Undisclosed Desire: An Alpha Billionaire Romance: + bonus novel (20 page)

LANA

"Where is my calculator?!"

My voice has that shrill tone again. The tone that resembles my mother's voice all too much. I hate it when I sound like her, but sometimes it is unavoidable. Such as right now. I am late for class, the first class of a new semester, my last semester. I am just a handful of classes, and that dreaded thesis, away from finishing my Master's degree, and my lazy roommate isn't making things any easier.

Celia has been sharing a room with me for almost a year now. Her bed is just a few feet away from mine, but her stuff is cluttered all over the room, taking up pretty much all of the space except for the tiny area around my bed and my desk. I have fought for those areas to remain free of her mess, but she still manages to make my belongings disappear whenever I need them most.

Right now, I need my calculator. At least I think I need it. Who knows what this guest lecturer has in store for us, but since he is teaching a class in economics, I should be prepared to do some on the spot math.

"Wha-is it?" I hear my sleepy roommate grumble, as she peaks out from under her covers.

"My calculator!" I repeat. "Where is it? I'm late for class!"

She squints at me with confusion. "What time is it?"

I roll my eyes and sigh audibly. "Celia, please!"

"I dunno," she mumbles, adding a hearty yawn. "Why do you need it?"

"It may have escaped your attention, but the semester has started," I explain as I continue to browse through our small room in search of my calculator. "And I have my economics class this morning, for which I-"

"Uh!" Celia exclaims. "The one with that hot lecturer, right? Jackson something... Jackson Pollock?"

I roll my eyes at her ignorance.

"Jackson Pollock was an expressionist painter, you imbecile," I lecture her. "Jackson Portland. That's the guy's name."

Celia frowns at me and sticks out her tongue.

"Whatever," she says. "What do you need a calculator for? He is not teaching applied econometrics, is he?"

"Not, but-"

"If I was you, I'd rather worry about getting a seat in the front row," she interrupts. "That man is so hot! Man, I wish I was taking his class."

I raise my eyebrows at her. "His class is on a Monday morning at ten. You wouldn't even be awake yet if I hadn't yelled at you just now."

"Whatever," she repeats, turning her face away from me and curling up in her sheets once again.

"You really don't know where my calculator is?" I ask, one last time.

"No!" she yells back, muffled by her sheets. "Go!"

I sigh and risk one last scan through our little room before I decide that there is no point in searching any longer. I have to leave now if I want to be on time for class. The economics department is on the other side of the campus, a walk that will take me at least fifteen minutes, maybe twelve if I hurry.

It may be silly and childish, but I still blame Celia for the disappearance of my calculator and my little way of revenge is the same as always: I slam the door as loudly as possible to disturb her excessive sleep. It is my passive aggressive way of showing her how I feel about her lazy and irresponsible way of life. How someone like her ever got accepted for a graduate program at this university is beyond me. She must be a lot smarter than it seems at first glance, to make up for her unbelievable laziness. As far as I know, she has never failed a class, even though I hardly ever see her studying. I am almost jealous. Almost.

Today, the walk to the economics building takes me about thirteen minutes. Decent, but not super rushed. I am still there ahead of most other students, because I always take my emergency ten minutes into account when planning my way to class. There has never been an occurrence that called for these extra ten minutes, but I always prefer to be on the safe side.

Usually, I am one of the very first few students to show up for class, but today the auditorium is surprisingly full, even though the class won't start for another fifteen minutes. I look around in surprise for a few moments, before I make my way down to the front. Middle of the third row, slightly to the right, that is where I usually sit. It is the perfect spot to see the board and the lecturer at front, very close, but not too close to be overlooked by the teacher, as the first two rows often are. Also, it has shown to be an area where hardly anyone wants to sit, as most students prefer to hide in the back or in the middle rows of the auditorium. The very few people who like to sit here, appear to share my view of education. There is no whispering, handing notes, people falling asleep or staring at their smart phones during the lecture. No talking, no distraction and no irritation by other people's lack of interest.

