The Lottery of Life
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titus danforth x f!reader
Word Count: 8.4k Rating: E
Summary: You return to the Danforth estate after your mother’s death, carrying the letter she left for Chester. You spent your formative years on the estate as the housekeeper’s child, never part of the family but never entirely outside it either. Coming back after years away makes it impossible to ignore the things you’ve always suspected… and have spent years convincing yourself weren’t real.
Warnings: SMUT (MDNI 18+) loss of a parent, grief, brief mention of alcoholism, language, implied age gap, very headstrong reader (shes fucking sassy and I love her), socioeconomic class differences, bickering, intellectual sparring (basically so much sexual tension), competence kink? alcohol, titus is soooo down bad for you (and very confused over it), male masturbation, i think that’s it?
A/N: Titus needs so much more love. I worked from home this week (which means I was bad and spent time writing this instead). I wrote this in a way where anything 'revealed' in this story is in the trailer / general lore implied from the trailer, and / or discussed in the first movie. However, I’ll label this as smidge spoilers just in case. This beautiful GIF found HERE. dividers by @saradika-graphics
Masterlist | You're reading Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | FINAL PART
Manhattan, New York – Columbia University
The room was already half full when students noticed the board. In thick, deliberate chalk strokes, you’d written:
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER
The chatter died instantly. A few students exchanged looks. One whispered, "Is this… still Philosophy 482?"
You chuckled and tapped the board once with the chalk, standing at the front, hands folded behind your back, watching the rest of the class settle into their seats.
Finally, a student raised her hand.
"Professor… what exactly is today’s topic?"
"Exactly what you see," you simply gestured toward the board, and a ripple of laughter moved through the room. "This is the beginning of our next unit. For the first half of the semester, we’ve been laying the groundwork with the psychology of decision‑making, but for the next few weeks, we’re going to discuss power and what people will do to keep it. The ethics of secrecy. The morality of fear. And the rituals societies create to justify the unjustifiable."
You erased the word MURDER with a slow, deliberate swipe.
Underneath it, you wrote:
MORAL COMPROMISE
"Let’s begin," you said. "Would you sacrifice a person to maintain wealth, status, or influence?"
A student in the front row frowned. "Most people wouldn’t sacrifice anyone for status. That’s not normal."
"Who’s to say what’s normal?" you challenged. "Most people don’t have status to lose. Power changes the moral landscape. When the stakes rise, so does the willingness to rationalize the unthinkable."
"Is this just about corruption?" another student asked.
"Corruption is such a small word for such a large phenomenon. I’m talking about the stories powerful groups tell themselves. The rituals they cling to. The lines they cross because they believe no one will ever hold them accountable," you said.
Another student leaned forward. "Rituals? Like… actual rituals?"
"Every powerful group has rituals. Some are harmless. Some are… less so. But all of them serve the same purpose: to create loyalty through fear, secrecy, or shared belief," you answered.
A student in the back raised his hand slowly. "Are you saying some people would actually hurt someone to keep their status?"
"I’m saying," you replied, "that throughout history, people have done far worse for far less."
A murmur passed through the room. Then the boldest student (the one who always asked what everyone else was thinking) raised his hand.
"Do you believe there are people out there sacrificing people?"
You walked back to the board, underlined MORAL COMPROMISE, and turned back to the class.
"Belief is irrelevant. What matters is that throughout history, powerful groups have used myths, rituals, and fear to maintain control and make others afraid to question them." You let your gaze drift toward the window. "Whether the stories are true or not is less important than the mere fact that the power of the story is real."
A couple of students traded glances, clearly unsure what to make of your statement. One student lowered their head and began scribbling something quickly in the margin of their notebook.
You picked up the chalk again and wrote on the board:
THE ETHICS OF POWER
"Now," you said, turning back to them, "let’s discuss."
You were about to launch into the first discussion question when the classroom door opened without a knock.
Every head turned.
Your aunt stepped inside, still in her coat, hair slightly windblown, and her eyes darted around the room as if she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d gotten there.
"I need to talk to you," she said abruptly. It stopped you cold. Your aunt was the type to apologize for interrupting a voicemail, the type to ease into every conversation with a dozen gentle qualifiers. For her to cut straight to the point like that… something was wrong.
You turned back to the students. "Everyone, I’m sorry, I need to step out for a moment."
Your aunt was already backing toward the hallway, and you followed her out of the classroom, letting the door fall shut behind you.
"I’ve been calling you all morning," she whispered, voice trembling slightly. "You didn’t answer."
"I’ve been in back‑to‑back classes," you said. "I haven’t even had a break. What’s going on?"
"I was having breakfast with your mom," she swallowed, eyes glistening.
"Okay… and?"
Your aunt took a breath that shook on the way out.
"She had a heart attack."
The moment the package arrived, it didn’t feel real at first. It was too small, too ordinary-looking for what it contained. A cardboard box, the kind that could’ve held books or kitchenware. But you knew. Your hands knew before your mind did, and they went stiff.
You carried it inside like it might break, even though it was the heaviest thing you’d ever held.
Inside the box was the urn you’d chosen. She’d been clear about that for years. Don’t bury me. Don’t put me in the ground. She’d told you once, in a rare moment of unfiltered honesty, that watching her father lowered into the ground had carved something into her. Still, opening the container and seeing the ashes and knowing that this was what remained of the woman who raised you… it hit like a second heart attack. One for her, one for you. You sat there with the urn for a long time, not crying or anything, just sitting with it while the silence settled around you like dust.
