair almost suggests that he is from some exotic country in Latin America, even though his name doesn't suggest any heritage from that area.

He might just go to the tanning beds on a regular basis. It would suit a guy like him to do that.

Handsome may be too calm a word to describe him. He is intensely masculine. Even as his appearance screams wealth and polish, there is an inevitable ruggedness to him.

Mr. Portland didn't bring anything with him, no briefcase, no notebook or any stack of papers, not even a pen. While any other teacher presented a varying display of items he or she deemed necessary for their lecture, he just stands there, empty handed and with that unreadable and calm expression on his face.

People were whispering excitedly when he first walked in, but now as he stares at us, the voices around me steadily die down and the murmur stops, only interrupted by the occasional cough.

He is visibly enjoying all the attention he is getting. A smug smile spreads across his face just moments before he finally speaks.

"Good morning, everyone," he starts, sounding like a host of a game show. "What a nice turnout this is. I have to admit, I didn't expect this much interest in my silly ramblings. "

A friendly giggle travels through the room, and even I manage a courtesy smile. Silly ramblings. I know it is supposed to be a joke, but with what little education he has to show for himself, he may not be able to present us with much more than that.

He lowers his eyes for a moment and lets the giggling subside before he continues.

"Let's hope I can live up to the high standards you all must be used to. Believe it or not, this is my first time on an Ivy League campus, and I am greatly humbled by this invitation and the interest of such well achieved individuals as you are."

Murmurs fill the hall as people try to process this unexpected compliment. I am beginning to wonder whether this is already part of his lecture: How to make people feel good about themselves in your presence. Making friends and allies must be essential for making good business.

I wonder if I should take notes already? Who knows if things like this might come up in an exam later on.

It strikes me, suddenly, that I have absolutely no idea how this man will go about evaluating and grading us. Will there be quizzes every week? A big exam at the end of the semester? Does he expect us to write essays? Will he teach us more about econometrics? The latter would mean that I really should have brought my calculator...

"Even though I can see that some of you have already read my book," he adds, nodding toward one of the students who placed a copy of it on her desk. "Let me start by telling you a little about myself. Not the kind of things that you will find in there or in the newspaper. Something new, something you didn't know yet."

He pauses and smirks. "After all, this class is supposed to teach you something exclusively new. Why else should you be sitting here, right?"

A murmur of approval greets him.

"Okay," he continues. "This class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship. I don't like that title, but I had to come up with something. I was asked to teach a graduate class full of bright and promising students such as you guys, and when they asked me to do this, they probably thought I could teach you something about success. About launching your own business, about start-ups, about Silicon Valley, the dreadful place where a lot of great things started - and a lot of not-so-great things failed and died."

He pauses, scanning the hall with narrow eyes and a somewhat sullen expression.

"And this is where the problem starts," he says. "Failure. No one ever likes to talk about it, and it is certainly not what they had in mind when I was asked to give this guest lecture. But you know what?"

He adds another dramatic pause, his eyes resting at a random spot somewhere at the far back of the hall.

"I can tell you more about failure than I can tell you about success," he resumes. "I have failed many, many times in my life, before I managed to succeed even once. And I think that those hurtful, yet inevitable failures taught me more than my success has. They made me who I am. They made vigorous, strong-willed and persistent. I failed, but I never gave up. They taught me more than just the simple lesson of what not to do. They molded me, they helped me grow and they eventually lead me to success more than any school or any class ever did."

The auditorium is stock-still, with my fellow students hanging to Mr. Portland's every word while I'm starting to seriously dislike him. This is supposed to be a graduate Econ class, not a self-help seminar, after all. Also, I don't like where he is going with this whole 'failure taught me more than school'-thing. Of course, someone like him would have to say that, since school was among his many failures.

I raise my hand.

He doesn't see me at first, and when he does, he seems to be startled. I reckon he is not used to being interrupted.

His eyes meet mine with an explicable determination, as if he was preparing a defense for whatever I might have to say this early on.

"Yes, please," he says, pointing in my direction. He takes a few steps toward me, reducing the distance between us. A weird sizzle travels along my spine when he approaches. It unsettles me for a second, before I'm able to brush it away.

Heads are turning toward me, some of them - I am sure - accompanied by rolling eyes. I know I'm anything but popular among some of my peers, but I couldn't care less about that.

"I'm sorry," I say, raising my voice as much as possible. "I am not exactly sure what you are trying to tell us with this confession. Are you saying that there is no point for us to sit here in class, listen to lectures, earn a degree in the first place, because we won't take anything from it, unless we fail?"