But today, everything is different.

The first few rows seem to be suspiciously sought after and I have to sit further out to the right than I am comfortable with. As I take my seat and get my notebook and pens out, the auditorium quickly fills up around me. I keep looking back over my shoulder and browse the hall to check whether I am misinterpreting things, but no, it really is a lot more crowded than a class like this should be.

Did I make a mistake? Maybe I am sitting in the wrong hall.

I turn around to my left. The seat right next to me is empty, but the one next to it is occupied by a blond girl, who is holding a little makeup mirror up to her face while she is reapplying some deep red lipstick.

"Excuse me," I say, leaning over to her. "This is Econ 357, an Introduction to Entrepreneurship, right?"

The girl pauses for a moment before she turns around, casting me a look as if I was a clueless freshman.

"Uhm, yeah," she retorts, not even trying to hide her annoyance. "Jackson Portland, the hot self-made gazillionaire. Don't tell me you don't know
he
is teaching this class?"

"Sure, sure I do," I say. "I was just surprised. It's never been this crowded in any of my Econ classes."

Especially on a Monday morning, I want to add, but I keep that part to myself.

The girl raises her eyebrows and scans me briefly before she asks: "Have you been living under a rock?"

I frown at her. "No. I know very well who Mr. Jackson Portland is."

"Then why are you so surprised?" she asks. "Why are you here if not because of him?"

"I am here, because I need this class to graduate," I explain, trying to sound just as condescending as she does. "Not to drool all over this college dropout who thinks a little too much of himself."

The girl rolls her eyes at me.

"I'd prefer if this class was taught by a real professor," I add, raising my chin defiantly.

"Sure, whatever," the girl says, and turns back to her mirror, making sure that she sports the perfect look for the oh-so-hot Mr. Portland.

The auditorium continues to be flooded with people, and unlike any other class I have attended before, the first rows are the ones that fill up the fastest.

It is ridiculous. I always had a feeling that most students don't take their studies as seriously as they should and scholarly achievement has very little value among them. This just proves me right.

The lecture hall is packed by the time the class is supposed to start. It is louder than usual, too. People are chatting and giggling around me, including the girl next to me who was so keen on fixing her makeup.

Minutes go by and Mr. Portland doesn't care to show up. Apparently, being on time does not count much for someone like him. I begin to dislike him more and more with every minute that goes by. His tardiness aggravates me. It annoys me that men like him can just act whichever way they please. He knows his place in his world. He knows about all these stupid sheep in here, waiting to drool all over him, the admiration he already receives before even showing his face.

I glance over to the blond girl, who now produces something other than makeup from her bag. A book. A book about him, Jackson Portland. I'm familiar with it.

Of course, I did my research on him when I heard that he would be teaching the only Econ class this semester that was eligible for me to collect my last credits for my minor. His story reads like the perfect little fairytale that people who fail at school can tell themselves to convince each other that they can still amount to something.

At not even thirty years old, Mr. Portland already found it adequate to hire a ghostwriter to write his memoirs. The book just came out a few weeks ago and was an instant bestseller. If he hadn't already been wealthy before, I'm sure he would be by now. Everybody - including me - has read about his story of success. Granted, it is an unusual story, but it is also easy to see why so many people could relate to someone like Mr. Portland.

He started out at the bottom and up until just a few years ago, he was a nobody. Born to poor and neglectful parents, the father a drunk and the mother an unloving egomaniac who deserted her family when her son was still a very young age, he had anything but an easy start in life. I suspect that Mr. Portland is pulling at the reader's heartstrings a little too much as the book continues to delve into his hardship during Junior High and High School, during which he claims to have been a victim of severe bullying by his peers. A chubby, nonathletic boy who did poorly in school. His grades were less than mediocre in all classes except for one: Math. Of course, that didn't really help his popularity.