You kept the memorial small because you knew she would’ve hated anything grand or performative. It was just a handful of close friends and the few relatives who actually mattered. Your father (who you hadn’t seen since you were a child) had wanted to come, but you asked him not too, especially when you heard him slurring over the phone call. It seemed he still loved his vodka. Having your alcoholic father basically a fucking sperm donor was not something you needed at the memorial. You didn’t say much that day. You didn’t need to. People shared stories…the kind that made your grief feel like a warm ache instead of a blade. Someone brought her favorite pastries. Someone else read a poem she used to quote.
At the end, you opened the urn and let the wind take a handful of her. It lifted the ash gently, almost tenderly, scattering it through the sunlight. It felt right. It felt like giving her back to something bigger than the body that failed her.
What people don’t tell you about death is that once the shock fades, you’re left with a stack of practical tasks that feel almost insulting in their normalcy. There’s no space to fall apart because there are passwords to track down, accounts to close, forms to sign, and strangers on customer‑service lines asking you to "verify the deceased’s date of birth." Every conversation feels like sandpaper. Every checkbox feels like a betrayal. But you keep going because someone has to.
You spent the next month sorting through her things, making phone calls, and canceling subscriptions she never got around to canceling herself. You met with the realtor to put her apartment on the market, walking through rooms that still smelled like her shampoo. The realtor talked about square footage and comps while you nodded along, pretending you were fine.
At one point, you were sitting in her small home office, going through drawers when you found an envelope tucked beneath a stack of utility bills. Written in her handwriting was a letter addressed to Chester Danforth.
You hadn’t seen him in a long time. Honestly, you hadn’t seen any of the Danforths in years. Your mother had retired 5 years ago, but she had worked for the Danforths for a long time. She had gotten the job when you were 14 and became their live‑in housekeeper, and you moved in with her. The estate sprawled like a fortress with endless echoing hallways, too many locked doors, and grounds so vast they needed their own staff just to keep the place from swallowing itself.
Chester was the patriarch of the family. He was a frightening man with a quick-tempered kind of presence that made a room feel smaller the moment he walked into it. People stepped carefully around him, including his own children. The twins were older than you, so you mostly saw them on holidays, during the occasional family meetings that required everyone’s presence, or on those 'hunting trips' the Danforth trio treated like sacred tradition. However, he treated you like a bonus child, but not in some warm, fatherly way. Chester wasn’t affectionate. He didn’t ask about your day or sit you down for heart‑to‑hearts. His kindness showed up in more transactional ways: offering to put you in a private school during high school, covering your college tuition, and making sure you had what you needed until you graduated from Princeton. It was an odd dynamic—being poor but living inside someone else’s wealth, benefiting from it without ever belonging to it.
The older you got, the more the imbalance of it all started to bother you. You didn’t want to be someone’s charity case, or worse, you didn’t want to owe him anything…not gratitude, not loyalty, and not a place in your life. So you pulled away after college and kept your distance. Your mother stayed on the estate long after you moved out, so she’d still pass along the occasional update...nothing dramatic, just the usual household gossip, but it was enough to remind you why you’d stepped away. There was something about that family that had always unsettled you. You always had the feeling that getting too close meant getting pulled into something you’d never fully understand.
You held the envelope for a long moment, thumb resting on the sealed flap. It would’ve been so easy to slip a finger under the edge and tear it open. You tilted the envelope toward the light, as if that would help you see through it. But then, just as you started to lift the flap, you heard your mother’s voice in your head, the way she sounded when she was laying down a rule she expected you to follow. If something isn’t meant for you, leave it alone. She’d said that to you once when you were a kid, and it stuck.
Whether you wanted to or not, you knew what you had to do.
It was time to go back to the estate and deliver the letter your mother never sent.
Newport, Rhode Island
Ursula yanked the door open like she was already annoyed at whoever dared knock. Her eyes swept over you once, unimpressed.
"You look like shit," she said, voice flat as a cutting board.
"Nice to see you too," you replied. The real surprise was that she answered the door herself. This was a house with enough staff to field a small army. She, of course, looked as flawless as ever with her blonde hair twisted into a perfect bun, makeup sharp, and wearing an outfit that probably cost more than your entire yearly salary.
She didn’t move aside, just stared at you like she was trying to place a face from an old yearbook. "What are you doing here? I haven’t seen since—"
"That night," you said, and Ursula’s mouth twitched.
"God. No wonder you look terrible. That was years ago."
"Not all of us can afford Botox."
"It’s preventative," she shot back.
"Where’s your father?"
"In his study." She glanced behind you, scanning the empty porch. "Is your mother with you?" The question came out a little too quickly, Ursula’s green eyes flicking past you with an eagerness she didn’t bother disguising. For a second, she actually looked hopeful, like your mother might materialize out of thin air with a polite smile and a casserole.
"If you see her, let me know. That’d be impressive," you said as you stepped past her into the foyer.
"Why?"
"Because she’s dead."
"What the fuck do you mean?" Ursula’s face went slack.
You exhaled, already exhausted. "Exactly what it sounds like." And then you gave her the short version.
Ursula blinked hard, processing. "A heart attack?"
"Yes."
"Fuck!"
Before you could respond, she grabbed your wrist and hauled you down the hallway, heels clicking like gunshots. She didn’t bother knocking when she reached the study; she just threw the door open.
