Chapter 7
Sophia’s P.O.V
”
Gabriella’s face twisted in sheer indignation, her manicured fingers gripping the paintbrush as she turned toward the man. I stood there in the classroom, trying to ignore the tension in the air as Gabriella’s voice cut through the hum of quiet conversations.
“Who does this guy think he is, barging in here and disrupting our class?” she snapped, glaring at him. The audacity in her tone made me almost smile, though I kept it hidden. She wasn’t the type to take kindly to interruptions, especially not in front of the class.
“This is an art class, not a room for you to vent your personal vendetta. What kind of institute is this? Anyone can just…barge into class and start hauling insults at the students?”
The room fell into a heavy silence, save for the ticking of the clock and the distant murmur of students in the hallway. Every eye in the room darted between Gabriella and the tall, imposing man whose name I didn’t yet know, but his commanding presence had everyone in a thrall.
He was dressed sharply, his navy–blue suit tailored to perfection, exuding the kind of effortless power that made people sit up and take notice. But Gabriella was unfazed. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, lifting her chin defiantly, her expression daring him to answer.
But then her eyes darted toward the Director, who had just entered the class, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she shot him a pointed look.
“Throw him out,” she demanded, her voice ringing with authority, as if she had any say in what happened. I watched as the man stood there, unfazed, his expression unreadable.
“Excuse me?” The Director asked, his voice sharp.
Gabriella’s tone softened a bit, but there was still an edge to it. “Director, please, this is absurd. Who is this man, and why is he disrupting our class? He has no right to be here. Throw him out.”
The Director didn’t seem flustered in the least. He met Gabriella’s challenge with an air of calm professionalism.
“Miss Gabriella,” he began, his voice even, “I suggest you keep your voice down and not interfere in matters of the institute. Do you even have any idea who you’re talking to?”
There was a beat of silence, one that stretched just a little too long. Even Gabriella seemed taken aback, which lead me to believe that she hadn’t expected the Director to speak to her in such a manner. I could see a flicker of hesitation in the Director’s eyes before he let out a slow breath and turned to face the class.
“I suggest you all listen carefully,” he said, his voice calm but firm, as if preparing for the inevitable reaction. “This is Mr. Nathaniel Synclair of the Synclair Group of Companies. He also happens to be one of the trustees of this institution. Which is why, his decision in matters of the institute is final. And I expect all students to respect that.”
The shift in the atmosphere was instant. The murmurs that had been building among our classmates died at once. Gabriella’s expression froze mid–protest, her lips parting slightly as she processed the words. The realization dawned on her in slow, painful seconds, her posture stiffening as she quickly reevaluated the situation.
It was almost amusing, the way her confidence faltered, though she recovered quickly, clearing her throat and looking away as if she hadn’t just demanded that the Director kick one of the school’s most influential figures out of the room.
Nathaniel Synclair, however, looked entirely unaffected. He hadn’t reacted to Gabriella’s outburst at all, his piercing gaze scanning the room with an air of detached curiosity. If he was offended, he didn’t show it. If anything, there was something almost amused in the way his lips twitched at the corners, though he didn’t allow himself a full smirk.
“Well,” the Director continued, adjusting his glasses as if this sort of tension was just another part of his job. “That will be all for today’s lesson.
Class dismissed.”
There was a rustling of books and shuffling of chairs as students quickly packed up, eager to escape the palpable tension still hanging in the air. I stood up slowly, stealing one last glance at Gabriella, whose expression was still rigid with discomfort. She was trying desperately to act unfazed, but the way she gripped the strap of her bag a little too tightly told a different story.
As I made my way toward the desk, my eyes briefly met Nathaniel Synclair’s. He was watching the class disperse, his expression unreadable, but for a fleeting second, I had the strangest feeling that he had been watching me.
1/2
My Billionaire Husband Wants an Open Marriage