I have my doubts about the accuracy of this depiction, but it sure makes for a great story, especially considering where he finds himself now. According to his memoir, it was not until his first year of college - community college, that is - before he managed to break out of this cycle of misfortune. He met a mentor, an old professor who was about to retire and who, for some reason, saw it as his duty to help this poor little bastard.

It bothers me that most of his written life story focuses on all the bad things and his unfortunate background, but draws very little attention to his way to success. A part of me suspects that there is another book waiting to be published and that is the reason for his silence in that regard. In this first book, he only mentions the appearance of said mentor and how he helped him to realize that he was not a scholar, but an entrepreneur. An inventor, an adventurer - that is what he calls it. He had an idea, took a risk, failed at first, but managed to build an empire that made him rich and influential within a very short time.

He is a big player, if not one of the biggest, in the technology sector. It all started with a smart phone app, but goes way beyond that. He has invested in and bought up so many smaller companies that it is hard to tell what actually belongs to his enterprise and what doesn't.

He made his idea work. He followed through. Even I have to give him some credit for that.

I brought the book with me, but am hesitant to place it on my desk like a lot of other students did around me. I don't want to give him the impression that I am equally impressed by him and his story as they are. On the contrary, I refuse to admire someone who may very well know how to make money, but didn't even have the perseverance to achieve at least an undergraduate degree. Someone, who doesn't even manage to show up on time for his very own class.

He is almost ten minutes late when he finally shows up. His arrival is greeted with silence at first, only interrupted by excited whispering and gawking as he makes his way up to the front.

Mr. Portland is wearing a dark gray suit that seems to be custom-tailored to his broad and tall frame, emphasizing the masculine assertiveness of his steps.

Even I have to admit it. This man is gorgeous.

LANA

Jackson Portland places himself behind the desk at the front of the lecture hall and looks at us expectantly. He is standing with his feet apart, his hands buried in his suit pant pockets, and his shoulders are pulled back, emphasizing his tall stature while he confidently scans the crowd in front of him. His strong jaw line gives him a very masculine appearance, while his facial features are soft in comparison, giving him a younger look. He is nearing the age of thirty, but with his current facial expression, even and relaxed, one could easily mistake him for a student.

His black hair is gelled to the side, partly covering his forehead on the left. I never read anything about his nationality, but his light brown skin and black hair almost suggests that he is from some exotic country in Latin America, even though his name doesn't suggest any heritage from that area.

He might just go to the tanning beds on a regular basis. It would suit a guy like him to do that.

Handsome may be too calm a word to describe him. He is intensely masculine. Even as his appearance screams wealth and polish, there is an inevitable ruggedness to him.

Mr. Portland didn't bring anything with him, no briefcase, no notebook or any stack of papers, not even a pen. While any other teacher presented a varying display of items he or she deemed necessary for their lecture, he just stands there, empty handed and with that unreadable and calm expression on his face.

People were whispering excitedly when he first walked in, but now as he stares at us, the voices around me steadily die down and the murmur stops, only interrupted by the occasional cough.

He is visibly enjoying all the attention he is getting. A smug smile spreads across his face just moments before he finally speaks.

"Good morning, everyone," he starts, sounding like a host of a game show. "What a nice turnout this is. I have to admit, I didn't expect this much interest in my silly ramblings. "

A friendly giggle travels through the room, and even I manage a courtesy smile. Silly ramblings. I know it is supposed to be a joke, but with what little education he has to show for himself, he may not be able to present us with much more than that.

He lowers his eyes for a moment and lets the giggling subside before he continues.

"Let's hope I can live up to the high standards you all must be used to. Believe it or not, this is my first time on an Ivy League campus, and I am greatly humbled by this invitation and the interest of such well achieved individuals as you are."

Murmurs fill the hall as people try to process this unexpected compliment. I am beginning to wonder whether this is already part of his lecture: How to make people feel good about themselves in your presence. Making friends and allies must be essential for making good business.