"Excuse me," came Chester’s booming voice, and then his eyes landed on you. Surprisingly, he looked the same. And sitting across from him, turning slowly in his chair, was Titus. Ursula immediately cut to the chase, blurting out the news before you could stop her. Chester shot to his feet, with Titus rising a beat after him. It was odd. Titus hadn’t really changed, and yet he had. The gray suited him (annoyingly so), and it only sharpened the features that had always made him objectively attractive.
Chester asked when the funeral was, and you explained that there wasn’t going to be one, and that there had already been a small memorial.
Ursula’s head snapped toward you. "You didn’t invite us?"
In all the years you’d known her, you had never seen Ursula shed a single tear. Not once. But now her eyes glossed over (just for a second) before she jerked her chin up, refusing to let it fall.
Titus exhaled a quiet, dismissive scoff. "Ursula… she was the help." You turned to him immediately and gave him a look that made it unmistakably clear you were offended.
What a fucking asshole.
"I—excuse me," Ursula muttered, voice thin and breaking in ways she clearly hated. And then she spun on her heel and rushed out of the room, disappearing down the hallway before anyone could see whatever expression she was fighting to keep off her face.
Titus stood, straightening his jacket with a lazy flick. "I’ll go deal with her. Last thing we need is her mascara on the antique rugs." He took a few slow steps toward you, closing the distance. "Thanks for the update. Maybe if you’d told us about the memorial, we could’ve shown up and pretended to care." He leaned in just a fraction. "But, it was nice of you to spare us the travel. Very thoughtful."
And with that, Titus walked out after Ursula walked out after Ursula leaving Chester frozen in place and you still vibrating with the sting of his words.
Chester finally exhaled, the sound shaky, and lowered himself into the nearest chair like his bones had suddenly remembered their age. He rubbed a hand over his face, then looked up at you, and something in his expression softened.
"I’m sorry," he muttered. "She was a wonderful woman."
"Thank you," you murmured. "You look well," you added awkwardly, because you’d never been good at tiptoeing around feelings.
"It’s so like you to give me a compliment during a hard time. You haven’t changed at all." He tilted his head, studying you. "Are you okay? Do you need money?"
You rolled your eyes. "That’s not why I’m here."
"Well, I don’t know," he said, spreading his hands. "I haven’t seen you since that summer after you graduated from Princeton. You disappeared after Kip’s wedding."
Kip was Chester’s nephew and the twins’ cousin, close to your age, and he’d gone to prep school with you. He made your life miserable, telling everyone your mother was the maid. It was hard to make friends when the school’s golden boy treated you like gum on the bottom of his shoe.
"Kip’s wedding," you echoed. "I’d hardly call that a wedding."
"He did get married."
"For less than twenty‑four hours. And then his bride vanished."
"It’s not his fault his wife ran off with her ex."
"Whatever you say, Chester."
Your tone made it clear you didn’t buy that story for a second and that you knew something far more complicated and far more uncomfortable had happened that night.
And Chester knew you knew something.
"Well, I’m not here to go down memory lane," you said, cutting off whatever excuse Chester was about to reach for. "I’m here because I found a letter in my mother’s office. And I thought you would want this."
You reached into your bag and held it out.
Chester straightened a little, surprised, and took the envelope with both hands. He opened it carefully, smoothing the paper flat on his knee. You watched him read—watched the tiny shifts in his expression, and the way his eyes flicked back and forth faster at certain lines. When he finally reached the end, he folded the letter with deliberate precision and set it on the table beside him.
"Thank you…for bringing me this."
You nodded, but your eyes lingered on the envelope. You couldn’t help it. Something in the way he’d read it made you wonder what was inside. You didn’t pry, but the question settled in the back of your mind anyway, a small, persistent curiosity you tried to swallow down.
"I should go," you pushed yourself to your feet.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to New York."
“It’s the summer,” he said, as if that explained everything. "Aren’t you off?"
"Technically," you said. "I’m teaching 1 online course and doing research."
Your most recent research was exhausting, the kind of hyper‑specific niche work where every lead was a dead end, and every source felt like it had been written by someone who actively hated clarity.
He leaned back, studying you. "Stay."
"What? Why?"
"Why not?" he countered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Before you could argue, he added, "Why not stay a few weeks and take your mind off things?"
For a moment, you could almost see the version of him who snuck you extra dessert from the kitchen one day after a boy had called you ugly at school and you had punched him in the face.
"I don’t think Ursula and Titus want me here."
"Their reaction is fair. You know how much they adored your mother."
"Even Titus?"
"Especially Titus," Chester sighed.
You turned your gaze aside, jaw clenched. You had thought about inviting them. You’d even drafted the message multiple times, thumb hovering over the send button. But then the fear had crept in…
And you’d let that win.
The truth was, they had always treated your mother well. Better than well. She’d been the one person in this house everyone trusted. The one who could calm Ursula’s storms, the one who could coax a real smile out of Titus, and the one who could get Chester to eat something besides black coffee and stress. They’d adored her in a way that sometimes made you feel like you were the outsider.
"I fucked up," you said sincerely. "I’m sorry."
"I know you had your reasons," he grunted, the lines around his eyes easing. "The carriage home is under renovation." It was the place you and your mother stayed in when you lived here. "You know how small it is, so we’re expanding it. Adding a few things."