I know that I have a tendency to be impertinent, and this is no exception. I don't want to cause any trouble or to get on his bad side, but I want him to know that there is someone in this hall who is not meek and mild about everything he says.

Yet, I'm thankful that he doesn't notice the tremble that takes a hold of my entire body after I'm done speaking. I'm sure my voice would have creaked if I had said one more word.

Most of the other students don't react to my little disturbance, but some start whispering, and I notice the girl to my left casting me an annoyed look.

But it's not their reaction that unsettles me - it's him. He looks at me with that observant stare, his eyes narrowing only the slightest bit without losing their focus on me. It feels as if he is leaching right into my bones, releasing a chill that makes its way through my insides. I'm shivering, sucking in air as if I just stepped out into the Arctic.

Why the hell is he looking at me like that? Why is he not saying anything? Is he trying to stare me down or something? His silence is causing a surreal tension that even the other students must have noticed.

"In a way, I am," Mr. Portland says, finally replying to my question. "Yes. I think most of you are wasting your time here. And yes, most of what you have learned at High School, during your undergraduate program and even in the graduate classes you're taking now, has probably destroyed more than it helped nourish."

The auditorium is dead silent and even I am speechless at his words. This, I did not expect. He has got to be joking.

"Don't get me wrong," he says, raising his hand in defense – and then finally withdrawing his eyes from mine. "I still think you're doing something right by sitting here and earning a degree from one of the best colleges in this country. But this is not about learning valuable things, about learning who you are or what you are capable of, about receiving what they call 'the best education'. No, it's not. Do you know what it is about?"

He starts scanning the auditorium again.

"This is a question," he clarifies. "What is school about? What is this degree about?"

For a few moments, he gets nothing but silence in return. People are exchanging looks of confusion, shrugging, whispering, shaking their heads. Until one of them dares to raise their hand.

"Yes," he says, pointing at the brave girl at the far back.

"Growing?" she suggests.

"Growing?"

"Yes," the girl adds, clearing her throat. "About... you know, growing to your full potential."

Mr. Portland hesitates for a moment, while all eyes rest on him, eagerly awaiting a reply.

"That sounds lovely," he says eventually. "And it may be true. But it's not what I am looking for. Any other suggestions?"

His direct way of countering the student doesn't really help in encouraging others to try. No one dares to speak up after this. Mr. Portland spends a painfully long time waiting for a response that doesn't come.

Even I feel too intimidated to say anything. Also, I'm angry at him. He enjoys this confusion and attention whoring a little too much.

Why doesn't he just tell us?
Just share your priceless wisdom with us, you arrogant bastard
!

As if he heard my thoughts, he now turns his head back toward me. Our eyes meet and before I can look away, he directs his voice at me.

"You asked me whether there is any point in sitting in this class," he says. "So clearly, you must have an idea about why you're doing this?"

My heart almost stops. The entire auditorium's attention is now on me. I'm sure some of them feel that I am getting what I deserve, as I am clearly not capable of giving a response and struggling with this unwanted attention.

"Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland," I bark at him. My cheeks glow with anger and embarrassment, while a buzz of shock fills the room as the other students inhale audibly.

He looks at me, his eyes piercing through me with that same intensity from before. I try to withstand his gaze without showing how much I regret saying what I just said. So much for not getting on his bad side.

"You're right," he says, still locking eyes with me. "That would probably save us all a lot of time."

I gulp. Damn.

"I'll tell you what school is about," he says, turning back to the rest of the auditorium.

I sigh with relief.

"It's about signaling," he concludes. "Signaling that you know the rules of the game. Signaling that you are willing to work hard, to listen to boring stuff, fulfill useless and boring assignments and to follow orders."

He pauses for a moment to let us process his words of wisdom, before he continues.

"You are signaling that you will be good employees, good working bees and compliant subordinates," he says. "And again: There is nothing wrong with that. After all, it is what will help you to obtain a good, safe and well-paying job. If this is what you are after, you might be doing the right thing. Just don't think you're anything special."

Frowns and confused whispers are making the rounds again.

"But, as you all know, this class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship," Mr. Portland proceeds, completely ignoring the students' reaction.

"I was asked to come here to tell you what it takes to be successful by doing your own thing - at least that's how I understood it. And I can tell you one thing right away: It's not by following the rules, by doing what everyone else is doing, or by following someone else's footsteps. Success comes with creativity, bravery and a certain ignorance. Ignorance of what can go wrong. You will fail, there are a lot of things that you will fail at, but you should not be thinking about failure before you even start."

