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Tyla Walker

Not Just The Teacher

Not Just The Teacher

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She thinks I’m the problem.

Too cold. Too rich. Too disciplined.

She doesn’t know I wake up at 3 a.m. clawing at my sheets because my nephew still cries in his sleep—and I can’t fix it. That I’ve tried therapy, tutors, and enough parenting books to fill my penthouse wall.

Nothing works.

Until her.

Willow Biles walks into my boardroom of a life in a mustard sweater and ruins everything. Her voice? Soft. Her spine? Steel. And the way she looks at me—like I’m the monster under the bed and not the man trying to rebuild what death tore apart—makes me feral.

I hate how much I want her in my house.

So I hire her.

One hour a day. That’s the deal. But now she’s everywhere—burning in my kitchen, buried in my sheets, stitching herself into the boy I swore to protect.

She says love needs to be messy. Felt. Earned.

I say love is a fortress.

But I’m on my knees in hers.

Read on for billionaire guardians, classroom power plays, cinnamon roll healing arcs, and a possessive man who builds his empire around the woman who taught his boy to laugh. HEA Guaranteed!

Chapter 1 Look Inside!

Chapter 1

Byron

The air in the forty-second-floor boardroom is thin and tastes like stale ambition. It’s my favorite flavor. Across the ridiculously long slab of polished mahogany, Gerald Peterson is sweating. A single bead traces a path from his temple down his fleshy cheek, and I track its progress with the focus of a predator. He thinks he’s here to negotiate. He’s wrong. He’s here to be dismantled.

“And so,” he drones on, shuffling papers that are already obsolete, “the revised offer from the board reflects a valuation that we believe is more than equitable—”

“It’s an insult,” I cut in. The words are quiet, but they slice through his monologue, and the entire room flinches. My team stays perfectly still. They know the signals. The hunt is over; it’s time for the kill.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, and steeple my fingers. “Let’s be pragmatic about this, Gerald. You’re hemorrhaging capital. Your Q3 projections are a fantasy novel, and your top talent has been sending out feelers for the last six weeks. I know because three of them have already been interviewed by my client’s subsidiaries.”

Peterson’s face goes from pink to a blotchy, alarming shade of crimson. “That’s conjecture.”

“Is it?” I give him a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. It’s a smile that has made CEOs worth ten times his paltry net worth physically recoil. “My client’s offer isn’t just equitable; it’s a goddamn lifeboat. And you’re trying to haggle over the price of the oars while the ship sinks.”

Silence. Beautiful, victorious silence. I can feel the moment the fight drains out of him. I’m about to deliver the final, crushing terms when a vibration starts against my thigh.

I ignore it. No one calls my personal phone during a closing. Ever. It’s a rule as sacrosanct as ‘don’t wear brown in town.’

It vibrates again. A persistent, insistent buzz. Annoyance, hot and sharp, licks up my spine. I keep my eyes locked on Peterson, holding him in place with my gaze, but my focus is fractured.

Fuck off.

A third time. My jaw tightens. My own team is starting to notice. My lead associate, Davies, gives a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes wide. He knows the rule.

A glance at my watch—a Patek Philippe that belonged to my grandfather, my only concession to sentiment—confirms I have been in this room for three hours. The deal is moments from being done. But the phone keeps buzzing, a frantic, desperate insect against my leg.

With a finality that feels like a surrender, I look down. The screen glows with two words that make the air in my lungs turn to ice.

Belcourt Academy.

Shit. Leo.

The irritation I felt moments ago evaporates, replaced by a cold, familiar dread. It’s a feeling I’ve come to know intimately over the last six months—the sickening lurch of incompetence. The boardroom, the billion-dollar deal, the sweating man across from me—it all fades into a distant hum. All that exists is that name on my phone.

Clara’s voice echoes in my head, from a lifetime ago. Just promise me you’ll look after him if anything happens, By. Promise me he’ll be okay.

And every single time this school calls, it’s a reminder that I am failing to keep that promise.

“Gentlemen,” I say, voice a low growl. I stand, shoving my chair back with more force than necessary. “I need to take this.”

I don’t wait for a response. I stride out of the room, my personal phone hot in my hand. The hallway is a silent, carpeted tube of beige. I press the phone to my ear, already bracing for impact.

“This is Byron Hale.”

“Mr. Hale. This is Nurse Evans from Belcourt Academy.” Her voice is calm, but it’s the kind of practiced calm that precedes a Category Five hurricane. “I’m calling about Leo.”

“Is he hurt?” The question is sharp, torn from my throat. My knuckles are white where I grip the phone.

“He’s not physically injured, no. But there’s been an incident. He bit another student during recess.”

I close my eyes and rub the back of my neck, the muscles coiling into tight, angry knots. Not again. I just had a meeting with his behavioral therapist two days ago. We have a plan. We have strategies. We have a goddamn color-coded chart for managing his outbursts that cost more than my first car.

The irritation returns, but it’s not directed at the school, or even at the situation. It’s directed squarely at myself. This is a problem I can’t litigate, can’t intimidate, can’t solve by throwing money at it, though God knows I’ve tried.

“Right,” I say, my voice clipped. “What’s the damage? Send me the parents’ contact information. I’ll have my assistant arrange a settlement.”

“Mr. Hale,” the nurse says, her tone shifting from calm to firm. “This isn’t a situation that can be settled. The other child is fine, just startled. But we need you to come to the school. Now.”

“I’m in the middle of closing a nine-figure acquisition. Is it absolutely necessary for me to be there in person? Can’t we schedule a call for later this afternoon?”

“Leo isn’t speaking, Mr. Hale. To anyone. He’s shut down completely. His teacher feels, and I agree, that your presence is required.”

His teacher. The woman with the patient eyes and the floral-print dresses who looks at me like I’m a specimen of failed humanity she’s forced to study. The last time we spoke, she told me Leo needed “unstructured connection,” not another “results-oriented paradigm.” I’m still not entirely sure what that means, but I know it’s an indictment of everything I am.

Defeated, I let out a breath. “Fine. I’m on my way.”

I hang up without saying goodbye and stand in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The man in the boardroom—The Shark, the closer, the man who controls everything—is gone. In his place is just… Byron. A man completely, hopelessly out of his depth.

I walk back into the boardroom. The tension is thick enough to chew. Peterson looks like he’s aged ten years.

“Davies,” I say, not looking at anyone in particular. “Finalize the terms. Give him the seven percent equity stake. Not a fraction more. Send the final papers to my condo for review tonight.”

Davies blinks, stunned. “Sir? You wanted to push for five.”

“My priorities have shifted.” I grab my briefcase, my movements stiff. “Get it done.”

I don’t look back as I leave. I don’t see Peterson’s relieved slump or my team’s confused scrambling. I just walk. Through the lobby, into the elevator, past the security desk.

The drive from downtown to the leafy, quiet streets where Belcourt Academy resides is a blur. The sleek, controlled quiet of my car does nothing to soothe the chaos in my chest. I’m leaving a world of concrete and glass, a world I dominate, for a world of finger paints, sing-alongs, and emotional minefields.

And as I pull up to the charming brick building, I’m not thinking about the deal I just abandoned.

I’m thinking about a seven-year-old kid with my sister’s eyes, and the terrifying, unshakeable certainty that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.

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