You almost snorted. It had three bedrooms, vaulted ceilings, a sunroom, and a kitchen larger than most apartments. 3500 square feet of "modest" living space, technically separate from the main house but still very much part of the estate. You had no idea what they could possibly be adding. A ballroom for the horses?
"But," Chester continued, gesturing vaguely toward the east side of the mansion, "the East Wing has more than enough rooms available. You’d be comfortable there." You took a small step back, instinctively creating space between you and the offer.
"I’ll… consider it."
Chester nodded once, accepting that as the closest thing to a yes he was going to get today.
A week later, you returned to the estate with your car and a single suitcase. You’d packed with precision—exactly two weeks’ worth of clothes, no more, no less. Staying longer felt like a stupid fucking idea.
The wait staff greeted you warmly, just as they always had with your mother, and carried your things through the East Wing to your room. The space was stunning. It was impossible not to feel a little disoriented by the beauty of the room. Chester wasn’t there since he was somewhere in Switzerland tied up in a board meeting or a summit he couldn’t skip…otherwise known as some fucking old white men's business you didn’t give a fuck about.
Your first task was making things right with Ursula. She accepted your apology in her own dramatic fashion: by calling you a shady bitch, grabbing her purse, and ordering you to drive her to her manicurist so she could fix a chipped nail. You didn’t argue. You drove her across town while she lectured you about the importance of cuticle oil, but only after she took one look at your beat‑up car, made a noise of pure horror, and whipped you the keys to her Bentley. She begged you to get a manicure once you both got there, but you declined, which earned you an eye roll. By the time you dropped her off at cocktails with her friends, you were reasonably sure you’d been forgiven. Or at least reinstated.
When you returned to the house, the late afternoon sun slanting through the hallways, you headed toward the kitchen, and found Titus. He stood at the counter, speaking with the chef about dinner preparations. Titus was specifying the exact marbling grade of the wagyu A5, from a particular farm outside Kobe, flown in from Tokyo that morning. He wanted it seared at a precise temperature, rested for a precise number of minutes, and sliced at a precise angle to preserve the integrity of the fat cap.
Then came the potatoes.
He was requesting a whipped potato so specific it sounded like a spell: Yukon Golds passed through a fine-mesh tamis three times, folded with cultured butter from Normandy, a splash of cream infused with roasted garlic and thyme, and finished with a drizzle of white truffle oil 'only if it’s the one from Alba, not the synthetic stuff.' He added something about the salt needing to be Maldon, not fleur de sel, because fleur de sel interfered with the texture.
The chef nodded along, clearly used to this level of specificity.
You were still trying to understand how mashed potatoes required international sourcing and a culinary dissertation when the chef finally noticed you standing in the doorway.
"Madame," he greeted warmly, "would you like some dinner as well?"
"Please don’t call me that," you said, stepping forward. You offered your hand and your name. "It’s extremely nice to meet you."
"Likewise," he shook your hand with a polite, practiced smile.
"I’ll make my own dinner," you added, glancing at the array of ingredients Titus had demanded. "You seem to have quite a meal to prepare tonight."
Titus’s head snapped toward you, his expression flattening into a slow, unimpressed glare. The chef gave a small, knowing nod and excused himself, heading toward the actual kitchen to begin the real work. This room was just the show kitchen.
You cleared your throat. "So… I guess we’re going to be roommates for a couple weeks."
"If you’re expecting me to roll out a welcome mat, you’re in the wrong house," he exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated.
"Oh, trust me," you folded your arms, "I’m painfully aware of what house I’m in."
"You know, your mother never made things this complicated. She understood her place here."
"Her place?" you snarled.
"You may have been extended an invitation by my father, but it was done out of courtesy, not because you suddenly matter."
"Look… I know it's been a long time… but there’s no need to be such a dick."
His beautiful hazel eyes narrowed just slightly. "If you didn’t want the truth, you shouldn’t have come back."
"I can’t believe you’re still like this after all this time."
"Like what?"
"A petulant child pretending to be a man. Same old Titus. Snarky, spoiled, and convinced the sun rises just to shine on your trust fund." You pointed towards the other kitchen, exasperated. "And seriously—what was that? You could’ve just asked for a simple meal. Steak and mashed potatoes. That’s it. But no, with you it has to be a whole production. Three sauces, a garnish flown in from somewhere ridiculous, and wagyu that had to cross the entire Pacific so you can feel important." You shook your head, incredulous. "Jesus Christ, do you ever think about the fuel emissions from your dinners, or does the planet also exist to serve your palate?"
"Is this you trying to sound important?" He tilted his head, lips curling in a patronizing half‑smile. "I’d hate to see the unedited version."
"You walk around acting like you’re above everyone," you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, and threw your hands up, pacing a step away before turning back to him, "because you’re miserable, and you want everyone else to feel it too."
His nostrils flared like he was trying to breathe through the spike of anger. "I will not be spoken to like this in my house."
And maybe it was the long drive, or the exhaustion, or the way he was getting under your skin, but the words came out before you could stop them.
"Except it’s not your house. It’s Chester’s. You’re a forty‑something‑year‑old man still living at home with your daddy. Am I missing the part where I should be impressed?" You knew he probably owned his own multiple properties, but that was besides the point.
"I expected better material from you. That was lazy," his expression softened into something infuriatingly patient, like he was humoring a child, "and predictable."
"I can’t believe I was actually going to apologize to you."