He adds another pause for emphasize and turns around, grabbing a tiny piece of chalk to write something on the spic and span blackboard behind him.

"And as I said before," he adds while writing. "That is what we will be talking about for now. Failure."

I look around and reluctantly pick up my pen to take notes, as most other students do.

My hands are still shaking.

T
hat look
. I have seen it before.

It makes my insides burn.

Every school has at least one student like her. Diligent, strict, obedient - and with a strong need to please.

Ready to be broken by me.

When I was asked to give this guest lecture, I told myself that I would have to be prepared. I knew there would be opposition. Unpleasant encounters, disgusting conversations and condescending looks.

I told Professor Clark that I wouldn't spend a lot of time on campus and that I had no interest in interacting with the faculty more than I had to. This is not my environment, not the place I belong.

I also told him that I would need my lecture to be free of standardization and that I would not be willing to grade students, as I don't see myself qualified to do so. Of course, that was a lie. I am more than qualified to evaluate a student's worth, but I know my grading system would not be compliant with the school's regulations. If they need credit for my class with a grade on it, they would have to write a paper that would then be graded by the assistant the school wanted to provide for me.

I never thought they would agree to this, but they did. Apparently, my name was big enough for them to go out of their way just to have me talk to their students as an honorary guest lecturer of some sort. Me. It's so ridiculous.

Still, I was prepared for a lot of headwind and annoyances that would make me question the decision to take over this class.

However, I was not prepared for her. Those dark blue eyes, her narrow shoulders, tense as her whole posture is, even while sitting.

I know her kind.

She is not the kind of girl who draws eyes, the kind who makes men turn their heads, evoking indecent comments and behavior. The sexy broad who owns the attention of everyone around her just by showing up, flaunting her assets in revealing clothes and a coy attitude.

No, that's not her.

However, she is exactly the kind of woman
I'm
drawn to.

She is a good girl, unobtrusive and demure. Dressed in dark colors, she lets her brown hair fall down over her slim shoulders, framing a delicate and pale face. It is the end of the summer, but she is one of the very few students in here who do not have the slightest tan. It makes her look younger than she probably is, and it makes her unusually dark eyes pop even more. They are too dark for her complexion and it takes a second look to realize that they are not black or brown, but blue.

I don’t notice her until she raises her arm, drawing my attention to herself by force. I know what to expect even before she speaks. She wants to prove a point, and she wants me to know that she is not intimidated or enchanted by me, like most of her peers are.

The look on her face says it all. It's different from most other girls in this class. Her face is stern and focused. This is what makes her stand out from the crowd.

The female crowd around her displays the same infatuation that I have become all too used to. I can see them left and right, their empty eyes hanging on to my every word. How boring. Infantile admiration is written all over their faces.

But not on hers.

She is pressing her small lips together as she waits to be called upon by me. I didn't expect to be interrupted this early in the lecture, so she has the element of surprise going for her. That surprise soon fades when she starts speaking and proves my suspicions right.

I thrive on seeing her eyebrows furl when I pick up her arrogant interjection and continue saying things she will hate. Calling on her again a few minutes later is just the icing on the cake.

"Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland," she says with that snarky tone in her voice.

I will remember this, and I won't forget to punish her in some way or another.

She refrains from any further interruptions during the lecture, but after I dismiss the class I notice that she is packing her things rather slowly. She lingers while most other students storm out of the auditorium and even longer while a handful come down to speak to me.

They are mostly girls who are thanking me for this "enlightening" first lecture and one guy who asks whether there will be material for them to download as the semester progresses. I answer their questions and thank them for their remarks, but try to dismiss them as quickly as possible. It's not only about me not having the time, or desire, to hang out with these spoiled kids, but mainly due to curiosity as to what she might have to say to me now that the lecture is over.

The girl is standing a few feet away, keeping her distance while there are still other students around. Only when the last of them finally leaves does she dare to approach me.

"Yes?" I ask before she can open her mouth. "Anything unclear, Miss?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," she says, now standing right next to me. I notice a little shiver when I lay my eyes on her, even though she tries her best to appear confident and calm.

She is not. Her nervousness is obvious.

Good. Very good.

I sigh. "Well, how can I help you?"

"I need credit for this class," she says, crossing her arms in front of her small chest. "And I was wondering how you would go about that? Do we have an exam? A paper? You never mentioned anything and you never posted a syllabus, like our professors would."

I notice the special emphasis she put on her last few words.
Like our professors would
. She is trying to put me in my place, to remind me that I am not a scholar. I wouldn't be surprised if she sees it below herself to be taught by me at all.

