I Never Expected You to Feel That Way (Sacred Temptations nº 1)

Chapter 1 The Weight of Logic

MERCEDES

I know she’s coming before she even knocks.

I know because my traitorous body tenses seconds before, as if it recognizes the exact cadence of her footsteps down the hall.

I hate it.

I hate that a young woman in her twenties, with a battered leather satchel and far too much light in her eyes, has the power to disrupt the immaculate order of my office.

Before I even sense her, the Madrid winter seeps through the walls of the University of San Griselmo. The chill settles deep into my bones despite the central heating humming in the background like a slumbering beast.

I set my red pen down atop a stack of exams. My posture in the leather desk chair is impeccable—the exact bearing my mother taught me for the church pews: back straight, shoulders squared, chin parallel to the floor.

A charcoal-gray suit without a single crease.

Not a hair out of place in my low chignon.

Everything under control. Always.

My fingers drift to the thin gold chain resting against my collarbone. I trace the pad of my thumb over the sharp edges of the crucifix. Peace. Order. Reason. The three pillars of my career. The three tenets that rule my life.

Then comes the knock. Two sharp raps against the wood.

My jaw clenches—a conditioned reflex I detest but cannot control. My pulse kicks into a frantic rhythm.

"Come in," I say.

Claudia enters, and the very air in the office shifts.

Her cheeks are wind-bitten, a wool scarf clumsily bundled around her neck, and she wears a wide, eager smile I find almost insulting.

She clutches her portfolio tightly under her arm.

She exudes the vibrant energy of someone who has nothing to hide.

I don't meet her eyes. Instead, I focus on straightening a stack of papers that doesn't need straightening, keeping my gaze locked on the mahogany desk. I can’t let her see the cracks in my armor.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Almeda," she says, taking a seat across from me. She breezes in with the confidence of someone who knows she’s welcome, oblivious to the invisible wall I’m trying to keep intact. "Sorry I'm two minutes late. The bus got held up by the snow."

"Punctuality is its own form of academic rigor, Claudia," I reply, finally locking eyes with her, shielded behind my reading glasses. "Let's see what you've brought me. I hope you've corrected the subjective drift from your last draft."

CLAUDIA

I've been stressing over this advising session all week.

My boyfriend, Javi, teased me at dinner last night. He said I prep for my meetings with Dr. Almeda like I’m about to meet the Pope.

But Mercedes—in my head, she's already Mercedes, though I'd never dare say it out loud—is something else entirely.

She's so elegant. So severe. So brilliant.

When she pins me with those gray eyes behind her glasses, I feel like I have to give two hundred percent just to be worthy of her time.

I want her to be proud of my work. I need her to see I'm her best student.

I pull out my thesis draft and hand it over, my fingers trembling a little from the cold.

"I restructured the second chapter, exactly as you asked," I say, beaming at her, anxiously awaiting her verdict. "The Conflict Between Institutional Morality and Individual Liberty in Classical Thought. I think the core issue is much clearer now."

Dr. Almeda takes the pages with that ceremonial stiffness of hers. She leans back in her chair, scanning the lines with brisk precision.

A frown tugs at her mouth—perfect lips painted in that severe, deep burgundy she always wears.

"This is unacceptable, Claudia," she states. Her tone is sharp, bordering on hostile.

A chill runs through me. I know she’s strict, but today her voice has a razor's edge that terrifies and fascinates me. There's a coiled tension in her posture I can't quite read.

"Your approach remains dangerously passionate," she continues, still refusing to look at me.

"It lacks the conceptual rigor this university demands.

You are justifying the transgression of moral norms by appealing to a supposed 'authenticity of desire.

' Philosophy does not exist to legitimize our impulses, but to order them, govern them, and, if necessary, subdue them through reason. Your logic is intellectually unsound."

I bite my lip, but I don't back down. Not out of arrogance, but because I believe in what I wrote. I want to debate her. I want to learn from her.

I lean forward over the desk, trying to catch her eye, desperate to make her understand. Up close, I catch the scent of her perfume: a polished blend of orange blossom and powder. Clean. Untouchable.