"For what? Existing?"
"For not inviting you to the memorial."
"You didn’t want us there. Message received," his voice was flat, but the hurt underneath it was unmistakable.
"You’re right… I didn’t," you swallowed, and your fingers drifted to the counter beside you, tracing the edge of a decorative inlay—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to avoid looking directly at him while you said the next part.
"But my mother probably would have wanted all of you there... especially you. She had a soft spot for you," you admitted, eyes dropping to the pattern beneath your fingertips. "I’m sorry." The words felt strange in your mouth because he drove you insane, but you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t messed up. You kept your gaze on the counter, tracing the design again, slower this time. "I’ll stay out of your way while I’m here."
You pushed off the counter gently, your fingers slipping away from the cool surface, and took a step back, then another, as you moved toward the doorway.
You were infuriating.
It had been a few days, and you were doing a really good job of ignoring him, or at least pretending to. You didn’t look at him when he entered a room, and whenever he passed you in the hall, you didn’t acknowledge him at all. You didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a sarcastic remark. It was as if he wasn’t worth your attention.
He’d stomp around the estate, muttering under his breath, burning holes into your back every time you didn’t look at him. Titus didn’t understand why it bothered him so much, and the truth was, he was still furious about the way you’d spoken to him. No one talked to him like that…and no one ever had. You were lucky your mother was your mother because Titus had been this close to having all your shit tossed out onto the front steps, setting your car (or maybe even you) on fire, and telling you to fucking walk back to Manhattan.
But it was impossible not to notice you drifting through the house, as if you belonged there. You sat with the staff like you were one of them. Letting the chef teach you knife skills like you were some apprentice he’d taken a liking to. Chatting with the groundskeeper about soil acidity. Sitting with the new housekeeper over tea. And then there was Ursula… Ursula, who didn’t enjoy people. Ursula, who communicated mostly in dry comments and raised eyebrows. Ursula, who had once told a senator’s wife to "stop hovering, you’re blocking the light." But…now there was a spark of amusement in her eyes whenever you walked into a room. She’d mutter something under her breath, and you’d fire back without missing a beat, and Titus would catch the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile.
He also didn’t fucking understand how you dressed like someone who’d wandered in from a bus stop, not someone who’d spent the formative years of her life in this house. Half the time, you wore soft, washed‑out t-shirts and jeans that were frayed at the hems. A canvas tote bag with a fading print instead of a designer purse. Shoes that looked like the same ones you still had in fucking high school.
Titus was cutting through the east hallway when he heard your voice before he saw you.
"…I don’t know if the argument holds anymore," you were saying to someone. "I’ve been trying to map the points for days, but the structure keeps collapsing because I can’t find the details I need. I’m starting to think I need to adjust the topic entirely." There was a soft murmur in response, something sympathetic. You let out a breath that sounded like defeat. "I just… I don’t want to scrap 4 months of work. But I can’t keep forcing something that isn’t working."
He finally rounded the corner and found you against the window, phone pressed to your ear, sunlight catching on a yellow sundress he’d never seen before. You looked… You looked beautiful. He’d noticed it the day he saw you in his father's study when you dropped the news about your mother. He hadn’t spent much time with you while you were in high school or college; you were simply the housekeeper's daughter that his father had decided to move in. Plus, when you went to Princeton, you had basically moved out yourself and only came back for holidays or summer breaks. He slowed without meaning to, and you glanced up mid‑sentence, eyes flicking to him.
"Hey, I—I have to go," you said quickly into the phone. "We’ll talk later."
You ended the call before the person on the other end could respond, like you were trying to hide the fact that he’d caught you in a moment you hadn’t meant to share.
"What’s wrong?" he asked.
You blinked, surprised he’d spoken to you at all. "Nothing."
"Right. You look like the picture of emotional stability."
You shot him a look, the kind that said don’t start, but he just raised an eyebrow, waiting. He wasn’t good at patience, but he could manage it long enough to call your bluff.
You sighed. "My most recent research is just… a pain in my ass."
"Tragic," he said dryly, leaning a shoulder against the opposite wall.
You rolled your eyes, and before he could say anything else, you reached for the laptop you’d left on the decorative side table and didn’t even look at him as you turned away.
Titus watched you go for half a second before pushing off the wall.
"What’s the actual problem?" he said behind you. He was trying to get you to keep talking…and that was the part you didn’t know yet: Titus didn’t ask questions unless he cared about the answer.
You turned just enough to look at him over your shoulder. "I told you. It’s fine."
"I might have a solution," he said, tone annoyingly self‑assured.
You turned fully this time, brows lifting, skepticism written all over your face. "Oh really?"
"Really."
"I’m examining the ritual life of the Carolingian court…8th to 9th century." You cleared your throat. "It’s… complicated. The documentation is sparse. Half the manuscripts are missing, and the ones that survived contradict each other. So I’m trying to reconstruct how the court actually used ritual to create legitimacy."
"Ritual?" he repeated.
"Yeah, that’s what my research is about. That’s what my entire career is about. Symbolic enactments of authority, legitimacy, continuity, and how political structures use ritual to make power feel real."
"So tell me," he said, deceptively casual, "when you say ritual… what exactly do you mean?” He took a slow step closer, gaze locked on yours. "Crowns and scepters?" A faint, sardonic lift of his brow occurred. "Coronations?"
