Professor Elena Vargas had always been the terror of Westwood University in Los Angeles, California. At 38, she was a tenured professor in the Psychology Department, known for her razor-sharp lectures on abnormal behavior and her unyielding grading policy. Students whispered about her—single, strikingly beautiful with dark wavy hair and piercing green eyes, but as cold as the Pacific fog rolling in from the coast. “No second chances,” she’d say on the first day of class. “Life doesn’t give retakes, and neither do I.”

I, Jake Harlan, was a 22-year-old senior majoring in psych, hoping to get into grad school. I’d grown up in a small town in Oregon, moved to LA for the sun and the opportunities, but mostly to escape my foster family drama. I wasn’t the star student—worked part-time at a coffee shop near campus to pay rent on my crappy apartment in Westwood Village—but I was determined. Professor Vargas’s class on Forensic Psychology was my make-or-break. The midterm? I bombed it. A big fat D-minus. She handed it back with a note: “Disappointing. See me if you want to discuss.”

Discuss? Yeah, right. Everyone knew she didn’t do office hours for failures. I stared at the paper in the lecture hall, surrounded by the hum of students packing up. My heart sank. Without an A in this class, my GPA would tank, and grad school dreams would evaporate like morning dew in the LA heat.

That night, as I slumped on my couch scrolling through job listings—just in case—my phone buzzed. Unknown number, but the area code was local. I answered hesitantly.

“Jake? This is Professor Vargas.” Her voice was low, almost a purr, with that slight accent from her Mexican heritage. It sent a shiver down my spine—not fear, exactly, but something electric.

“Uh, yes, Professor. Hi.”

A pause. “I reviewed your midterm again. It’s… salvageable. Come to my office tonight. 9 PM sharp. I’ll offer you an extra credit opportunity. Something special.”

My pulse quickened. Extra credit? From Vargas? Rumors swirled about her—strict, but fair in her own twisted way. No one got extras. “Really? Thank you, I—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she interrupted, her tone laced with something I couldn’t place. Amusement? Seduction? “Just be there. And Jake? Come alone.”

The line went dead. I sat there, phone in hand, replaying it. Special extra credit. In her office, at night. My mind raced to places it shouldn’t—a beautiful professor, a failing student. But no, that was Hollywood crap. This was real life. Still, I showered, put on a clean shirt, and headed out.

Westwood University at night was a ghost town. The palm trees swayed under streetlights, and the psychology building loomed like a modernist fortress. Her office was on the third floor, door ajar with a sliver of warm light spilling out. I knocked lightly.

“Come in,” she called.

I pushed the door open. She was at her desk, papers scattered, a glass of red wine in hand—wait, wine? In her office? She looked up, her eyes locking on mine. She wore a fitted black blouse, unbuttoned just enough to hint at lace beneath, and a pencil skirt that hugged her curves. “Close the door, Jake.”

I did, and heard the click of the lock engaging automatically. The sound echoed in the quiet room. My stomach twisted. Why lock it? Security, maybe. But as I turned back, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that made my knees weak.

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. I sat, trying not to fidget. The room smelled of vanilla candles and old books, with shelves lined with tomes on serial killers and mind control.

“Professor, about the midterm—”

“Elena,” she corrected. “Call me Elena tonight. We’re off the record.”

Okay, that was weird. “Elena. I appreciate this. I really need to boost my grade.”

She leaned forward, her cleavage subtly on display. “I know you do. You’re smart, Jake. But lazy. Or distracted.” Her eyes flicked over me appraisingly. “Tell me, what’s distracting you?”

I swallowed. “Just… life. Work, bills.”

She nodded, sipping her wine. “Life can be so… unforgiving. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.” She stood, walking around the desk, perching on the edge right in front of me. Her leg brushed mine. “The extra credit: it’s not a paper or a quiz. It’s experiential learning. Something hands-on.”

My mouth went dry. Hands-on? The air thickened. Was this happening? Professors didn’t do this. But her gaze was intense, inviting. “What do you mean?”

She reached out, her fingers tracing my jawline lightly. “I think you know, Jake. You’re not naive.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve watched you in class. The way you look at me. Tonight, we explore… boundaries.”

Holy shit. My heart hammered. This was every forbidden fantasy. But warning bells rang—power imbalance, ethics. Yet, her touch was electric. I stood, pulled by some magnetic force, our faces inches apart.

Then, the twist began to unravel, but I didn’t see it yet.

### Building Tension

As our lips met, the world blurred. Her kiss was hungry, experienced, nothing like the college hookups I’d known. She pushed me against the desk, her hands roaming. “Lock the door properly,” she murmured against my neck. “We don’t want interruptions.”

It was already locked, but I fumbled for the deadbolt, clicking it shut. The sound was final, like a cage closing. She smiled wickedly. “Good boy.”

We moved to the couch in the corner—leather, worn from years of student confessions. Clothes came off in a frenzy. Her body was flawless, toned from yoga or whatever professors did. “This is your extra credit,” she whispered, straddling me. “Perform well, and you’ll pass with flying colors.”

