The Professor’s Secret Mistress Chapter 1

As a senior advisor in the field of Artificial Intelligence for the federal government, I had been stationed overseas on a high-level research fellowship for the past year.

During that time, security protocols were airtight. My contact with the outside world was sparse, restricted to encrypted check-ins and the occasional brief letter.

The moment the program concluded, my first instinct wasn't to celebrate; it was to call my daughter, Daisy. She had been grinding for two years to pass the Bar Exam, and the results were due any day. I dialed her for a video call, my heart thumping with a mix of pride and nerves.

When she picked up, the sight of her shattered me. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot—she had clearly been sobbing for hours.

"Sweetie, it’s okay," I whispered, my voice thick with maternal instinct. "Don’t worry about the results. Mom has plenty of money. We can pay for another prep course, another year—whatever it takes."

As I spoke, I noticed the background. She wasn't in her sun-drenched bedroom. She was in the cramped, windowless pantry behind the kitchen.

Worse, I saw a flash of silver on her ear. A cheap piercing was buried in her lobe, and the skin around it was angry, red, and oozing with infection.

I didn't want to push her while she was so fragile, so I hung up and immediately called her father, Jonathan.

Jonathan answered with a huff of impatience, acting as if my concern was a nuisance. "You’ve been gone a year, Catherine. Don’t start micromanaging from across the ocean. Girls like to play dress-up; a piercing is normal."

Then came the sting. "Daisy’s been prep-testing for two years and still can’t cut it. Meanwhile, Marina—my star student—aced her boards on the first try. I swear, sometimes I wonder if Daisy really carries my genes with a brain that slow."

My blood ran cold. After I hung up, a notification pinged on my phone. My secondary credit card—the one Jonathan used—had just been swiped for $28,000 at a boutique in Beverly Hills. A designer handbag.

Something was horribly wrong. I didn’t hesitate. I resigned from my seven-figure consultancy role effective immediately and booked the first flight back to the States.

* * *

The moment I boarded the plane, I pulled up Marina’s Instagram.

She had blocked me.

Fortunately, I had followed her burner TikTok account months ago out of professional curiosity. I refreshed her feed. There she was, preening in a video, posing from every angle with a brand-new, charcoal-grey Hermès Birkin.

“Thank you to my favorite person for the best gift ever. I’m obsessed,” the caption read.

$28,000. My money.

A sickening dread coiled in my gut. Since I’d been abroad, we had hired a live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins, to take care of Daisy and Jonathan. I called her, hoping for some clarity, but what I heard was worse than I imagined.

"Ma'am, I… I was let go. Miss Marina insisted on it."

"Marina? Since when does a guest have the authority to fire my staff?" My voice rose an octave, drawing stares from the first-class cabin.

"She told me she’s the lady of the house now. She said I was too old, too slow, and that I didn’t ‘cater’ to the Professor’s needs properly. She said… from now on, she’s the one in charge."

I nearly cracked my phone screen from gripping it so hard. A houseguest—a student Jonathan was supposedly "mentoring"—had staged a coup in my own home?

"Ma'am, please," Mrs. Higgins whispered, her voice trembling. "Just watch your back. Things aren't what they seem."

She hung up before I could ask more.

Trembling, I called our long-time driver, Bill. Bill had been with Jonathan for years, and I didn't entirely trust his loyalty, so I changed my tactics. I kept my voice casual, maternal.

"Bill, I’m a little worried about Daisy’s spending lately. Is she buying all these luxury items because she’s stressed about the Bar?"

Bill let out a short, dry chuckle on the other end. "Oh, that? Yeah, she’s been on a bit of a spree. But honestly, ma’am, you’ve got the money. Even the Professor said it’s fine, so I wouldn’t lose sleep over it."

I fell silent.

I knew my daughter. Daisy had been raised with a silver spoon, yes, but she was disciplined. She worked summer jobs. She used to say, “Mom, that’s your hard-earned money. I want to build my own empire.”

Daisy wouldn't suddenly become a shallow shopaholic, especially not while failing the exam she’d sacrificed her social life for.

Every red flag in my mind was screaming. This had Marina written all over it.

I couldn't wait. I paid the exorbitant fee to move my flight up to a direct red-eye.

When the plane touched down, it was 2:00 AM. I didn't call a car. I didn't tell Jonathan I was coming. I wanted to see the truth of this house with my own eyes.

The mansion was silent when I let myself in. I walked straight toward Daisy’s room, but through the cracked door, I saw a world that didn't belong to her.

The walls were lined with shelves of expensive, limited-edition vinyl toys and designer "blind boxes"—hundreds of them. Daisy hated clutter.

I walked to the bed and touched the sheets. Silk. Cold, slippery, charcoal silk.

Daisy only ever slept on organic cotton.

The room was empty. Daisy wasn't there. At 2:30 AM, she should have been asleep in her bed.

The panic I’d been suppressing flared into a full-blown fire. I remembered the video call—the dark, cramped background.

I walked to the hallway and pushed open the door to the small utility mudroom behind the laundry.

The smell of dampness hit me first. It was pitch black.

"Daisy?" I whispered.

"Mom… Mom is that you?"