"Rituals don’t have to be grand," you said, testing the words as you offered them. There was a deliberate edge to them, like you were choosing each word with care. "They can be as simple as… a game of hide‑and‑seek."
The moment the phrase left your mouth, Titus’s eyes flickered with a hint of suspicion, the subtle shift in his expression betraying his awareness. He tilted his head, a slow, measured smile playing on his lips, weighing your words and deciding whether you’d meant them the way they sounded. His gaze narrowed slightly, studying you with a calculated calm, but he’d heard exactly what you were implying. He knew you were testing him. And he was trying to decide how much to give back. You remained still, your posture poised and deliberate, not giving away any sign of nervousness. There was a quiet patience in your stance… an unspoken challenge lingering in the air.
"That’s an interesting example," he said.
"You’d be surprised how many rituals survive by being disguised as something harmless," you said. "Especially the ones meant to test people," you said, offering the next breadcrumb, watching to see if he’d follow it. Because he knew the two of you weren’t talking about Carolingian courts anymore.
"You’re right," Titus said, leaning back just slightly, like he was giving you space while still very much watching you. A slow, crooked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth—the kind that never reached his eyes. "This research is clearly out of my depths."
"Well, that’s refreshingly self‑aware of you," you tilted your chin up a little, lips pressing together like you were genuinely impressed.
He stepped away from you, down the hall. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t linger either. He needed space to think, to breathe, to get whatever that hide-and-seek comment had stirred up out of his head. When he reached a side door, he pushed it open and stepped outside. He exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and tried to make sense of the unease sitting in his stomach. Titus pulled out his phone and typed your name into Google. The Columbia directory loaded instantly, and your faculty profile appeared with your photo, your credentials, and your research.
Professor of Philosophy
Specializations: Political Theory, Symbolic Power, Ritual Studies
Research Interests: – Structures of elite authority – Hidden governance – Ritual as social control – Esoteric traditions in modern institutions
Education:
PhD in Philosophy: Social and Political Philosophy – Yale
MA in Philosophy: Ethics and Society – University of Cambridge
BA in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics – Princeton
Then he read the title of your dissertation at Yale, and then clicked on the abstract:
"Hidden Power: Esoteric Symbolism and Elite Ritual"
This dissertation shows how esoteric symbols and ritual traditions help elite groups preserve authority in the Western society. Rather than secrecy, their power comes from cultural continuity, shaping modern narratives of hidden influence and legitimacy.
He tapped the back arrow and returned to your main faculty page and kept scrolling. Selected Publications: – "The Architecture of Obedience: Ritual as a Mechanism of Social Order" – "Inheritance and Initiation: The Unspoken Rules of Elite Continuity" – "Games, Trials, and Tests: Symbolic Violence in Modern Ceremonial Practices"
He stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on the list of titles in front of him. They were so exact, so precise, it almost felt like they were too on the nose. Titus finally lowered his phone slowly, his gaze drifting back to the picture of you he'd kept on his screen.
You knew something about his family… that much was clear.
And that was a problem.
"Oh my God, Titus. You’re panicking about nothing," Ursula groaned.
"It’s not nothing," he shot back. Yesterday, he had gone straight to his study, shut the door, and pulled up your faculty page again. What started as a quick skim turned into hours of reading, one tab opening another, each link pulling him deeper.
He read everything.
Every article you’d published. Every conference paper. Every footnote, every citation, every obscure reference. Then he opened your dissertation. Two hundred pages of dense theory, historical analysis, and symbolic interpretation, and he read it cover to cover. If he were honest with himself, maybe his dick got hard reading it. You were smart (undeniably and unavoidably smart) and competent in a way that commanded attention. By the time he reached the final chapter, the sky outside had already started to lighten. When Ursula found him, he was still in the same chair, still staring at the same paragraph he’d been rereading for twenty minutes.
Ursula pinched the bridge of her nose. "It’s a coincidence."
"No, it’s not," he growled.
She sighed dramatically, like he was exhausting her on purpose. "Fine. You’re right. It’s not a coincidence… But," she added, holding up a finger, "you said that nothing she’s written or produced alludes anything about the High Council. So clearly she doesn’t know everything."
Titus stared at her. "That’s your reassurance?"
"Yes," Ursula said, completely unbothered. "Because if she did know everything, she wouldn’t be fucking alive. Father has been following her career for years, and he’s never felt threatened by it."
A muscle feathered in his jaw. "You knew about this?"
"Of course I knew."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"You should’ve known sooner," she scowled. "Her mother talked about her constantly when she was in school… which was for like 500 fucking years. Every degree, every fellowship, every paper—God, it was endless."
"I wasn’t listening," Titus frowned.
"Well, that’s your problem," Ursula said, shrugging. "Her mother told us she was getting a philosophy degree. Then another one. Then another one. And Father kept tabs on her the whole time."
"He kept tabs?"
"Yes," Ursula said, rolling her eyes. "Because of her mother. And because… you know." She gestured vaguely. "That night… at Kip’s wedding."
He hadn’t thought about that night in years. In his defense, after so many hunts over the years, they all started to blend together. He remembered coming downstairs the morning after the wedding, and you were already in the foyer, suitcase zipped, coat on, looking like you’d been awake for hours. He’d stood on the stairs, unseen, watching as you thanked Chester for his hospitality and kindness over the last few years. Then you walked out the front door, got into the car waiting for you, and by the end of the week you were in the UK.