It was intense, passionate. But midway, something felt off. Her moans were too calculated, her eyes too watchful. As we finished, she collapsed beside me, breathing heavy. “That was… enlightening.”

I lay there, post-bliss haze fading into confusion. “So, about my grade…”

She laughed softly, standing to dress. “Patience. First, a drink.” She poured wine from a decanter on her shelf—two glasses. I took one, sipping. It tasted bitter, but I chalked it up to cheap merlot.

As she buttoned her blouse, she casually asked, “Tell me about your childhood, Jake. Your real one.”

Weird question post-sex. “Foster care. Bounced around after my parents died in a car crash when I was five. Why?”

She nodded, eyes gleaming. “Interesting. And your birth name? Before adoption?”

“Uh, I don’t remember. Harlan is my foster name. Why the psych eval now?”

She sat back, crossing her legs. “Because this isn’t just about sex, Jake. Though that was… necessary.”

Necessary? Alarm bells blared louder. The room spun slightly— the wine? “What do you mean?”

“Elena Vargas isn’t my real name either.” She leaned in. “I’m Special Agent Maria Lopez, FBI. And you, Jake Harlan—or should I say, Jacob Ramirez—are under arrest.”

What? The world tilted. I tried to stand, but my legs wobbled. Drugged. “This is a joke, right?”

“No joke.” She pulled a badge from her drawer, flashing it. “We’ve been watching you for months. Your midterm? Rigged to fail you, draw you in. The ‘extra credit’? A honeypot trap to get your DNA.”

DNA? My vision blurred. “For what?”

She smiled coldly. “Murder. Ten years ago, in Portland, a family was killed in a home invasion. Parents slaughtered, child missing. You were that child, Jake. But not the victim—the perpetrator.”

Impossible. “I was five! My parents died in a crash!”

“Fabricated story. You were adopted out, memory suppressed through trauma. But we have evidence. Your fingerprints from childhood match partials at the scene. And now, your semen—DNA confirmation.”

Horror washed over me. Flashes—nightmares I’d had of blood, screams. Thought they were just dreams. “No… I couldn’t…”

“You did. Child sociopath. Killed your parents in a rage, staged it as invasion. Foster system buried it. But I reopened the case. Posed as professor to get close.”

The door—why locked? “You’re lying. This is insane.”

She shook her head. “The wine has a sedative. You’ll wake up in custody. But first, confession time.”

High climax building. I lunged, but weak, she easily dodged, pinning me with a knee. “Easy, killer.”

Then, the real twist exploded.

As she reached for cuffs, my phone buzzed in my discarded pants. She fished it out. “Who’s this? ‘Unknown’.”

She answered on speaker. A voice—male, distorted. “Agent Lopez? We know you’re in there with the target. Stand down. He’s one of ours.”

Her face paled. “Who is this?”

“FBI Internal Affairs. Jake isn’t the killer. He’s undercover. The real perpetrator is you, Maria. You killed your own brother and sister-in-law—your family. Framed the child. We’ve got the evidence.”

No. My head spun harder. Undercover? Me?

She dropped the phone, eyes wild. “Lies!”

But memories flooded back—not dreams, but repressed ops. I wasn’t Jake Harlan. I was Agent Ryan Cole, deep cover for years, amnesia induced via hypnosis to infiltrate. The “foster care” was fabricated. The midterm, the seduction—all part of my sting to catch her.

With adrenaline surging past the drug, I grabbed her arm, twisting. “It’s over, Maria. You thought you could pin your crimes on a kid? But I remembered enough to tip off IA.”

She fought like a demon, knocking over the lamp, plunging us into shadows. “You bastard! I built this life!”

We grappled, crashing into shelves, books raining down. She grabbed a letter opener—sharp, deadly. “I’ll finish what I started!”

High climax: She lunged, slicing my arm. Blood sprayed. I dodged, slamming her against the wall. “Why? Why kill your family?”

“Insurance money! They cut me out of the will. The kid saw too much.” She stabbed again, but I caught her wrist, forcing the blade away.

The door burst open—SWAT team, vests and rifles. “FBI! Hands up!”

She froze, defeated. As they cuffed her, she spat, “How? How did you remember?”

I smirked through the pain. “The kiss. Your perfume—same as my ‘mother’s.’ Triggered it all.”

They hauled her away, screaming denials. I slumped, medics rushing in.

### Aftermath

Weeks later, debriefed in DC, I learned the full truth. I was the child, but innocent. Maria, my aunt, killed my parents, kidnapped me briefly, then dumped me in foster care with altered records. FBI recruited me young, used hypnosis to bury memories, sent me to her university as bait.

Grad school? A cover. My real life: agent. The “D-minus” was planned. The seduction—her MO from past cases.

As I walked out into the sunlight, phone buzzed. Real boss: “Good work, Ryan. Vacation time.”

I smiled. No more extra credit needed.