I wonder if I should take notes already? Who knows if things like this might come up in an exam later on.

It strikes me, suddenly, that I have absolutely no idea how this man will go about evaluating and grading us. Will there be quizzes every week? A big exam at the end of the semester? Does he expect us to write essays? Will he teach us more about econometrics? The latter would mean that I really should have brought my calculator...

"Even though I can see that some of you have already read my book," he adds, nodding toward one of the students who placed a copy of it on her desk. "Let me start by telling you a little about myself. Not the kind of things that you will find in there or in the newspaper. Something new, something you didn't know yet."

He pauses and smirks. "After all, this class is supposed to teach you something exclusively new. Why else should you be sitting here, right?"

A murmur of approval greets him.

"Okay," he continues. "This class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship. I don't like that title, but I had to come up with something. I was asked to teach a graduate class full of bright and promising students such as you guys, and when they asked me to do this, they probably thought I could teach you something about success. About launching your own business, about start-ups, about Silicon Valley, the dreadful place where a lot of great things started - and a lot of not-so-great things failed and died."

He pauses, scanning the hall with narrow eyes and a somewhat sullen expression.

"And this is where the problem starts," he says. "Failure. No one ever likes to talk about it, and it is certainly not what they had in mind when I was asked to give this guest lecture. But you know what?"

He adds another dramatic pause, his eyes resting at a random spot somewhere at the far back of the hall.

"I can tell you more about failure than I can tell you about success," he resumes. "I have failed many, many times in my life, before I managed to succeed even once. And I think that those hurtful, yet inevitable failures taught me more than my success has. They made me who I am. They made vigorous, strong-willed and persistent. I failed, but I never gave up. They taught me more than just the simple lesson of what not to do. They molded me, they helped me grow and they eventually lead me to success more than any school or any class ever did."

The auditorium is stock-still, with my fellow students hanging to Mr. Portland's every word while I'm starting to seriously dislike him. This is supposed to be a graduate Econ class, not a self-help seminar, after all. Also, I don't like where he is going with this whole 'failure taught me more than school'-thing. Of course, someone like him would have to say that, since school was among his many failures.

I raise my hand.

He doesn't see me at first, and when he does, he seems to be startled. I reckon he is not used to being interrupted.

His eyes meet mine with an explicable determination, as if he was preparing a defense for whatever I might have to say this early on.

"Yes, please," he says, pointing in my direction. He takes a few steps toward me, reducing the distance between us. A weird sizzle travels along my spine when he approaches. It unsettles me for a second, before I'm able to brush it away.

Heads are turning toward me, some of them - I am sure - accompanied by rolling eyes. I know I'm anything but popular among some of my peers, but I couldn't care less about that.

"I'm sorry," I say, raising my voice as much as possible. "I am not exactly sure what you are trying to tell us with this confession. Are you saying that there is no point for us to sit here in class, listen to lectures, earn a degree in the first place, because we won't take anything from it, unless we fail?"

I know that I have a tendency to be impertinent, and this is no exception. I don't want to cause any trouble or to get on his bad side, but I want him to know that there is someone in this hall who is not meek and mild about everything he says.

Yet, I'm thankful that he doesn't notice the tremble that takes a hold of my entire body after I'm done speaking. I'm sure my voice would have creaked if I had said one more word.

Most of the other students don't react to my little disturbance, but some start whispering, and I notice the girl to my left casting me an annoyed look.

But it's not their reaction that unsettles me - it's him. He looks at me with that observant stare, his eyes narrowing only the slightest bit without losing their focus on me. It feels as if he is leaching right into my bones, releasing a chill that makes its way through my insides. I'm shivering, sucking in air as if I just stepped out into the Arctic.

Why the hell is he looking at me like that? Why is he not saying anything? Is he trying to stare me down or something? His silence is causing a surreal tension that even the other students must have noticed.