"But Dr. Almeda, I'm not trying to justify chaos," I say, my voice steady and honest. "I'm arguing that sometimes, no matter how hard reason tries to impose order, there are realities you just can't constrain.

Denying an impulse doesn't erase it. If anything, ignoring that kind of force only makes it more destructive when it finally breaks the surface. Don't you agree?"

MERCEDES

Claudia’s words hit my chest like a physical blow. Denying an impulse doesn't erase it. The air in the office grows thick. The hum of the heater seems to vanish, and the room shrinks until nothing exists but the narrow space between us.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

How dare she? Is that a dig? Has she somehow guessed the impure thoughts that have plagued me every night since she became my student?

I search her face for malice, for the cynical smirk of a provocateur…

but I find nothing. Her eyes are clear, open, full of genuine, guileless intellectual curiosity.

And that, God help me, terrifies me even more.

Her innocence is my undoing, because it proves the monster of guilt lives only in my own head.

My gaze drops involuntarily to her lips, then to her hands gripping her pen, before I finally force my eyes back to hers.

For one agonizing second, my mask crumbles.

I look at her with raw intensity—a volatile mix of rage at being caught off guard, bitter reproach, and a dark, forbidden magnetism that burns in my gut.

Claudia blinks, startled, and falls silent.

The air becomes so heavy I can practically hear the frantic thrum of my own heart. I have stopped breathing.

Panic ripples through me as I realize just how exposed I am.

I break eye contact, wrenching my gaze away toward the crucifix on the wall. I shove my chair back, the movement sharp and uncoordinated, and rake her pages into a messy pile, pushing them away as if the paper itself were scorching my skin.

"That is enough for today, Claudia," I say, my voice fraying on the final syllable. I clear my throat, struggling to reclaim my authority. "I don't have time for circular debates. Rewrite these pages."

"But, Dr. Almeda… what exactly should I change? I thought the point about the force of impulse was—"

"I said that is enough," I cut her off, losing my composure for an instant.

I draw a sharp breath, desperate for an exit.

"We will discuss your new approach next week, during the trip to the conference.

The train ride to Salamanca will give us plenty of time to see if your logic is as sound as you believe. "

Claudia stands slowly. I catch a flicker of confusion in her eyes, as if she’s trying to decipher why I’ve suddenly turned on her. She winds her scarf around her neck, watching me with that familiar look—part shyness, part reverence.

"All right. I’ll work on it tonight. Good afternoon… Mercedes."

My first name, spoken with such artless ease, strikes me like a physical blow to the ribs. It’s a dagger of fresh air in this stifling office.

CLAUDIA

I step into the cold hallway and pull the door shut behind me.

I stand there for a moment, hugging my portfolio to my chest. Wow.

Dr. Almeda was truly rattled at the end.

Was I too bold with my argument? She’s so strict, yet that intensity—the way she gets when she’s debating—is absolutely fascinating.

No other professor makes me feel that thinking is a matter of life and death.

I walk toward the exit beneath the university arches, pulling out my phone to text Javi: Just got out of my tutorial.

You wouldn't believe how intense Dr. Almeda got about my take on desire in classical thought. She has such an incredible mind, Javi. I’ll tell you more at dinner—I need your take on it before the train trip next week.

I tuck my phone away with a smile, impatient to get home and keep reading so I don’t disappoint her.

MERCEDES

The click of the door latch brings me back to reality. I am alone.

I sag against the desk, bracing my elbows on the mahogany and burying my face in my hands.

My pulse is racing; I can’t get enough air into my lungs.

With trembling fingers, I reach for my throat and squeeze the gold crucifix against my palm, desperate for the sharp metal to snap me back to sanity. I dig my nails into my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my face twisted in a mask of pain and guilt.

It’s nothing, I lie to myself in the dark behind my eyelids, silently reciting an Ave Maria to purge my thoughts. She’s just a brilliant student. An innocent girl who doesn't know what she's saying. The error is yours, Mercedes. Only yours.

But the burning in my chest tells me the lie isn’t enough anymore.