"Are you sure we don’t need to take care of her just in case?" Titus turned his head towards his sister, and the look he gave her said everything.
"Yes, I’m sure. She’s a philosopher, Titus. They write about power structures and rituals all the time because they’re bored and underpaid."
"She’s not bored," he rumbled.
"No. She’s not. But she’s also not writing exposés on the High Council. So until she does? Who fucking cares?"
Titus dragged a hand through his hair. "She knows enough to be dangerous."
"Everyone knows enough to be dangerous. You’re just upset she got under your skin."
"She didn’t get under my skin."
"Mm‑hmm," she hummed, unconvinced.
Titus glared at her, but she only smirked.
"Relax," Ursula said, trying to calm him down. "She’s observant, but she’s not omniscient. If she knew the whole picture, she wouldn’t be dropping hints. She’d be fucking running."
Titus was behind the bar the next night, pouring himself a whiskey he absolutely needed. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made his thoughts louder, and he’d just taken a drink when the door swung open hard enough to make the bottles rattle.
You walked in, furious.
"What is this?" you demanded, holding your phone out. Titus didn’t answer… He took another slow sip, set the glass down, and only then reached for your phone.
Subject: Resources for Carolingian Research
Dear Professor, It’s a pleasure to meet you. My brother has done business with the Danforth’s for years, and Titus mentioned that you are currently conducting research on the ritual life of the Carolingian court. He thought I might be able to assist. I’ve attached several items that may be useful to your work. I hope they prove helpful as you continue developing your project. A colleague of mine, Dr. Adams, is spending the semester teaching at Peking University; this area happens to be his specialization. I’ve CC’d him here in case you have additional questions or would like further materials. Your credentials are impressive. If your schedule allows, we would be delighted to host you as a guest lecturer at some point this year. Your philosophical background complements Dr. Adams' historical approach particularly well. Interdisciplinary work is often where the most interesting insights emerge. Warm regards, Dr. Barnes, University of Sydney Department of History
Titus skimmed it once, then handed your phone back and picked up his whiskey again. "Am I supposed to be having a reaction? Why are you freaking out?"
"Because—" you shoved the phone toward him again, as if he hadn’t read it properly the first time. "Because I don’t understand how they have access to this. These manuscripts aren’t even digitized. They’re not public. They’re not—" You broke off, breath catching. "This isn’t possible."
"Maybe it’s not as impossible as you think."
"No, it is," you snapped. "This is impossible. These sources don’t circulate. They don’t leave the archive. People have been trying to get access to these things for years. And suddenly, some guy in Sydney just—just emails them to me?"
He tapped the bar with one finger, casual, almost bored. "Maybe Australians are smarter than Americans and can locate things more easily. I don’t know."
"Why did you contact him?"
"Because you needed help," Titus said, as if it were obvious. "His brother owed me. He’s a historian with access. You needed sources. It wasn’t complicated." He lifted his glass again.
"I didn’t need your help."
He raised an eyebrow. "You didn’t need access to the sources you’ve been trying to find for months?"
"That’s not the point."
"It’s exactly the point," Titus set his glass down softly, leaning a little forward, eyes now sharp and attentive.
You crossed your arms. "I didn’t need the help from you."
"Oh yes. God forbid you accept help from me."
"I didn’t ask for it, and I certainly don’t want help from a selfish and self-centered individual."
In just a week, Titus had learned to read the progression of your frustration—from the flicker of your lips to the furrow between your brows. He hated admitting that whenever you were pissed off, your eyes would devour him just enough to leave him craving more. He liked it. He enjoyed the thrill he got from being the reason you became rude when you were so nice to everyone else.
"You know, people use connections to get ahead, and you’re acting like using a connection is dirty. It’s not. That’s how the world works."
"Not my world."
"Where do you get off acting morally superior about this?" he chuckled quietly, a low, almost amused sound.
You opened your mouth to retort, but Titus cut you off with a quick raise of his hand. "You grew up in the Danforth bubble, whether you like it or not," he said. "Just because you ran away doesn’t mean you didn’t benefit from connections your entire life. But the second I use one on your behalf, suddenly it’s unethical?"
"That’s not what I—"
"It is," he cut in. "You’re fine with privilege as long as it’s invisible. The moment it has a name attached, you panic."
"So maybe," he said calmly, "stop yelling at me for having helped you."
And while you never said it out loud (not even to yourself on the worst days), you knew the truth: the life you had now existed because of the opportunities Chester Danforth had handed you when you were too young to understand their weight.
Being a philosophy professor at Columbia with a whole string of letters after your name still felt surreal sometimes. You were a Doctor, taught in bright classrooms, published in journals, sat on panels, and lived a life built on ideas and arguments, and the luxury of time to think. You’d worked fucking hard to get there, no question about that, but the door had been opened for you long before you ever reached it because Chester had invested in your education. Admitting that felt like swallowing glass, and it felt like acknowledging a debt you’d spent years trying to outrun.
"My mother always said I had too much pride to admit when I was wrong," you finally said.
"Then we’re both guilty. What I said about your mother… I shouldn’t have said it." The guilt has been pulsing in his wrists, turning his veins black. "About her just being the help. She was obviously so much more than that. I’m sorry."
The words hung there, raw and exposed, pulling at the thread of tension between you. His eyes locked on yours, dark and searching, the confusion from before twisting into something deeper—a pull that made his chest tighten, his body aware of every inch of space separating you.