However, her question is legitimate and deserves an answer. I am surprised that she is the first person to even ask about this.

"There won't be any grades or papers," I say. "You'll pass this class with standard attendance-"

"That's unusual," she interrupts. "Normally, graduate students are not required to attend classes and we're evaluated by-"

"I know that," I say, now interrupting her. "But you may have noticed that I like to do things a little different.”

"Is this in agreement with the dean?" she wants to know.

Now, she is starting to agitate me. I take a step closer to her, so close, that I can perceive her scent. It's just her, no disruptive perfume that distracts from her natural scent. Clean and innocent, unobtrusive.

She flinches, but doesn't move away from me. Her breathing accelerates, her chest heaving under strong inhales and exhales. I love the effect I have on her, and her arrogant demeanor only adds to my excitement.

This girl is in a lot more trouble than she could ever imagine.

"Of course, this is in agreement with the dean," I hiss. We are standing so close that she must feel my breath on her face as I speak.

She looks up at me, her eyes narrow and attentive.

"If you want a grade for this class - even though it is not required - you can arrange something with my teaching assistant," I add. "Write some kind of silly essay or something. I really don't care."

She nods. "Alright. I will do that then."

"Fine."

"I'm wondering, though," she adds, taking a deep breath before she dares to continue. "You said you'll give credit to students by standard attendance."

She pauses, looking up at me as if she is making sure I am listening to her. I beckon her to continue by raising one of my eyebrows, casting her an impatient look.

"How do plan to check on that? Do you take attendance? I don't think you did today..."

This girl. It's almost as if she is asking for punishment.

"Why don't you let that be my worry," I tell her, and her eyes flicker. She is not very tall, barely reaching up to my chin as she stands before me in her ballerina flats. I can't help but wonder what she would look like in heels. I bet she has never worn any before and couldn't walk in them. It would be fun to watch her try.

"You just worry about your own work," I add. "And let me do my job."

"So, write a silly essay paper you mean?" she repeats my previous words.

I nod. "Yes, exactly."

"You don't seem to take this very seriously," she states.

I don't understand why she is still here. Is she seriously trying to lecture me? Does she want me to bend her over my desk right here and now?

"And you take it a bit too seriously, young lady," I say. "Your ambition may be admirable, but a more pleasant attitude wouldn't hurt."

Her eyes widen with indignation and she inhales sharply. Oh, I have upset the little Miss.

She takes a step back, and as she does, I can instantly see her shoulders relax a little. My proximity caused her to tense up more than she would ever be willing to admit.

How sweet. How delicious.

"I'll talk to your assistant about the paper," she says, acting as if the last few words of our exchange have never happened. "Thank you."

With that, she abruptly turns around to leave.

"What's your name?" I ask.

She stops and turns toward me, her eyebrows raised with worry. "Why do you want to know?"

"I am your teacher, you are in my class, and I feel like you might be one of the few who will actually ask questions,” I say. "Wouldn't it be nice if I could address you with your name every time I have to call on you?”

She hesitates.

"Besides," I add. "It's only polite to tell someone your name when you're asked."

"Is it?" she wonders. "It could also be a good way for a teacher to take revenge by grading unfairly when they can put a name to a face they don't like."

"I told you, I'm not grading you in anyway," I say, chuckling and shaking my head. "Besides, who says I don't like you?"

There it is. She blushes. This uptight confused little creature blushes in front of me.

"I like you," I say to worsen her embarrassment. "Students like you. It's more fun to deal with someone like you than a doe-eyed admirer who won't give me any backtalk. No challenge. Kind of boring, don't you think?"

Her cheeks and ears are glowing crimson red, and her lips part in an attempt to speak. She has never been seen as a rebel, as someone who talks back, someone who poses a challenge to her teachers. That is not who she is.

This is new to her.

"Harlington," she says eventually, her voice thin and shaky, very unlike it was before. "Lana Harlington."

"Thank you, Miss Harlington," I say, nodding toward her. "I am looking forward to being your teacher for this semester."

She nods, but doesn't say anything. Instead of her mouth, it's her eyes that move. They flutter like wings of a butterfly. She stares at me with those flickering lashes for a few moments, before she decides to turn around.

My eyes are glued to her back as she walks away to leave the auditorium, shaking her slim hips dressed in a dark gray skirt that hides her perky ass.

I am going to wrap my hands around those hips. And I am going to spank the hell out of that tight, little ass.

Just you wait, Miss Harlington.