"In a way, I am," Mr. Portland says, finally replying to my question. "Yes. I think most of you are wasting your time here. And yes, most of what you have learned at High School, during your undergraduate program and even in the graduate classes you're taking now, has probably destroyed more than it helped nourish."

The auditorium is dead silent and even I am speechless at his words. This, I did not expect. He has got to be joking.

"Don't get me wrong," he says, raising his hand in defense – and then finally withdrawing his eyes from mine. "I still think you're doing something right by sitting here and earning a degree from one of the best colleges in this country. But this is not about learning valuable things, about learning who you are or what you are capable of, about receiving what they call 'the best education'. No, it's not. Do you know what it is about?"

He starts scanning the auditorium again.

"This is a question," he clarifies. "What is school about? What is this degree about?"

For a few moments, he gets nothing but silence in return. People are exchanging looks of confusion, shrugging, whispering, shaking their heads. Until one of them dares to raise their hand.

"Yes," he says, pointing at the brave girl at the far back.

"Growing?" she suggests.

"Growing?"

"Yes," the girl adds, clearing her throat. "About... you know, growing to your full potential."

Mr. Portland hesitates for a moment, while all eyes rest on him, eagerly awaiting a reply.

"That sounds lovely," he says eventually. "And it may be true. But it's not what I am looking for. Any other suggestions?"

His direct way of countering the student doesn't really help in encouraging others to try. No one dares to speak up after this. Mr. Portland spends a painfully long time waiting for a response that doesn't come.

Even I feel too intimidated to say anything. Also, I'm angry at him. He enjoys this confusion and attention whoring a little too much.

Why doesn't he just tell us?
Just share your priceless wisdom with us, you arrogant bastard
!

As if he heard my thoughts, he now turns his head back toward me. Our eyes meet and before I can look away, he directs his voice at me.

"You asked me whether there is any point in sitting in this class," he says. "So clearly, you must have an idea about why you're doing this?"

My heart almost stops. The entire auditorium's attention is now on me. I'm sure some of them feel that I am getting what I deserve, as I am clearly not capable of giving a response and struggling with this unwanted attention.

"Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland," I bark at him. My cheeks glow with anger and embarrassment, while a buzz of shock fills the room as the other students inhale audibly.

He looks at me, his eyes piercing through me with that same intensity from before. I try to withstand his gaze without showing how much I regret saying what I just said. So much for not getting on his bad side.

"You're right," he says, still locking eyes with me. "That would probably save us all a lot of time."

I gulp. Damn.

"I'll tell you what school is about," he says, turning back to the rest of the auditorium.

I sigh with relief.

"It's about signaling," he concludes. "Signaling that you know the rules of the game. Signaling that you are willing to work hard, to listen to boring stuff, fulfill useless and boring assignments and to follow orders."

He pauses for a moment to let us process his words of wisdom, before he continues.

"You are signaling that you will be good employees, good working bees and compliant subordinates," he says. "And again: There is nothing wrong with that. After all, it is what will help you to obtain a good, safe and well-paying job. If this is what you are after, you might be doing the right thing. Just don't think you're anything special."

Frowns and confused whispers are making the rounds again.

"But, as you all know, this class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship," Mr. Portland proceeds, completely ignoring the students' reaction.

"I was asked to come here to tell you what it takes to be successful by doing your own thing - at least that's how I understood it. And I can tell you one thing right away: It's not by following the rules, by doing what everyone else is doing, or by following someone else's footsteps. Success comes with creativity, bravery and a certain ignorance. Ignorance of what can go wrong. You will fail, there are a lot of things that you will fail at, but you should not be thinking about failure before you even start."

He adds another pause for emphasize and turns around, grabbing a tiny piece of chalk to write something on the spic and span blackboard behind him.

"And as I said before," he adds while writing. "That is what we will be talking about for now. Failure."

I look around and reluctantly pick up my pen to take notes, as most other students do.

My hands are still shaking.