A few tears escaped your eyes, and Titus stood there, frozen, his broad shoulders tense under the dim light of the room. He wasn't good at this…with emotions crashing like waves he couldn't shoot or outrun. His hands flexed at his sides, unsure whether to reach out or pull back, because he knew he wasn’t the best at comforting people.
You stepped closer, the air between you thick with unspoken things, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, his stubble scraping lightly against your lips. An unexpected ache unfurled beneath his ribs, subtle but insistent, as if something inside him had shifted a fraction to the left.
"Thank you, Titus..." you whispered, his name sounding like a melody despite the tears. "She loved you and Ursula very much."
You turned to leave the room, your footsteps soft on the floor, but paused at the doorway. Glancing back, you pointed at your phone, the screen still glowing with the email, "And thank you for this too."
"It was nothing," Titus muttered, the words tumbling out, awkward and honest, surprising even him as they bridged the gap of his usual guarded silence.
Titus watched your teeth sink gently into your bottom lip, causing a faint, subconscious tug low in his gut. Titus wondered what it would feel like to slide his tongue into your mouth, and to taste the subtle saltiness of your skin and the lingering hint of your breath. His gaze dipped involuntarily, drawn to the soft swell of your cleavage peeking from the neckline of your shirt, the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each steadying breath. Your eyes held his, fierce yet soft, pulling him in like a current he couldn't fight. The way your body moved, that subtle shift of hips as you lingered in the doorway, ignited a heat that spread through him, making his pulse throb.
You gave him a small wave and murmured a quiet goodnight.
Titus turned abruptly and walked out, striding down the hall to his bedroom. His bedroom was a good 5‑minute walk from the bar, and every step felt like a deliberate fucking punishment. Once he made it to his bedroom, he locked the door behind him before sinking onto the bed, back pressed against the sturdy headboard. His hand drifted down almost without thinking, fingers brushing over the fabric of his dress pants. He popped the button, zipper rasping open, and shoved them down just enough to free his cock. It was already hard, and he wrapped his calloused fingers around the base, squeezing lightly, and let out a low groan.
Fuck, he thought, eyes squeezing shut. You were beautiful, no denying it. Not in that fake, dolled-up way he'd chased before, but real… He stroked upward slowly, thumb circling the head where a bead of pre-come glistened. The sound of his name on your tongue echoed in his head, soft now in his imagination, whispered like a secret. 'Titus...' He imagined you saying it closer, your breath hot against his ear, your hand replacing his.
His grip tightened, pumping in a steady rhythm, hips bucking up off the cushion. He pictured you there, peeling off your clothes to reveal the curves he'd only glimpsed—full breasts straining against your shirt, hips that swayed with purpose. He spread his legs wider, free hand gripping his sheets as he jerked faster, the slick sound filling the quiet room. Your lips parting to say his name again, this time moaning it, your body arching toward him.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, breath coming in ragged bursts. He envisioned pinning you down, your legs wrapping around his waist, pussy wet and welcoming as he thrust in deep. 'Titus,' you'd gasp, nails digging into his back, that beautiful face of yours scrunching up with need. His cock throbbed in his fist, veins pulsing, and he twisted his wrist on the upstroke, chasing the heat building low in his belly.
Titus
Titus
Titus
His strokes became more erratic, his balls drawing tight, the pressure coiling like a spring. Suddenly, he came with a guttural curse, his spend spilling over his knuckles in hot spurts, splattering his shirt. His body jerked, chest heaving, as waves of pleasure crashed through him. For a moment, he just lay there, spent, cock softening in his grip, the sticky mess cooling on his skin. But as the high faded, something gnawed at him. He wiped his hand on his thigh, staring at the ceiling, confusion settling in. He'd fucked plenty of women…usually with no strings attached. Bodies slamming together, release and done. But this? Jerking off to the thought of you, not just your body, but the way you moved, the way you saw him? It twisted something inside, unfamiliar and raw. He'd never felt this pull before…this ache that went beyond getting off.
What the hell was this?
Masterlist | You're reading Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | FINAL PART
Thanks for reading! When it comes to the Carolingian research in this story, a lot of the material in her research may be intentionally fictionalized. I did look into how difficult it is to access certain manuscripts, and in reality, many of them are extremely restricted… but in this world, Titus can make anything happen. So that’s part of the fun.
Some of the degree program specializations I mentioned don’t actually exist at the universities I listed. That was deliberate. I wanted the reader to come across as someone who grew up in the Danforth bubble, with the kind of privilege and access that lands you in the Ivy League or top‑tier international programs. Her specialization is also uncommon in real academia. It’s loosely inspired by a program I found online (Doctor Ph.D. Degree Mythology & Occultism), and additional research on this topic Deciphering the Esoteric Meaning: A Conceptual Analysis | Meridian University, and I expanded it to fit the tone and worldbuilding of the story.
So none of this should be taken as historically or academically accurate. It’s all crafted to serve the narrative and the characters. Sorry for the little disclaimer moment—I just know academia and research are their own galaxies, and I want to be clear that I’m taking creative liberties. If anyone reading this has careers in philosophy, history, medieval studies, manuscript research, or anything adjacent… I’m genuinely in awe of you. I felt like a confused child Googling half this stuff. The years you all put into your work is unreal.
I wrote a thesis once upon a time, and I do not miss those days. Sending forehead kisses to anyone who has ever had to decipher a footnote.
